The Immortal Game
Avon stands at his console on the flight deck of the Liberator. Wearing his customary black, he is a dark sentinel on the quiet ship. He is deep in thought, his brown eyes focused internally, rather than on the screen in front of him. His watch during the simulated 'night' aboard the Liberator is a welcome respite from the tensions much in evidence between the crew members since the events at the Teal/Vandor Convention Combat Grounds. The death of Tarrant's brother casts a pall over the crew. Tarrant's subsequent dispatch of the murderer has not alleviated the depression which threatens to overcome them.
Avon had been shaken by the sheer scale of Servalan's plan to overthrow the two non-aligned systems of Teal and Vandor. He knows she is ambitious and power-hungry, but her attempt to subjugate the two systems would have caused unprecedented loss of life. The cost in human suffering would have been incalculable. However, his recent brief personal encounter with her raises more questions for him than it answers. His feelings are ambiguous. Of course he hates her. That is a given. But, she draws out some response in him with which he is not altogether comfortable. It is strange how she can excite and repel him at one and the same time.
Remembering the feel of her warm slender form as he crushed her to him, he tries to deny the desire which rises unbidden in his traitorous body. He had trapped her in an embrace which, although born of the need to destroy her, was transformed at once into the powerful urge to imprint his body onto hers, to leave his kiss indelibly on her beautiful mouth. To force her to acknowledge his superior strength, or to awaken in her a need to match his own? He can't be sure. Yet he detests the need she arouses in him. She is entirely evil, for all her feline allure. She is a beautiful monster. He should very much like to kill her himself, face to face. To put his strong hands around her beautiful neck and crush the life out of her forever. He smiles. Yes, that is how he would do it. No quick blast from his weapon to speed her on her last journey. No. He wants to feel her panic as she struggles in his iron grip. To read the realisation in her eyes that he has, finally, indisputably, won. His opportunity would come, eventually. His patience is legendary.
Now that the Federation pursuit ships have been left standing, it is time to plan their next move. And that is the problem. There is no common goal among the crew. The fight against the Federation was never his cause. Unlike most of the others. Tarrant had deserted his post, taken his ship with him and joined the rebels years ago.
Dayna has her own score to settle with Servalan (as do they all, now). Cally chose to join the band of freedom fighters on Saurian Major despite being exiled from Auron for her stand. But Vila... ? He just got caught up with Blake and fell under his spell. He smiles wryly.
'Well, maybe we all did, just a little.' He pushes the thought angrily aside. 'The point is, what should our next move be...?'
Avon realises that the only way to have a chance of defeating the Federation is to have unity among the different rebel groups. They must present a united front against the common enemy. To achieve unity among the warring factions in the Rebel camps it is necessary to find a leader they will all follow. Someone who can draw those with such disparate objectives together under one banner. Someone charismatic, almost messianic. Someone like Blake. No, not someone like Blake. Blake himself. No-one else will do. He must find him. Only then can he be free. Free of the burden of responsibility he would never have chosen for himself. Free to follow his own path to a new life. Free to be alone with time to concentrate on his work.
In the meantime, his most pressing problem, apart from planning their next objective, is to try to keep the crew from tearing one another to shreds. The constant 'flight or fight' struggle of their daily existence is stretching their nerves beyond human endurance. He admits to himself that his own stress level is unprecedented, even taking into consideration the nerve-racking weeks just prior to his attempt to defraud the Federation Banking System, the desperate days afterward before his capture, and the torment of his interrogation.
He shudders as he recalls the months spent in various Federation prisons and under interrogation. Federation security were trying to prove he had political motives. He couldn't care what happened to him at that point. Anna was dead. Their future together a lost dream. The interrogators insisted he tell them about his political friends and contacts. He had none to divulge. It made no difference whether they used persuasive argument or the mind altering drugs. He could tell them nothing. Eventually they resorted to the old fashioned methods of torture, inflicting as much pain as it was possible for the human body to endure in an effort to break his silence. He could not give them what they wanted. It was a stalemate that very nearly cost him his life, and his sanity.
And the bizarre thing, the most grotesque irony of it is, he is now involved with 'political' friends. If you can call the crew that. Friends, that is. The relations between them being as strained as they are at present.
'We won't have to wait to be destroyed by the Federation,' he acknowledges candidly. 'We'll kill each other before long.'
He smiles grimly as he remembers Vila's automatic offer of sympathy to Tarrant, following the death of Del, Tarrant's elder brother. He had his head bitten off for his trouble, retreating to his cabin muttering darkly to himself and nursing a bottle of adrenalin and soma.
'Poor Vila,' he thinks, 'He was only trying to be polite. Tarrant shows no appreciation for his efforts. Well, I suppose that is to be expected, in the circumstances.'
He sighs as he considers the fierce anger in Tarrant which, lacking a legitimate target among the crew members, indiscriminately blazes against all of them, but especially Avon himself. Well, he and Tarrant have to work together for a while yet.
Earlier, on their return from the planet's surface, Tarrant had vented his overwhelming frustration and anger on Avon, who had uncharacteristically bitten down a sarcastic retort and stood calmly facing such unreasoning hostility. Tarrant had stormed away from the teleport area. Of the others, only Dayna had the courage to follow him.
Avon and Cally were left. She gave him a look of gratitude for his forbearance, and went to her cabin to be alone with her thoughts, something she did more and more frequently these days. Avon had philosophically walked through to the flight deck to begin the 'night' watch.
He is concerned that Cally retreats more and more from their company since the massacre on Auron. Avon does not seek their company either, but that has always been his preference. Cally has, up until now, sought out the others for companionship. He knows she wants to share her loss, but there is no-one she feels able to unburden herself to. It is a loneliness that only an alien can feel. Or one who feels alien.
He knows he fails her, and the rest of the crew, by keeping himself apart, private. The impenetrable wall of self-reliance has been too long and too painful in its construction to be easily dismantled. He gives them the benefit of his powerful intelligence, his skill with computers and other technology, and his ability to fight with and for them. It will have to be enough. He can't be a team player. Or a mother hen. He relies on Vila to be the listening ear for the crew. It is a role which falls naturally to the man, since he is easy-going and friendly.
Now Tarrant has his own loss to deal with. Dayna never speaks about the loss of her father. They are all of them so alone in their pain.
'I'm the last one to be able to help them,' he thought.
Especially as you need help yourself ... a small nagging voice from somewhere inside him disturbs him. He shrugs the thought aside.
'I don't need anybody.'
* * * * *
Dayna swiftly follows Tarrant as he strides angrily along the passage. Reaching his cabin, he punches the door control blindly and steps inside. Before the door can slide shut, Dayna plants her booted foot firmly in its path. He spins round to confront her.
"Save it, Dayna!"
She slowly enters the cabin, allowing the door to close behind her. She lifts her chin defiantly. "I haven't come here to fight, or to talk."
He looks at her through narrowed eyes, suspicious of her, but intrigued none the less. His voice loses some of its belligerence.
"What have you come for, then?"
Dayna looks him up and down, assessing him. She crosses the cabin gracefully, moving close to him. She recognises in him the same cocktail of feelings she has felt many times in herself, following combat situations. She smiles disarmingly, her large eyes locked with his.
"You."
She reaches her arms up around his neck and lifts her face for his kiss. He hesitates for a moment, then bends his head towards hers. A tremor goes through him as their lips meet. He identifies one overpowering need among the many clamouring for his attention. It comes from a place far deeper than his subconscious. It is so deep as to be basic to human survival. Instinctively he wraps her in his arms and closes his eyes, losing himself in the sensation for a long moment before slowly drawing his head away to look intently into her eyes. He reads the knowledge there.
"How did you know?" His voice has a husky edge to it.
She laughs, a rare bright sound, and takes his hand, leading him across to the bed. "It's a very common reaction, given the circumstances."
Tarrant holds her at arms' length. Conflicting emotions make him cautious. He is so tense she can feel the muscles vibrating in his arms.
"I don't need your pity... "
"Pity?" She shakes her head at him. "Tarrant, I want you. I've wanted you for as long as I've known you. Of course, if you would rather I left... "
She spreads her hands wide, leaving the decision to him.
Tarrant makes a low sound deep in his throat as he surrenders to the powerful desire she arouses in him, has always aroused in him, which is even more insistent in the aftermath of the duel to the death, so recently won. He pulls her to him and silences her with a kiss. She responds willingly, running her fingers through his curls and wrapping her arms around him.
He doesn't know if this is something that will last, or just a moment of abandon in a time of despair, but it feels so right to have her in his arms. Lifting her up, he lays her on the bed. Her body is warm and yielding as he allows himself to forget for a while the pain of his present existence. Thoughts give way to sensations as his body responds eagerly, a different tension building inside him, growing desperate for release.
It is an affirmation of life in the face of the recent deaths he has both witnessed and caused.
* * * * *
Cally quietly enters the dimly lit flight deck and hesitates at the foot of the steps. She is tired and drawn, having been unable to rest since the confrontation between Tarrant and the others. She is trying to understand Tarrant, whose reactions to his loss are alien to her. On Auron, she would have known what to do.
'On Auron, it would not have been necessary to do anything, we would have shared the loss together,' she thinks, a pang of deep regret catching at her heart. Well, that can never be. Zelda, her sibling, killed by Servalan in the recent atrocity, could never now help her to overcome her isolation. She runs a hand carelessly through her tousled curls. 'No sense in dwelling on something I cannot change.'
Looking across at Avon, she finds herself at a loss to know how to approach him. He has only recently had to kill Anna Grant, the woman he loved. He had mourned for many years, believing her to be dead, blaming himself for not being able to save either of them. To have discovered she was not only still alive but had been the one to betray him, was to lose her again. He had not killed her in cold blood, but in self preservation. Cally could not begin to understand what he must be going through.
'And he will never let me in to share his pain,' she thinks. 'First things first, though.'
She knows he has every right to be angry with Tarrant after the earlier outburst, but only Avon has the strength to pull them together now. If he wants to. She hopes he wants to.
She crosses to him at his console. He looks up at her briefly before returning to his study of the screen in front of him. She is used to his offhand manner and ignores it. She sees the exhaustion in his eyes but steels herself to speak to him.
"Avon, I'm worried about Tarrant."
He raises one eyebrow. "I'm always worried about him."
Cally sighs. "This isn't funny, Avon. I'm worried about his reaction to his brother's death."
Avon looks up at her. "I can't say I've noticed any reaction..."
"Exactly. He acts as if nothing has happened. Just this violent hostility. It's not healthy."
"Perhaps he saves his true feelings for when he is alone."
Avon looks down at his console, avoiding her eyes. He realises how well his words could apply to himself.
"As you do?"
"We are discussing Tarrant."
His tone has an edge to it that warns her not to pursue the matter of his own feelings. Avon walks over to Orac, which is on a low table by the informal seating area, and inserts the activator. Orac starts operating. Avon sits. "Orac, prior to our diversion to the Teal/Vandor Convention Combat Grounds, you provided Vila with information about the projected optimum performance of the crew. Your assessment was that we are all in need of rest and relaxation. I assume that still holds true?"
+ Affirmative. The crew will cease to function as a cohesive unit unless steps are taken immediately to provide a minimum of 100 hours rest and relaxation +
He places his hands on Orac's casing and narrows his dark eyes.
"And can you suggest where we are supposed to enjoy this rest and relaxation?"
+ I would suggest during planetfall at the earliest opportunity +
Avon raises his eyes heavenwards but keeps his voice even. It would be illogical to allow himself to become irritated by a computer, after all.
"Which planet, Orac?"
+ Hyperëon +
Cally looks questioningly at Avon. He shakes his head. "Means nothing to me."
He thinks carefully about the alternative. The bickering would soon develop into open hostility, even violence. He must break the pattern before the crew falls apart, taking him with them.
"Zen! Set a course for the planet Hyperëon. Speed standard by six."
+ Confirmed +
"Flight time?"
+ Thirty one hours fifty seven minutes +
"Thank you, Zen."
Avon looks thoughtfully into space. Then, reaching some internal decision, he gives one further instruction. "Orac, I want a hard copy of everything you can give us on the planet."
+ Very well +
Avon walks back to Cally and holds her gaze. He notices how worried and tired she looks but chooses not to comment. He asks her, quietly, "Satisfied?"
Cally smiles at him. "Yes. Thank you." She turns to leave.
"Cally..." He would like to be able to give her some comfort or encouragement. He searches blindly for the words.
She stops and turns back to him. He loses the struggle and changes his intended offer of comfort to a routine request.
"Tell Vila it's his watch, will you?"
She laughs. "Of course."
* * * * *
"What do we know about this place, Avon?" Tarrant makes his enquiry calmly, surprising Avon, who rejects the impulse to be facetious. It would not do to stir things up now.
"Not a great deal, actually."
Dayna looks at him. "But it is safe, isn't it?"
Avon gives her a withering look. "Orac has defined it as safe and suitable for the purpose. Atmosphere is similar to that of Earth. Temperate climate. Primitive civilisation..."
Vila enters as Avon is describing the planet and interrupts him. "I don't like the sound of that."
"We are not going to an inhabited area, Vila." Avon replies evenly.
Tarrant looks up from his console with a worried frown.
"What is it?" Avon is immediately alert.
"I don't know. We seem to be entering orbit on a different trajectory to the one I programmed into the navigation computers."
Avon quickly takes his station behind his console and checks the data.
"Zen! Override navigation computers and bring us in on reference 238 as instructed."
+ Unable to override navigation computers +
Tarrant lifts his head. "I'll take her on manual..." He begins working the controls at his console.
+ Confirmed +
Tarrant wrestles with the flight controls for several moments before conceding defeat. He looks at Avon. "It's no good. She won't respond!"
Avon grimly orders them to their stations. He stands, feet apart, hands on hips, facing Zen.
"Zen! Will we enter the atmosphere at this angle?"
+ The Liberator is on course for stationary orbit above reference 212 +
"What is causing the course alteration?" Avon demands.
+ The Liberator appears to be influenced by an external gravitational force in a projected beam emanating from the planet, reference 212 +
Tarrant looks puzzled. "A tractor beam?"
"Possibly. It would appear that the civilisation here is not as primitive as we were led to believe."
Vila looks up from his console, a worried frown creasing his brow. "I don't like the sound of that."
"Shut up, Vila." Avon walks over to Orac and inserts the activator.
"Orac. We appear to be held in a stasis beam above Hyperëon. Any suggestions?"
Before Orac can respond, Zen interrupts.
+ Information. The Liberator is now in stationary orbit +
Avon hides his irritation. "Thank you, Zen. Well, Orac?"
+ It will be necessary for you to investigate the source of the beam on the planet's surface +
Avon sighs. "Thank you, Orac, that's very helpful."
Before Avon can turn back to address the crew, Tarrant leaves his position, strides across to the armoury and selects a sidearm, strapping the belt around his waist. Avon raises his eyebrows.
"I'm going down." Tarrant's tone brooks no argument.
"Obviously." Avon's reply is carefully devoid of inflection.
"I'm coming with you." Dayna joins him at the armoury, takes a weapon and turns to Avon, defying him to refuse her.
Vila looks from Tarrant to Dayna and then across at Avon, who is looking very thoughtful. "Don't look at me. I'm not going."
Avon reasons that they can do nothing to alleviate the situation unless they go down to the surface, but they do not know what they are likely to encounter once they arrive. He reaches a decision.
"Very well. Vila... "
"Oh, no. I've told you... "
One look from Avon silences him. "Come and operate the teleport. Cally, you stay on watch. Let us hope that the teleport will not be affected by the stasis beam."
* * * * *
Tarrant and Dayna stand in the teleport bay waiting for Orac to provide the exact co-ordinates for them to go down to the surface to find the source of the stasis beam. Avon enters from the corridor, shrugging into a black leather jacket which matches his leggings and boots. He walks across to pick up a teleport bracelet. Snapping it closed around his left wrist, he joins the other two in the teleport bay. They draw their weapons. Avon is uncomfortable about the need to go into the unknown, unprepared. He tries to hide his unease behind a mask of indifference.
"Well, Orac?"
+ "Well" is not a question +
The mask slips a little. Avon speaks through gritted teeth. "Just give us the co-ordinates."
+ Very well. Co-ordinates are set +
Avon glances at the other two to make sure they are ready. He notices something about the pair of them which puzzles him. He cannot identify what is different. He decides he must be imagining it. "Put us down."
Vila operates the teleport and they disappear from view. A few seconds pass. Finally, Avon's voice comes over the communicator.
"Vila, this is Avon. Down and safe. We'll report in every thirty minutes."
Vila is just about to reply when he realises Avon has cut the link. He sighs, leans back and puts his feet up on the teleport console.
* * * * *
Avon, Tarrant and Dayna find themselves on a grassy slope overlooking a large building resembling a medieval castle on Earth. It is set at the head of a lush valley, overlooked to the north and east by a range of low rolling hills covered in forest. The colours of the leaves mimic late autumn on Earth, before the last Atomic Wars.
A swiftly flowing river tumbles over rocks as it bends around the south of the castle, giving a measure of defence from attack. There are no animals to be seen, no birds wheeling overhead, no sound of predators or prey. The light grey stones of the castle walls catch the late afternoon sunlight, and there is a reflection from small panes of glass high up in the walls. A dirt roadway leads to the main gate, which is open. There are no signs of life.
"What do you think?" Dayna looks at Avon.
He keeps his weapon ready as he looks about him. "I don't know. It's like nothing I've ever seen before."
"We're not going to learn anything here." Tarrant starts to walk towards the road.
Avon tries to persuade him to use caution. "Going in without proper planning is a guaranteed way to terminate our education permanently."
The voice of reason goes unheeded. Tarrant does not look back. Avon shrugs and follows him. Dayna raises her eyebrows but decides to keep up with the other two.
They reach the roadway, following it over a stone bridge only inches above the river, and walk the hundred yard or so towards the gate. They stand before it several moments later. The walls surrounding the castle are at least forty feet high, with battlements around the top. A turfed ditch runs around the base of the wall. The roadway stops at the fortified gateway. A wooden drawbridge spans the ditch to enable access to the main entrance to the castle. There are two guards, uniformed and wearing what appears to be chain mail, lying in the gateway.
Dayna drops to one knee next to the nearest guard, and examines him quickly. "No signs of injury. He seems to be asleep!"
"Not very efficient." Avon is scathing.
"This one is the same." Tarrant is already walking away from the second guard toward the drawbridge, without waiting to see if the other two are following.
Avon is puzzled. Surely there should be some signs of life.
They go through the gate and across the wide drawbridge into the main entrance. A small guardroom is to the left. The door is open, but the soldiers are nowhere to be seen.
They go further inside, stepping out into a large courtyard. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the flagstones. There is no breath of wind. There are some rough market stalls set up along one side. A stall selling pottery. Urns and jugs with a deep blue glaze, terracotta plates and small drinking vessels. Another covered in beautiful iridescent fabrics, furs and leathers catches Dayna's eye. Several sturdy, shaggy ponies are tethered in a shady corner. Even they seem to be asleep. The stall keepers are slumped over their wares, or fallen to the ground. Everyone they encounter is deeply unconscious. Avon follows Dayna and Tarrant across the wide stone-flagged area. Across the courtyard is the main entry to the castle proper. The huge heavy wooden door stands ajar, the hallway beyond lit by small windows looking onto the courtyard. Entering the wide hallway, they see several people who appear to be servants, several more who are recognisable as soldiers. They are slumped haphazardly, as if struck down without warning while going about their normal duties. Avon tries to shake one of the soldiers awake. There is no response. "He's not injured. There does not appear to have been a battle here. None of the people we have found have shown any signs of a struggle."
They continue deeper into the building. A feeling of drowsiness begins to creep into Avon's mind.
They enter a great hall. A profusion of standards hang motionless from the rafters high overhead. Large tapestries depicting hunting scenes and images reminiscent of ancient religious illustrated manuscripts are displayed against the walls. Around the walls are tables prepared for a banquet. Many richly dressed guests are slumped in the chairs, and here and there a servant has fallen to the floor or collapsed half way up a staircase. Several hunting dogs lie close to the fire, long since dead in the massive fireplace, sleeping as soundly as their masters. Huge stained glass windows throw myriads of shafts of light about the room, touching the strange tableau with many-coloured beams in kaleidoscopic confusion. In the centre of the hall there is a large area marked out in black and white squares, forming a gigantic chessboard. Lined up in their correct positions are people dressed in extravagant costumes representing the chess pieces. Except that two pieces are missing, the Black Queen and a White Knight.
No-one stirs in the oppressive silence. The only movement is the disturbed dust motes that rise and fall, dancing in the rays of sunshine bursting through the coloured glass. The whole place has a dreamlike quality.
Avon feels a sense of music playing, just outside the range of hearing. He is about to comment when Tarrant strides off towards a flight of stone steps leading down into an adjoining chamber. He catches Dayna's eye. She follows Tarrant, leaving Avon alone in the great hall.
In the lower chamber Tarrant stands by the window, the low angle of the sun catching his curls and touching them with gold. Dayna smiles at the sight of him, crossing the room quickly and automatically fitting neatly into his embrace. The brief moment of delirious pleasure is all the more exquisite for being secretly stolen in this magical place. Although his body aches for her, Tarrant reluctantly releases her and moves a little way apart. Collecting his thoughts, he looks around the room, discovering the mannequins which were used to display the costumes for the chess pieces. There is a tapestry around the walls depicting a story, including the scenes they have encountered. Dayna follows the story with interest. In the last section of the ancient needlework she suddenly notices a representation of a ship in space. It looks very much like the Liberator. She is astonished.
She whispers, "Tarrant... over here."
He moves across the room to her side and studies the tapestry.
"Avon, look at this!"
He hears the shout and crosses to the stone stairway. His footsteps sound loud in the silence as he descends to join the others. He walks across to see what Dayna has found.
"Very interesting, and hardly a coincidence. Let's see what Orac makes of it." He lifts his communicator and presses the button. "Vila."
* * * * *
"Vila. Vila! Wake up, Vila!"
Avon's voice over the communicator finally rouses Vila from his doze. He hurriedly lifts his feet from the console and thumbs the switch.
"Yes. What is it Avon?"
"Try and stay awake, Vila! I need to speak to Orac."
"Just a minute..."
He inserts Orac's activator and it starts operating.
"Go ahead, Avon."
Avon gives Orac the information they have gained from their brief exploration of the main building. He details the events depicted in the tapestry, including the strange ship which bears more than a passing resemblance to the Liberator. Vila listens intently.
"Is there any information about this place which would throw some light on the situation, Orac?"
+ The information I have consists entirely of data recorded and relayed from unmanned probes which have surveyed the planet from space +
It is not the answer Avon is expecting. Usually Orac obtains his information by tapping into computer databases throughout the Federated worlds and beyond. This is how they have managed to stay one step ahead of Servalan for so long, and perhaps the main reason why she so desperately wants it for herself, aside from the power it would give her. If the information Orac has on the planet is from the Federation computer files, it is extremely unusual for them not to follow up their unmanned space probes with a manned expedition to the surface. Avon cannot think of an instance where this has not happened, although he supposes it is possible if the data relayed suggested or confirmed that the conditions were severely harmful to human life. Or if there were some other danger. Either the information was sufficient for the Federation to decide they could not land a survey team safely, or...
'Or there is some other reason why there is no information.'
He cannot decide whether to return to the Liberator and attempt to break the hold of the stasis beam from there, if that is possible, or whether to risk their safety by remaining on the planet, in the hope that they will be able to discover the source of the problem, and remove it.
* * * * *
Avon frowns with concentration.
Tarrant is surprised. "Haven't there been any survey teams sent to the planet's surface?"
Orac's response comes clearly over the communicator bracelet.
+ There have been several teams sent to the planet +
Avon's frown deepens. He thinks he already knows the answer but asks Orac anyway. "What happened to them?"
+ None of them returned +
Dayna is shocked. "And this is supposed to be safe?" She looks reproachfully at Avon. Tarrant puts his arm around her shoulders, protectively. Avon is too engrossed with their immediate problem to notice.
"Wait a minute, Dayna. Orac, I assume the choice of this particular planet is to endeavour to fill a gap in your prodigious knowledge."
+ That is correct. It is unacceptable to discover that this planet has never been surveyed. I require the information which will be provided by your visit +
Avon sighs. Orac's one weakness, the insatiable search for knowledge, had got them into trouble before today. "There is no guarantee that the planet will yield up its secrets to us. However, in the meantime, is there any information about Hyperëon from other sources which could help us in our situation?" Avon's gaze is focused on the tapestry as he asks.
+ There is a legend of the planet. How much use it may be in your circumstances is for you to determine +
Avon looks at the other two. Tarrant shrugs. Dayna scowls. He thinks to himself that they have nothing to lose, so instructs Orac.
"Go ahead, Orac."
+ The legend of Hyperëon is several centuries old. The planet is said to be under an enchantment. A Sorceress is supposed to have placed a spell on the inhabitants. There would be a period of time when all of Hyperëon would sleep, people and animals. Eventually, however, at some indefinite time in the future, three people from another world would come to break the spell +
Dayna looks around the room. The tapestry makes more sense to her now. The first scenes show a banquet being prepared. Then the arrival of the guests. The third scene is in the great hall, where a tall, pale woman dressed in shimmering white seems to be confronting a man who looks like a King. There is the chess game being organised, and the scene with everyone in a state of sleep or enchantment. The last scene is still a mystery though. There are three people walking to the castle.
One of them is dressed all in black, another in blue and the third wears a red jacket and black trousers. The space ship is above them. It is obvious they are here in fulfilment of this strange prophecy.
"There's nothing in this tapestry to say how the spell can be broken."
"I didn't think it was going to be that easy," Avon replies, smiling wryly.
He looks around the room, carefully, trying to make sense of their situation. There are thirty-two mannequins in the large circular chamber. However, only the two by the window bear costumes. One is for the Black Queen, the other for a White Knight. Tarrant is examining the costume for the White Knight. He draws the sword from its scabbard and tests the edge. It is razor sharp. "There are two chess pieces missing," he points out.
Avon considers his next question carefully. "Orac, does the legend say how the spell can be broken?"
+ One of the strangers has to challenge the Sorceress to a game of chess. If the Sorceress is defeated the spell will be broken and the people awake. If the Sorceress wins, then the spell can never be broken +
He nods silently to himself. It is as he had thought.
+ There are a few interesting details pertaining to the game itself... +
"I assume the rules are standard?" Avon interrupts, impatiently.
+ Affirmative +
"That's all I need to know." He cuts the communicator link to the Liberator, crosses to the window and stands deep in thought. Tarrant stands beside him, his antagonism temporarily in abeyance during this crisis.
"I suppose you will challenge this Sorceress?"
Avon looks at him, surprised by the question. He had naturally assumed he would be the one to play for their freedom.
'Perhaps, in the circumstances,' he thinks, 'it would be politic to discuss it with the others first.'
He considers their situation for a moment. If he plays against this Sorceress, Tarrant and Dayna would have to play the part of the missing chess pieces. The Black Queen would be opposed to the White Knight.
Would being on the losing side have consequences for either of them that he would rather they didn't have to face? He could not foresee the future. If there was no challenge, no game, then they would all fall under the spell. He could feel it taking hold of his mind already. How long he could fight it he had no way of knowing. He decides to offer Tarrant the option of being the challenger, although he knows their only real chance is for him to play against the Sorceress himself.
"Are you a better player?" he asks.
Tarrant inclines his head, acknowledging Avon's superior skill in this area. "No."
Avon looks at Dayna, then back at Tarrant.
"Do you have a better suggestion?"
Neither Dayna nor Tarrant replies. He shrugs. "Then it appears I have no choice."
Dayna glances at Tarrant then back to Avon. "What shall we do, Avon?"
"Well, Dayna, it would appear you are to become a Queen." He smiles. "Tarrant, of course, is everyone's idea of a Knight in shining armour... "
Tarrant says nothing. He crosses to the window where the White Knight's costume is displayed. He removes his red jacket, takes the long sleeved chain mail tunic from the mannequin and fastens it over his white shirt. The white jacquard silk tabard goes over this, leaving his arms free. He drapes the heavy white cloak around his shoulders. Lifting the shining silver helmet, he places it on his head. It is a perfect fit. He buckles the silver belt bearing the sheathed sword around his waist and prepares to return to the great hall. He looks every inch the gallant Knight.
Avon smiles deprecatingly, spreading his hands wide. "I knew you would look the part."
Tarrant walks stiffly in the heavy costume. He turns to Dayna, who is very impressed by the transformation. She takes the soft, black, floor-length velvet gown from the Black Queen's mannequin and looks pointedly at Avon. He is puzzled for a moment, then, realising her meaning, turns his back to her. She quickly slips out of her blue jumpsuit and throws the heavy fabric over her head. The gown drapes softly from her shoulders. She puts her arms into the tight sleeves and realises she cannot fasten the laces at the back of the gown.
"Tarrant... "
He turns at the sound and walks over to help her. Avon's thoughts are concentrated on their situation, so it takes him a moment to recognise the significance of Dayna's choice of helper to lace up her gown. She would not usually have asked him to help her anyway, unless it was something to do with the ship's computers. He realises that she was concerned that he not see her undress, but did not make a point of asking Tarrant to turn his back. Added to his earlier observation in the teleport bay, he is able to hazard a fairly accurate guess as to the current state of their relationship. He smiles in wry amusement.
'So, Dayna's healthy curiosity has been satisfied, if I'm not very much mistaken. I only hope it lasts... or if it doesn't, that they can sort things out amicably,' he thinks. 'The last thing we need right now on the Liberator is a lover's quarrel.' He sighs. 'It would be considerably inconvenient if they were to have one here... ' His train of thought is disturbed by Dayna's laughter.
"Tarrant! I can hardly breathe... not so tight!"
He smiles as he tightens the laces. "You want to look your best, don't you?"
Avon's patience is wearing thin, but he allows them their brief light-hearted moment without comment. After all, it may be their last. He is filled with a sense of foreboding. The bright sunlight through the window belies the sombre mood of the enchanted castle. The darkness is growing within him, he realises.
A moment later Tarrant finishes the last section. He puts his hands around her waist and pulls her back against his body, feeling the warmth through the fabric. The gown fits snugly, displaying Dayna's figure to perfection. Stepping away from her reluctantly, he takes the black velvet cloak and gently places it around her shoulders, his hands resting a while longer than is necessary, as his proprietary gaze lingers on her. She sets the heavy jewelled silver crown on her head and fastens the belt bearing a slim dagger around her hips.
"Will I do?" She directs the question coquettishly at Tarrant. His eyes give her the answer he dare not speak in Avon's company.
Avon turns around to look. He raises his eyebrows and lets his gaze travel lazily from the sparkling crown down to her face, the eyes shining with a new fire, over her parted lips, remembering how they tasted.
He takes in the hollow of her throat above her feminine curves, her narrow waist and the jewelled hilt of the dagger fastened on her belt. The heavy velvet hides her shape beneath its folds as it fans out from her hips to the floor, where the flowing gown hides her boots. Sensing Tarrant bristling with indignation at his frank appraisal, he composes his features and says simply, "You'll do."
The outfitting completed, they walk out of the chamber ahead of Avon, up the steps and into the great hall. They walk onto the chessboard floor and take their places as Avon reaches the top of the stone stairway. Immediately they are in position they fall into a trance-like state. Avon alone is still awake. He tries to rouse Tarrant, shaking him, but can get no reaction from him. Dayna too seems to be unaware of his efforts to reach through the enchantment. It is beginning. So be it.
He feels a great pressure growing within the hall, like the build up of static electricity before a severe thunderstorm. Yet the sun is shining brightly, throwing its rainbow onto the pieces standing ready for the game to begin. Avon's dark hair and sable outfit are momentarily lifted by the bright spangles of colour which touch him briefly as he crosses the stone floor, his boots striking sharply, eerily, in the stillness.
He avoids walking on the chessboard floor. His stern expression betrays no hint of the concern he feels. He is aware of the first tendrils of lethargy trying to grasp hold of his mind and body. He decides to contact the ship.
"Liberator, this is Avon. Vila, are you there?"
* * * * *
Avon's voice comes over the communication system in the teleport area. "Vila, are you there?"
Vila enters the teleport area carrying a glass of a green liquid that looks suspiciously similar to adrenalin and soma. Not his first that day.
"Vila!"
He jumps, almost dropping the glass as he hurries to take his position at the console. He presses the communicator switch. "Yes, Avon?"
"We could be... correction, we are in trouble. Stay by the teleport, Vila."
Vila looks dreadfully worried. "Where else would I be? What's the problem?"
* * * * *
Avon smiles. "Where do you want me to start?"
Vila's voice comes over the communicator, sounding a bit slurred.
"Do you want to come up?"
Avon looks swiftly around the hall, registering no new threat. At least not yet.
"No. The enchantment claimed Dayna and Tarrant the moment they took up their positions on the board. I am waiting for my... opponent to arrive. I hope it will not be long. I am beginning to feel the effects already... "
"What do you want us to do?"
Avon thinks for a moment. "Nothing."
"Right."
Avon smiles, imagining the relief on Vila's face.
"Vila. There is something... "
The answer is hesitant. "Yes, Avon?"
"I am going to need all my concentration for the game. Do not contact me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Avon."
"All right, Vila."
"Avon...?"
"What?"
"Good luck."
Avon stands at his console on the flight deck of the Liberator. Wearing his customary black, he is a dark sentinel on the quiet ship. He is deep in thought, his brown eyes focused internally, rather than on the screen in front of him. His watch during the simulated 'night' aboard the Liberator is a welcome respite from the tensions much in evidence between the crew members since the events at the Teal/Vandor Convention Combat Grounds. The death of Tarrant's brother casts a pall over the crew. Tarrant's subsequent dispatch of the murderer has not alleviated the depression which threatens to overcome them.
Avon had been shaken by the sheer scale of Servalan's plan to overthrow the two non-aligned systems of Teal and Vandor. He knows she is ambitious and power-hungry, but her attempt to subjugate the two systems would have caused unprecedented loss of life. The cost in human suffering would have been incalculable. However, his recent brief personal encounter with her raises more questions for him than it answers. His feelings are ambiguous. Of course he hates her. That is a given. But, she draws out some response in him with which he is not altogether comfortable. It is strange how she can excite and repel him at one and the same time.
Remembering the feel of her warm slender form as he crushed her to him, he tries to deny the desire which rises unbidden in his traitorous body. He had trapped her in an embrace which, although born of the need to destroy her, was transformed at once into the powerful urge to imprint his body onto hers, to leave his kiss indelibly on her beautiful mouth. To force her to acknowledge his superior strength, or to awaken in her a need to match his own? He can't be sure. Yet he detests the need she arouses in him. She is entirely evil, for all her feline allure. She is a beautiful monster. He should very much like to kill her himself, face to face. To put his strong hands around her beautiful neck and crush the life out of her forever. He smiles. Yes, that is how he would do it. No quick blast from his weapon to speed her on her last journey. No. He wants to feel her panic as she struggles in his iron grip. To read the realisation in her eyes that he has, finally, indisputably, won. His opportunity would come, eventually. His patience is legendary.
Now that the Federation pursuit ships have been left standing, it is time to plan their next move. And that is the problem. There is no common goal among the crew. The fight against the Federation was never his cause. Unlike most of the others. Tarrant had deserted his post, taken his ship with him and joined the rebels years ago.
Dayna has her own score to settle with Servalan (as do they all, now). Cally chose to join the band of freedom fighters on Saurian Major despite being exiled from Auron for her stand. But Vila... ? He just got caught up with Blake and fell under his spell. He smiles wryly.
'Well, maybe we all did, just a little.' He pushes the thought angrily aside. 'The point is, what should our next move be...?'
Avon realises that the only way to have a chance of defeating the Federation is to have unity among the different rebel groups. They must present a united front against the common enemy. To achieve unity among the warring factions in the Rebel camps it is necessary to find a leader they will all follow. Someone who can draw those with such disparate objectives together under one banner. Someone charismatic, almost messianic. Someone like Blake. No, not someone like Blake. Blake himself. No-one else will do. He must find him. Only then can he be free. Free of the burden of responsibility he would never have chosen for himself. Free to follow his own path to a new life. Free to be alone with time to concentrate on his work.
In the meantime, his most pressing problem, apart from planning their next objective, is to try to keep the crew from tearing one another to shreds. The constant 'flight or fight' struggle of their daily existence is stretching their nerves beyond human endurance. He admits to himself that his own stress level is unprecedented, even taking into consideration the nerve-racking weeks just prior to his attempt to defraud the Federation Banking System, the desperate days afterward before his capture, and the torment of his interrogation.
He shudders as he recalls the months spent in various Federation prisons and under interrogation. Federation security were trying to prove he had political motives. He couldn't care what happened to him at that point. Anna was dead. Their future together a lost dream. The interrogators insisted he tell them about his political friends and contacts. He had none to divulge. It made no difference whether they used persuasive argument or the mind altering drugs. He could tell them nothing. Eventually they resorted to the old fashioned methods of torture, inflicting as much pain as it was possible for the human body to endure in an effort to break his silence. He could not give them what they wanted. It was a stalemate that very nearly cost him his life, and his sanity.
And the bizarre thing, the most grotesque irony of it is, he is now involved with 'political' friends. If you can call the crew that. Friends, that is. The relations between them being as strained as they are at present.
'We won't have to wait to be destroyed by the Federation,' he acknowledges candidly. 'We'll kill each other before long.'
He smiles grimly as he remembers Vila's automatic offer of sympathy to Tarrant, following the death of Del, Tarrant's elder brother. He had his head bitten off for his trouble, retreating to his cabin muttering darkly to himself and nursing a bottle of adrenalin and soma.
'Poor Vila,' he thinks, 'He was only trying to be polite. Tarrant shows no appreciation for his efforts. Well, I suppose that is to be expected, in the circumstances.'
He sighs as he considers the fierce anger in Tarrant which, lacking a legitimate target among the crew members, indiscriminately blazes against all of them, but especially Avon himself. Well, he and Tarrant have to work together for a while yet.
Earlier, on their return from the planet's surface, Tarrant had vented his overwhelming frustration and anger on Avon, who had uncharacteristically bitten down a sarcastic retort and stood calmly facing such unreasoning hostility. Tarrant had stormed away from the teleport area. Of the others, only Dayna had the courage to follow him.
Avon and Cally were left. She gave him a look of gratitude for his forbearance, and went to her cabin to be alone with her thoughts, something she did more and more frequently these days. Avon had philosophically walked through to the flight deck to begin the 'night' watch.
He is concerned that Cally retreats more and more from their company since the massacre on Auron. Avon does not seek their company either, but that has always been his preference. Cally has, up until now, sought out the others for companionship. He knows she wants to share her loss, but there is no-one she feels able to unburden herself to. It is a loneliness that only an alien can feel. Or one who feels alien.
He knows he fails her, and the rest of the crew, by keeping himself apart, private. The impenetrable wall of self-reliance has been too long and too painful in its construction to be easily dismantled. He gives them the benefit of his powerful intelligence, his skill with computers and other technology, and his ability to fight with and for them. It will have to be enough. He can't be a team player. Or a mother hen. He relies on Vila to be the listening ear for the crew. It is a role which falls naturally to the man, since he is easy-going and friendly.
Now Tarrant has his own loss to deal with. Dayna never speaks about the loss of her father. They are all of them so alone in their pain.
'I'm the last one to be able to help them,' he thought.
Especially as you need help yourself ... a small nagging voice from somewhere inside him disturbs him. He shrugs the thought aside.
'I don't need anybody.'
* * * * *
Dayna swiftly follows Tarrant as he strides angrily along the passage. Reaching his cabin, he punches the door control blindly and steps inside. Before the door can slide shut, Dayna plants her booted foot firmly in its path. He spins round to confront her.
"Save it, Dayna!"
She slowly enters the cabin, allowing the door to close behind her. She lifts her chin defiantly. "I haven't come here to fight, or to talk."
He looks at her through narrowed eyes, suspicious of her, but intrigued none the less. His voice loses some of its belligerence.
"What have you come for, then?"
Dayna looks him up and down, assessing him. She crosses the cabin gracefully, moving close to him. She recognises in him the same cocktail of feelings she has felt many times in herself, following combat situations. She smiles disarmingly, her large eyes locked with his.
"You."
She reaches her arms up around his neck and lifts her face for his kiss. He hesitates for a moment, then bends his head towards hers. A tremor goes through him as their lips meet. He identifies one overpowering need among the many clamouring for his attention. It comes from a place far deeper than his subconscious. It is so deep as to be basic to human survival. Instinctively he wraps her in his arms and closes his eyes, losing himself in the sensation for a long moment before slowly drawing his head away to look intently into her eyes. He reads the knowledge there.
"How did you know?" His voice has a husky edge to it.
She laughs, a rare bright sound, and takes his hand, leading him across to the bed. "It's a very common reaction, given the circumstances."
Tarrant holds her at arms' length. Conflicting emotions make him cautious. He is so tense she can feel the muscles vibrating in his arms.
"I don't need your pity... "
"Pity?" She shakes her head at him. "Tarrant, I want you. I've wanted you for as long as I've known you. Of course, if you would rather I left... "
She spreads her hands wide, leaving the decision to him.
Tarrant makes a low sound deep in his throat as he surrenders to the powerful desire she arouses in him, has always aroused in him, which is even more insistent in the aftermath of the duel to the death, so recently won. He pulls her to him and silences her with a kiss. She responds willingly, running her fingers through his curls and wrapping her arms around him.
He doesn't know if this is something that will last, or just a moment of abandon in a time of despair, but it feels so right to have her in his arms. Lifting her up, he lays her on the bed. Her body is warm and yielding as he allows himself to forget for a while the pain of his present existence. Thoughts give way to sensations as his body responds eagerly, a different tension building inside him, growing desperate for release.
It is an affirmation of life in the face of the recent deaths he has both witnessed and caused.
* * * * *
Cally quietly enters the dimly lit flight deck and hesitates at the foot of the steps. She is tired and drawn, having been unable to rest since the confrontation between Tarrant and the others. She is trying to understand Tarrant, whose reactions to his loss are alien to her. On Auron, she would have known what to do.
'On Auron, it would not have been necessary to do anything, we would have shared the loss together,' she thinks, a pang of deep regret catching at her heart. Well, that can never be. Zelda, her sibling, killed by Servalan in the recent atrocity, could never now help her to overcome her isolation. She runs a hand carelessly through her tousled curls. 'No sense in dwelling on something I cannot change.'
Looking across at Avon, she finds herself at a loss to know how to approach him. He has only recently had to kill Anna Grant, the woman he loved. He had mourned for many years, believing her to be dead, blaming himself for not being able to save either of them. To have discovered she was not only still alive but had been the one to betray him, was to lose her again. He had not killed her in cold blood, but in self preservation. Cally could not begin to understand what he must be going through.
'And he will never let me in to share his pain,' she thinks. 'First things first, though.'
She knows he has every right to be angry with Tarrant after the earlier outburst, but only Avon has the strength to pull them together now. If he wants to. She hopes he wants to.
She crosses to him at his console. He looks up at her briefly before returning to his study of the screen in front of him. She is used to his offhand manner and ignores it. She sees the exhaustion in his eyes but steels herself to speak to him.
"Avon, I'm worried about Tarrant."
He raises one eyebrow. "I'm always worried about him."
Cally sighs. "This isn't funny, Avon. I'm worried about his reaction to his brother's death."
Avon looks up at her. "I can't say I've noticed any reaction..."
"Exactly. He acts as if nothing has happened. Just this violent hostility. It's not healthy."
"Perhaps he saves his true feelings for when he is alone."
Avon looks down at his console, avoiding her eyes. He realises how well his words could apply to himself.
"As you do?"
"We are discussing Tarrant."
His tone has an edge to it that warns her not to pursue the matter of his own feelings. Avon walks over to Orac, which is on a low table by the informal seating area, and inserts the activator. Orac starts operating. Avon sits. "Orac, prior to our diversion to the Teal/Vandor Convention Combat Grounds, you provided Vila with information about the projected optimum performance of the crew. Your assessment was that we are all in need of rest and relaxation. I assume that still holds true?"
+ Affirmative. The crew will cease to function as a cohesive unit unless steps are taken immediately to provide a minimum of 100 hours rest and relaxation +
He places his hands on Orac's casing and narrows his dark eyes.
"And can you suggest where we are supposed to enjoy this rest and relaxation?"
+ I would suggest during planetfall at the earliest opportunity +
Avon raises his eyes heavenwards but keeps his voice even. It would be illogical to allow himself to become irritated by a computer, after all.
"Which planet, Orac?"
+ Hyperëon +
Cally looks questioningly at Avon. He shakes his head. "Means nothing to me."
He thinks carefully about the alternative. The bickering would soon develop into open hostility, even violence. He must break the pattern before the crew falls apart, taking him with them.
"Zen! Set a course for the planet Hyperëon. Speed standard by six."
+ Confirmed +
"Flight time?"
+ Thirty one hours fifty seven minutes +
"Thank you, Zen."
Avon looks thoughtfully into space. Then, reaching some internal decision, he gives one further instruction. "Orac, I want a hard copy of everything you can give us on the planet."
+ Very well +
Avon walks back to Cally and holds her gaze. He notices how worried and tired she looks but chooses not to comment. He asks her, quietly, "Satisfied?"
Cally smiles at him. "Yes. Thank you." She turns to leave.
"Cally..." He would like to be able to give her some comfort or encouragement. He searches blindly for the words.
She stops and turns back to him. He loses the struggle and changes his intended offer of comfort to a routine request.
"Tell Vila it's his watch, will you?"
She laughs. "Of course."
* * * * *
"What do we know about this place, Avon?" Tarrant makes his enquiry calmly, surprising Avon, who rejects the impulse to be facetious. It would not do to stir things up now.
"Not a great deal, actually."
Dayna looks at him. "But it is safe, isn't it?"
Avon gives her a withering look. "Orac has defined it as safe and suitable for the purpose. Atmosphere is similar to that of Earth. Temperate climate. Primitive civilisation..."
Vila enters as Avon is describing the planet and interrupts him. "I don't like the sound of that."
"We are not going to an inhabited area, Vila." Avon replies evenly.
Tarrant looks up from his console with a worried frown.
"What is it?" Avon is immediately alert.
"I don't know. We seem to be entering orbit on a different trajectory to the one I programmed into the navigation computers."
Avon quickly takes his station behind his console and checks the data.
"Zen! Override navigation computers and bring us in on reference 238 as instructed."
+ Unable to override navigation computers +
Tarrant lifts his head. "I'll take her on manual..." He begins working the controls at his console.
+ Confirmed +
Tarrant wrestles with the flight controls for several moments before conceding defeat. He looks at Avon. "It's no good. She won't respond!"
Avon grimly orders them to their stations. He stands, feet apart, hands on hips, facing Zen.
"Zen! Will we enter the atmosphere at this angle?"
+ The Liberator is on course for stationary orbit above reference 212 +
"What is causing the course alteration?" Avon demands.
+ The Liberator appears to be influenced by an external gravitational force in a projected beam emanating from the planet, reference 212 +
Tarrant looks puzzled. "A tractor beam?"
"Possibly. It would appear that the civilisation here is not as primitive as we were led to believe."
Vila looks up from his console, a worried frown creasing his brow. "I don't like the sound of that."
"Shut up, Vila." Avon walks over to Orac and inserts the activator.
"Orac. We appear to be held in a stasis beam above Hyperëon. Any suggestions?"
Before Orac can respond, Zen interrupts.
+ Information. The Liberator is now in stationary orbit +
Avon hides his irritation. "Thank you, Zen. Well, Orac?"
+ It will be necessary for you to investigate the source of the beam on the planet's surface +
Avon sighs. "Thank you, Orac, that's very helpful."
Before Avon can turn back to address the crew, Tarrant leaves his position, strides across to the armoury and selects a sidearm, strapping the belt around his waist. Avon raises his eyebrows.
"I'm going down." Tarrant's tone brooks no argument.
"Obviously." Avon's reply is carefully devoid of inflection.
"I'm coming with you." Dayna joins him at the armoury, takes a weapon and turns to Avon, defying him to refuse her.
Vila looks from Tarrant to Dayna and then across at Avon, who is looking very thoughtful. "Don't look at me. I'm not going."
Avon reasons that they can do nothing to alleviate the situation unless they go down to the surface, but they do not know what they are likely to encounter once they arrive. He reaches a decision.
"Very well. Vila... "
"Oh, no. I've told you... "
One look from Avon silences him. "Come and operate the teleport. Cally, you stay on watch. Let us hope that the teleport will not be affected by the stasis beam."
* * * * *
Tarrant and Dayna stand in the teleport bay waiting for Orac to provide the exact co-ordinates for them to go down to the surface to find the source of the stasis beam. Avon enters from the corridor, shrugging into a black leather jacket which matches his leggings and boots. He walks across to pick up a teleport bracelet. Snapping it closed around his left wrist, he joins the other two in the teleport bay. They draw their weapons. Avon is uncomfortable about the need to go into the unknown, unprepared. He tries to hide his unease behind a mask of indifference.
"Well, Orac?"
+ "Well" is not a question +
The mask slips a little. Avon speaks through gritted teeth. "Just give us the co-ordinates."
+ Very well. Co-ordinates are set +
Avon glances at the other two to make sure they are ready. He notices something about the pair of them which puzzles him. He cannot identify what is different. He decides he must be imagining it. "Put us down."
Vila operates the teleport and they disappear from view. A few seconds pass. Finally, Avon's voice comes over the communicator.
"Vila, this is Avon. Down and safe. We'll report in every thirty minutes."
Vila is just about to reply when he realises Avon has cut the link. He sighs, leans back and puts his feet up on the teleport console.
* * * * *
Avon, Tarrant and Dayna find themselves on a grassy slope overlooking a large building resembling a medieval castle on Earth. It is set at the head of a lush valley, overlooked to the north and east by a range of low rolling hills covered in forest. The colours of the leaves mimic late autumn on Earth, before the last Atomic Wars.A swiftly flowing river tumbles over rocks as it bends around the south of the castle, giving a measure of defence from attack. There are no animals to be seen, no birds wheeling overhead, no sound of predators or prey. The light grey stones of the castle walls catch the late afternoon sunlight, and there is a reflection from small panes of glass high up in the walls. A dirt roadway leads to the main gate, which is open. There are no signs of life.
"What do you think?" Dayna looks at Avon.
He keeps his weapon ready as he looks about him. "I don't know. It's like nothing I've ever seen before."
"We're not going to learn anything here." Tarrant starts to walk towards the road.
Avon tries to persuade him to use caution. "Going in without proper planning is a guaranteed way to terminate our education permanently."
The voice of reason goes unheeded. Tarrant does not look back. Avon shrugs and follows him. Dayna raises her eyebrows but decides to keep up with the other two.
They reach the roadway, following it over a stone bridge only inches above the river, and walk the hundred yard or so towards the gate. They stand before it several moments later. The walls surrounding the castle are at least forty feet high, with battlements around the top. A turfed ditch runs around the base of the wall. The roadway stops at the fortified gateway. A wooden drawbridge spans the ditch to enable access to the main entrance to the castle. There are two guards, uniformed and wearing what appears to be chain mail, lying in the gateway.
Dayna drops to one knee next to the nearest guard, and examines him quickly. "No signs of injury. He seems to be asleep!"
"Not very efficient." Avon is scathing.
"This one is the same." Tarrant is already walking away from the second guard toward the drawbridge, without waiting to see if the other two are following.
Avon is puzzled. Surely there should be some signs of life.
They go through the gate and across the wide drawbridge into the main entrance. A small guardroom is to the left. The door is open, but the soldiers are nowhere to be seen.
They go further inside, stepping out into a large courtyard. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the flagstones. There is no breath of wind. There are some rough market stalls set up along one side. A stall selling pottery. Urns and jugs with a deep blue glaze, terracotta plates and small drinking vessels. Another covered in beautiful iridescent fabrics, furs and leathers catches Dayna's eye. Several sturdy, shaggy ponies are tethered in a shady corner. Even they seem to be asleep. The stall keepers are slumped over their wares, or fallen to the ground. Everyone they encounter is deeply unconscious. Avon follows Dayna and Tarrant across the wide stone-flagged area. Across the courtyard is the main entry to the castle proper. The huge heavy wooden door stands ajar, the hallway beyond lit by small windows looking onto the courtyard. Entering the wide hallway, they see several people who appear to be servants, several more who are recognisable as soldiers. They are slumped haphazardly, as if struck down without warning while going about their normal duties. Avon tries to shake one of the soldiers awake. There is no response. "He's not injured. There does not appear to have been a battle here. None of the people we have found have shown any signs of a struggle."
They continue deeper into the building. A feeling of drowsiness begins to creep into Avon's mind.
They enter a great hall. A profusion of standards hang motionless from the rafters high overhead. Large tapestries depicting hunting scenes and images reminiscent of ancient religious illustrated manuscripts are displayed against the walls. Around the walls are tables prepared for a banquet. Many richly dressed guests are slumped in the chairs, and here and there a servant has fallen to the floor or collapsed half way up a staircase. Several hunting dogs lie close to the fire, long since dead in the massive fireplace, sleeping as soundly as their masters. Huge stained glass windows throw myriads of shafts of light about the room, touching the strange tableau with many-coloured beams in kaleidoscopic confusion. In the centre of the hall there is a large area marked out in black and white squares, forming a gigantic chessboard. Lined up in their correct positions are people dressed in extravagant costumes representing the chess pieces. Except that two pieces are missing, the Black Queen and a White Knight.
No-one stirs in the oppressive silence. The only movement is the disturbed dust motes that rise and fall, dancing in the rays of sunshine bursting through the coloured glass. The whole place has a dreamlike quality.
Avon feels a sense of music playing, just outside the range of hearing. He is about to comment when Tarrant strides off towards a flight of stone steps leading down into an adjoining chamber. He catches Dayna's eye. She follows Tarrant, leaving Avon alone in the great hall.
In the lower chamber Tarrant stands by the window, the low angle of the sun catching his curls and touching them with gold. Dayna smiles at the sight of him, crossing the room quickly and automatically fitting neatly into his embrace. The brief moment of delirious pleasure is all the more exquisite for being secretly stolen in this magical place. Although his body aches for her, Tarrant reluctantly releases her and moves a little way apart. Collecting his thoughts, he looks around the room, discovering the mannequins which were used to display the costumes for the chess pieces. There is a tapestry around the walls depicting a story, including the scenes they have encountered. Dayna follows the story with interest. In the last section of the ancient needlework she suddenly notices a representation of a ship in space. It looks very much like the Liberator. She is astonished.
She whispers, "Tarrant... over here."
He moves across the room to her side and studies the tapestry.
"Avon, look at this!"
He hears the shout and crosses to the stone stairway. His footsteps sound loud in the silence as he descends to join the others. He walks across to see what Dayna has found.
"Very interesting, and hardly a coincidence. Let's see what Orac makes of it." He lifts his communicator and presses the button. "Vila."
* * * * *
"Vila. Vila! Wake up, Vila!"
Avon's voice over the communicator finally rouses Vila from his doze. He hurriedly lifts his feet from the console and thumbs the switch.
"Yes. What is it Avon?"
"Try and stay awake, Vila! I need to speak to Orac."
"Just a minute..."
He inserts Orac's activator and it starts operating.
"Go ahead, Avon."
Avon gives Orac the information they have gained from their brief exploration of the main building. He details the events depicted in the tapestry, including the strange ship which bears more than a passing resemblance to the Liberator. Vila listens intently.
"Is there any information about this place which would throw some light on the situation, Orac?"
+ The information I have consists entirely of data recorded and relayed from unmanned probes which have surveyed the planet from space +
It is not the answer Avon is expecting. Usually Orac obtains his information by tapping into computer databases throughout the Federated worlds and beyond. This is how they have managed to stay one step ahead of Servalan for so long, and perhaps the main reason why she so desperately wants it for herself, aside from the power it would give her. If the information Orac has on the planet is from the Federation computer files, it is extremely unusual for them not to follow up their unmanned space probes with a manned expedition to the surface. Avon cannot think of an instance where this has not happened, although he supposes it is possible if the data relayed suggested or confirmed that the conditions were severely harmful to human life. Or if there were some other danger. Either the information was sufficient for the Federation to decide they could not land a survey team safely, or...
'Or there is some other reason why there is no information.'
He cannot decide whether to return to the Liberator and attempt to break the hold of the stasis beam from there, if that is possible, or whether to risk their safety by remaining on the planet, in the hope that they will be able to discover the source of the problem, and remove it.
* * * * *
Avon frowns with concentration.
Tarrant is surprised. "Haven't there been any survey teams sent to the planet's surface?"
Orac's response comes clearly over the communicator bracelet.
+ There have been several teams sent to the planet +
Avon's frown deepens. He thinks he already knows the answer but asks Orac anyway. "What happened to them?"
+ None of them returned +
Dayna is shocked. "And this is supposed to be safe?" She looks reproachfully at Avon. Tarrant puts his arm around her shoulders, protectively. Avon is too engrossed with their immediate problem to notice.
"Wait a minute, Dayna. Orac, I assume the choice of this particular planet is to endeavour to fill a gap in your prodigious knowledge."
+ That is correct. It is unacceptable to discover that this planet has never been surveyed. I require the information which will be provided by your visit +
Avon sighs. Orac's one weakness, the insatiable search for knowledge, had got them into trouble before today. "There is no guarantee that the planet will yield up its secrets to us. However, in the meantime, is there any information about Hyperëon from other sources which could help us in our situation?" Avon's gaze is focused on the tapestry as he asks.
+ There is a legend of the planet. How much use it may be in your circumstances is for you to determine +
Avon looks at the other two. Tarrant shrugs. Dayna scowls. He thinks to himself that they have nothing to lose, so instructs Orac.
"Go ahead, Orac."
+ The legend of Hyperëon is several centuries old. The planet is said to be under an enchantment. A Sorceress is supposed to have placed a spell on the inhabitants. There would be a period of time when all of Hyperëon would sleep, people and animals. Eventually, however, at some indefinite time in the future, three people from another world would come to break the spell +
Dayna looks around the room. The tapestry makes more sense to her now. The first scenes show a banquet being prepared. Then the arrival of the guests. The third scene is in the great hall, where a tall, pale woman dressed in shimmering white seems to be confronting a man who looks like a King. There is the chess game being organised, and the scene with everyone in a state of sleep or enchantment. The last scene is still a mystery though. There are three people walking to the castle.
One of them is dressed all in black, another in blue and the third wears a red jacket and black trousers. The space ship is above them. It is obvious they are here in fulfilment of this strange prophecy.
"There's nothing in this tapestry to say how the spell can be broken."
"I didn't think it was going to be that easy," Avon replies, smiling wryly.
He looks around the room, carefully, trying to make sense of their situation. There are thirty-two mannequins in the large circular chamber. However, only the two by the window bear costumes. One is for the Black Queen, the other for a White Knight. Tarrant is examining the costume for the White Knight. He draws the sword from its scabbard and tests the edge. It is razor sharp. "There are two chess pieces missing," he points out.
Avon considers his next question carefully. "Orac, does the legend say how the spell can be broken?"
+ One of the strangers has to challenge the Sorceress to a game of chess. If the Sorceress is defeated the spell will be broken and the people awake. If the Sorceress wins, then the spell can never be broken +
He nods silently to himself. It is as he had thought.
+ There are a few interesting details pertaining to the game itself... +
"I assume the rules are standard?" Avon interrupts, impatiently.
+ Affirmative +
"That's all I need to know." He cuts the communicator link to the Liberator, crosses to the window and stands deep in thought. Tarrant stands beside him, his antagonism temporarily in abeyance during this crisis.
"I suppose you will challenge this Sorceress?"
Avon looks at him, surprised by the question. He had naturally assumed he would be the one to play for their freedom.
'Perhaps, in the circumstances,' he thinks, 'it would be politic to discuss it with the others first.'
He considers their situation for a moment. If he plays against this Sorceress, Tarrant and Dayna would have to play the part of the missing chess pieces. The Black Queen would be opposed to the White Knight.
Would being on the losing side have consequences for either of them that he would rather they didn't have to face? He could not foresee the future. If there was no challenge, no game, then they would all fall under the spell. He could feel it taking hold of his mind already. How long he could fight it he had no way of knowing. He decides to offer Tarrant the option of being the challenger, although he knows their only real chance is for him to play against the Sorceress himself.
"Are you a better player?" he asks.
Tarrant inclines his head, acknowledging Avon's superior skill in this area. "No."
Avon looks at Dayna, then back at Tarrant.
"Do you have a better suggestion?"
Neither Dayna nor Tarrant replies. He shrugs. "Then it appears I have no choice."
Dayna glances at Tarrant then back to Avon. "What shall we do, Avon?"
"Well, Dayna, it would appear you are to become a Queen." He smiles. "Tarrant, of course, is everyone's idea of a Knight in shining armour... "
Tarrant says nothing. He crosses to the window where the White Knight's costume is displayed. He removes his red jacket, takes the long sleeved chain mail tunic from the mannequin and fastens it over his white shirt. The white jacquard silk tabard goes over this, leaving his arms free. He drapes the heavy white cloak around his shoulders. Lifting the shining silver helmet, he places it on his head. It is a perfect fit. He buckles the silver belt bearing the sheathed sword around his waist and prepares to return to the great hall. He looks every inch the gallant Knight.
Avon smiles deprecatingly, spreading his hands wide. "I knew you would look the part."
Tarrant walks stiffly in the heavy costume. He turns to Dayna, who is very impressed by the transformation. She takes the soft, black, floor-length velvet gown from the Black Queen's mannequin and looks pointedly at Avon. He is puzzled for a moment, then, realising her meaning, turns his back to her. She quickly slips out of her blue jumpsuit and throws the heavy fabric over her head. The gown drapes softly from her shoulders. She puts her arms into the tight sleeves and realises she cannot fasten the laces at the back of the gown.
"Tarrant... "
He turns at the sound and walks over to help her. Avon's thoughts are concentrated on their situation, so it takes him a moment to recognise the significance of Dayna's choice of helper to lace up her gown. She would not usually have asked him to help her anyway, unless it was something to do with the ship's computers. He realises that she was concerned that he not see her undress, but did not make a point of asking Tarrant to turn his back. Added to his earlier observation in the teleport bay, he is able to hazard a fairly accurate guess as to the current state of their relationship. He smiles in wry amusement.
'So, Dayna's healthy curiosity has been satisfied, if I'm not very much mistaken. I only hope it lasts... or if it doesn't, that they can sort things out amicably,' he thinks. 'The last thing we need right now on the Liberator is a lover's quarrel.' He sighs. 'It would be considerably inconvenient if they were to have one here... ' His train of thought is disturbed by Dayna's laughter.
"Tarrant! I can hardly breathe... not so tight!"
He smiles as he tightens the laces. "You want to look your best, don't you?"
Avon's patience is wearing thin, but he allows them their brief light-hearted moment without comment. After all, it may be their last. He is filled with a sense of foreboding. The bright sunlight through the window belies the sombre mood of the enchanted castle. The darkness is growing within him, he realises.
A moment later Tarrant finishes the last section. He puts his hands around her waist and pulls her back against his body, feeling the warmth through the fabric. The gown fits snugly, displaying Dayna's figure to perfection. Stepping away from her reluctantly, he takes the black velvet cloak and gently places it around her shoulders, his hands resting a while longer than is necessary, as his proprietary gaze lingers on her. She sets the heavy jewelled silver crown on her head and fastens the belt bearing a slim dagger around her hips.
"Will I do?" She directs the question coquettishly at Tarrant. His eyes give her the answer he dare not speak in Avon's company.
Avon turns around to look. He raises his eyebrows and lets his gaze travel lazily from the sparkling crown down to her face, the eyes shining with a new fire, over her parted lips, remembering how they tasted.
He takes in the hollow of her throat above her feminine curves, her narrow waist and the jewelled hilt of the dagger fastened on her belt. The heavy velvet hides her shape beneath its folds as it fans out from her hips to the floor, where the flowing gown hides her boots. Sensing Tarrant bristling with indignation at his frank appraisal, he composes his features and says simply, "You'll do."
The outfitting completed, they walk out of the chamber ahead of Avon, up the steps and into the great hall. They walk onto the chessboard floor and take their places as Avon reaches the top of the stone stairway. Immediately they are in position they fall into a trance-like state. Avon alone is still awake. He tries to rouse Tarrant, shaking him, but can get no reaction from him. Dayna too seems to be unaware of his efforts to reach through the enchantment. It is beginning. So be it.
He feels a great pressure growing within the hall, like the build up of static electricity before a severe thunderstorm. Yet the sun is shining brightly, throwing its rainbow onto the pieces standing ready for the game to begin. Avon's dark hair and sable outfit are momentarily lifted by the bright spangles of colour which touch him briefly as he crosses the stone floor, his boots striking sharply, eerily, in the stillness.
He avoids walking on the chessboard floor. His stern expression betrays no hint of the concern he feels. He is aware of the first tendrils of lethargy trying to grasp hold of his mind and body. He decides to contact the ship.
"Liberator, this is Avon. Vila, are you there?"
* * * * *
Avon's voice comes over the communication system in the teleport area. "Vila, are you there?"
Vila enters the teleport area carrying a glass of a green liquid that looks suspiciously similar to adrenalin and soma. Not his first that day.
"Vila!"
He jumps, almost dropping the glass as he hurries to take his position at the console. He presses the communicator switch. "Yes, Avon?"
"We could be... correction, we are in trouble. Stay by the teleport, Vila."
Vila looks dreadfully worried. "Where else would I be? What's the problem?"
* * * * *
Avon smiles. "Where do you want me to start?"
Vila's voice comes over the communicator, sounding a bit slurred.
"Do you want to come up?"
Avon looks swiftly around the hall, registering no new threat. At least not yet.
"No. The enchantment claimed Dayna and Tarrant the moment they took up their positions on the board. I am waiting for my... opponent to arrive. I hope it will not be long. I am beginning to feel the effects already... "
"What do you want us to do?"
Avon thinks for a moment. "Nothing."
"Right."
Avon smiles, imagining the relief on Vila's face.
"Vila. There is something... "
The answer is hesitant. "Yes, Avon?"
"I am going to need all my concentration for the game. Do not contact me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Avon."
"All right, Vila."
"Avon...?"
"What?"
"Good luck."
Avon smiles. "Luck has nothing to do with it."
He strolls over to the nearest banqueting table and leans back against it, ignoring the guests slumped in their high-backed chairs behind him. He is feeling very tired. Unnaturally so.
He can feel the air of expectation fill the huge chamber. It is almost palpable. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. It will not be long now. He is instantly alert as a wall of sound, like the crashing of storm driven waves against rocks, floods the room. It buffets his ears, making him recoil.
The Sorceress appears. He registers the movement out of the corner of his eye and spins round to confront her, his weapon drawn and levelled at her. An involuntary gasp of wonder escapes his lips at his first glimpse of the magical creature.
She is very beautiful. The most beautiful person Avon has ever seen or could hope to see. He cannot begin to find words to describe such heart-wrenching, other-worldly, unparalleled. magnificent beauty. Almost a foot taller than he. Her long, pale, unbound hair moves about her body as if caught by a gentle breeze, but there is no movement of air in the great hall. Her piercing violet eyes catch his gaze. He cannot tear his eyes from hers for a long moment. Then, finally, by a supreme effort of will, he breaks her hold. Her presence is commanding, overpowering. Yet she appears almost insubstantial, as if made of some exquisitely transparent substance, like crystal, yet without weight. The rainbows from the stained glass windows do not colour her, being overpowered by her own light, which seems to ripple blindingly from and through her. His eyes hurt from looking at her. He waits for her to speak. Her clear voice holds a sharp menace which seems to scratch at his mind with each word.
"So, you have finally come."
She smiles. His heart lurches involuntarily. No-one could dare to love this creature and live. Her beautiful smile holds an unspoken yet tangible threat. Avon is captivated by the vision before him, but still some part of his mind remains determinedly aloof from the magic. He stands erect, head held high and looks directly into her extraordinary eyes.
"I have come to challenge you."
His bravado is feigned. He realises immediately that he may not have the strength to beat her. He holsters his weapon.
Her laugh is as painful in his mind as shattered glass to bare feet. He tries to focus on the necessity of clearing his mind of everything but the game. He can feel the spell weaving indecision and hesitancy into his thoughts. He fights to clear his head of the enveloping mists, putting up a fragile barrier to her insidious attack.
"I accept your challenge. You know the rules?"
Avon nods. He misses the import of the inflection in her words. His thought processes are becoming lethargic.
"Perhaps... "
She smiles without mirth, like a predator.
"Shall we go up?" She leads the way up a broad stone staircase to the gallery above. As they reach the top, Avon can see the chessboard clearly laid out below him. Dayna and Tarrant have not moved since assuming their positions for the game. The oppressive stillness weighs heavily on Avon's mind. He can't remember ever feeling this tired.
"You will have the White pieces."
He is glad of the advantage. He acknowledges her statement with a nod and looks back at the board, trying to block everything else from his mind but the game he must win.
* * * * *
Cally walks through to the teleport area to join Vila. She is very tired. She stands in front of him and leans on the console. "Any news?"
Vila mumbles something unintelligible, his eyes remain closed.
Cally shakes her head and tries to raise Avon on the communicator. There is no response. She shakes Vila. He is unwilling to drag himself back to the real world, although he can't think what there is to stay asleep for, since he isn't dreaming. Her voice and rough shaking finally force him awake. "Vila! There's no response. When did you last hear from them?"
Vila slowly opens his eyes and looks at her with a frown. For some reason he can't work out where he is or who she is. "What?"
Cally is almost too tired to bother with him, but her concern for the others drives her. She enunciates each word carefully.
"Vila! When did you last hear from Avon?"
The urgency in her voice penetrates his drowsiness. He sits up abruptly. Avon? When? Cally's impatience draws his wandering thoughts back to the present as he desperately tries to focus on her question.
"I don't know. Avon said he would be out of contact while the game is in progress, so that he would be able to concentrate. He says it is very difficult, as the spell seems to be affecting him too."
Cally is instantly very worried. "What do you mean, 'too' ?"
Vila tries to gather his thoughts. "Dayna and Tarrant went into a sort of trance the second their feet touched the chessboard."
Cally is horrified. "Then for all we know Avon could be in the same state by now!"
Vila looks at her with a stricken expression. "What can we do?"
Cally thinks carefully. "Nothing. We can do nothing. If the spell has overtaken them all, there is no way we can help them, even if we get them back on board. In case you hadn't noticed, only life support systems, communications and Zen are still functioning."
"What about the teleport?"
Cally sighs. "We won't know until we try. And we can't do that until they contact us."
Vila raises the glass to his lips.
Cally gives him a look full of annoyance and frustration.
"Vila, can't you try to stay off that stuff at a time like this?"
Vila looks sheepishly at her. "It's at times like this that I need it!"
Cally answers sternly, "Well I need you awake, and so do the others."
* * * * *
Avon reasons he has to get the game over before he succumbs to the enchantment like the others. He can feel it creeping into his consciousness. It will not be long. "Pawn to King four."
The White Pawn makes Avon's selected opening move with deliberate steps. Each step seems to sap energy from Avon. 'I'm imagining it,' he thinks.
The Sorceress immediately answers, "Pawn to King four."
As soon as the Black Pawn reaches his new position, Avon continues.
"Pawn to King's Bishop four." This time he knows he is not imagining the strain on his own reserves of energy. It is as if the piece is being moved physically by his strength. He is breathing heavily by the time the Pawn stops on the selected square. There is worse to come, however.
The Sorceress smiles with anticipation. It is a feral, vicious smile, for all its cold beauty. She keeps her lovely eyes firmly fixed on Avon as she intones her next move.
"Pawn takes Pawn."
Although this is the response he hoped to produce with his King's Gambit, Avon is unprepared for what happens as the Black Pawn moves to the square on which his White Pawn stands. The Black Pawn draws a dagger from his belt. Avon had not considered the significance of the pieces all bearing weapons of one kind or another. The White Pawn offers no defence as the attacking Pawn strikes straight for his heart. Avon realises what is going to happen just before the blade hits the target. His gasp of horror becomes one of agony as he feels the shaft of pain in his own chest. His knees buckle as his piece falls to the floor, dead.
The Sorceress smiles in triumph as she sees the dawning realisation in his eyes that each captured piece has to die in order to leave the board. As he watches the White Pawn shimmer and slowly disappear, the severe pain in his chest eases enough for him to regain his feet, leaving a heavy ache that throbs with each beat of his heart.
Avon tries to decide how best to proceed. The Sorceress smiles her brilliant smile, almost too bright to look at. She is content to let him take his time, knowing that the longer the game continues, the more he is falling under her enchantment. His energy reserves are being drained with each move he makes, and he knows he must suffer the pain of each captured white piece. He must try to win without endangering Dayna or Tarrant, and without costing too many lives with his moves. He can barely think.
Then, as if from far away in some quiet corner of his mind, comes the next move.
"Bishop to Queen's Bishop four."
He falters a little, swaying alarmingly as his strength begins to drain from him.
Her response is immediate. "Queen to King's Rook five." Dayna walks sedately across to the chosen square. "Check."
"King to King's Bishop one." Even this small move seems to draw a huge amount of energy from him.
"Pawn to Queen's Knight four."
He realises she is trying to distract him from the attack with his Bishop but cannot call to mind the move he should make. He decides to change his attack, knowing that in doing so he is causing another death.
"Bishop takes Pawn." He can hardly bear to look as his piece takes his staff and clubs the Pawn to death. 'Well, he wouldn't be alive today anyway if it weren't for the enchantment,' he consoles himself.
The Sorceress does not seem affected by the fate of her piece. She answers immediately. "Knight to King's Bishop three."
He has to buy some time and try to force her on the defensive. "Knight to King's Bishop three." Tarrant moves mechanically to the square selected. The struggle to move the piece almost drives Avon to his knees. He leans heavily on the balustrade at the edge of the gallery.
"Queen to King's Rook three." Dayna retreats to defend the Knight and the Gambit Pawn.
"Pawn to Queen three." He can feel his muscles trembling and his breath coming fast and shallow with the effort of moving the piece just one square.
"Knight to King's Rook four."
He mirrors the move. "Knight to King's Rook four." The strain leaves him breathless. Tarrant makes the move. Avon fights to overcome the pain that is making it almost impossible to think.
"Queen to King's Knight four."
As Dayna moves to threaten Tarrant, Avon realises that he may have to lose one of them. He plays defensively, trying to keep them both out of danger.
"Knight to King's Bishop five." The cost in energy is beginning to tell heavily on him. He sways on his feet, the pain in his chest increasing.
The Sorceress tries another move on his Bishop. "Pawn to Queen's Bishop three."
Ignoring the attack, Avon chooses his next move very carefully indeed.
"Pawn to King's Knight four." The Pawn slowly moves the two squares. Avon feels he has lived several lifetimes since the start of the game. The lethargy is dragging at his limbs.
She moves her Knight out of danger and threatens the Pawn. "Knight to King's Bishop three."
"Rook to King's Knight one." In defending Tarrant, he must lose his Bishop. The piece moves one square. The struggle costs Avon dear.
"Pawn takes Bishop." The Pawn draws his dagger and strikes Avon's Bishop.
Avon cries out with the sudden unbearable pain, falling to the floor, one hand clasped to his chest, struggling for breath. For a long moment he cannot bear to move. His mind recoils from the spell she is weaving. Her enchantment becomes stronger with every passing moment. The mists of lethargy reach out to envelop his will. Finally, he manages to haul himself up to his knees using the balustrade for support. His face is ashen and his dark eyes clouded.
The Sorceress moves closer to stare intently into his eyes. She tries to find a hint of defeat there. Struggling to stand erect, he decides to attack.
"Pawn to King's Rook four." Waves of pain tear through his chest as he fights to move the Pawn forward. He hopes the Sorceress will be sensible and not trade Queen for Queen, or Dayna will pay for his mistake.
Thankfully, she does not seem to be in a sacrificing mood.
"Queen to King's Knight three." Dayna moves a square backward.
He presses the attack. "Pawn to King's Rook five." The effort nearly finishes him.
"Queen to King's Knight four."
Avon hangs his head a moment. He can barely think through the throbbing agony that threatens to engulf him. "Queen to King's Bishop three." Each step pounds at his body, punishing and relentless.
The Sorceress gives Dayna an escape route by moving the Knight. "Knight to King's Knight one."
Avon sways on his feet. Looking down at the board, he sees immediately what his next move should be, but doubts he has the strength left to make it. "Bishop takes Pawn." Fighting to stay upright, Avon concentrates his energy as he watches his piece move to the new square. He tries not to feel responsible for the death of the Black Pawn, but it weighs heavily on him. He focuses on the Sorceress who swiftly states her next move.
"Queen to King's Bishop three." Avon can see no recognition in Dayna's eyes as she moves slowly to the square.
"Knight to Queen's Bishop three." Avon realises that he must finish the game within the next few moments or they are all lost. He hasn't the strength to continue much longer. He grits his teeth, willing the Knight to reach its allotted square. Her response is swift.
"Bishop to Queen's Bishop four."
Avon tries desperately to produce the correct answering move. His mind is whirling, the thoughts disconnected and the mists obscuring his purpose. Blinding agony in every fibre of his tormented body drains his strength almost to nothing. The play seems to come from somewhere deeper than his conscious thought. Some almost primeval source within him.
"Knight to Queen five." He sinks to the floor and sits with his back to the balustrade, watching the game in his mind.
The Sorceress shows mild surprise but responds without looking at Avon. "Queen takes Pawn." She turns to look at him as Dayna crosses the board and attacks his Pawn. Eschewing the dagger at her belt, she uses a stranglehold to finish him, leaving Avon clutching his throat and gasping as the Pawn shimmers and disappears from view.
Ignoring the threat to both Rooks, Avon is playing on an instinctive level now. "Bishop to Queen six." He turns to grip the low balustrade in a feeble attempt to rise once more to his feet.
She responds by taking his Rook. "Bishop takes Rook."
Avon loses his grip on the stone balustrade as he feels every blow the Bishop uses to despatch his Rook. Flat on his back, barely able to breathe without excruciating pain, he realises that the game has taken on a familiarity which could save them all. Putting all other thoughts from his mind, he tries to recall the pattern of moves which lies buried somewhere in his memory. He has played this game before. He won before. He must win now.
"Pawn to King five." He gasps with the effort.
The Sorceress is puzzled. Avon feels dizziness overwhelming him as the piece moves the short space forward.
"Queen takes Rook." Dayna moves instantly to attack the piece.
Avon's entire body is racked with so much pain he hardly notices the damage she inflicts as she kills her opponent swiftly with blows from her bare hands. "Check."
The word drags his concentration back with difficulty. Without needing to look at the board, he chooses his move.
"King to King two." His eyes are half closed, his breath coming in painful gasps as he feels his mind beginning to drift away from his control.
She moves her Knight out of danger. "Knight to Queen's Rook three."
Bracing himself for a supreme effort, Avon knows he can win in the next three moves. If he can fight off the spell. And endure the pain long enough. And find the strength, somewhere, to move the pieces...
"Knight to King's Knight seven, Knight takes Pawn."
Tarrant strides slowly, purposefully, across to the square. He draws his sword from its scabbard and swiftly strikes down the Black Pawn facing him. Avon does not watch the proceedings, concentrating on the moves he still has to make, afraid they will disappear in the mist that clouds his mind almost completely.
"Check." Avon forces the word out from between clenched teeth as he finally manages to haul himself painfully and unsteadily to his feet near the top of the stone steps.
The Sorceress hesitates for the first time. She appears troubled. Perhaps she has some inkling of the way Avon plans her downfall.
"King to Queen one."
Avon dares to hope that the game can be his. "Queen to King's Bishop six." He gambles that she will be tempted to take the bait.
Her eyes light up with triumph. "Knight takes Queen!"
Avon knows he has tricked her by making the sacrifice, but doubts he has the strength to endure the loss of the Queen and make his final move. The Black Knight draws his sword and slashes horizontally at the Queen, taking her head from her shoulders. Avon drops to the floor like a stone, stunned, barely moving.
// Cally...I can't... (?) ...Oh dear God, the pain! //
In his agony, his mind blasts the thoughts outward. Trying to find her, to tell her, incoherently reaching out. He lies for several moments, dragging the air painfully into his lungs and trying to gather his fragmented thoughts. He would not have believed it possible to endure such agony and remain conscious. He must hold on to the final move. He can feel it slipping inexorably from his grasp.
He does not see the White Queen's beautiful gown turning crimson as her lifeblood stains the heavy fabric. Her body remains upright for a brief moment before collapsing slowly to the chessboard. She disappears in a shimmering haze, leaving no trace on the floor.
* * * * *
On the flight deck, an exhausted Cally is checking the monitors as the systems on the ship gradually fail. Only life support and communications are still working. Zen is out of action.
She suddenly feels an incredible burst of pain in her chest. She cries out as she collapses to the floor, her mind blasted with a powerful cry of anguish which does not come from within, but has leaped the divide and found her across the vast expanse of space.
// Cally...I can't... (?) ...Oh dear God, the pain! //
The shock of the unexpected and unprecedented contact, mind to mind with Avon, is almost as shattering to her as the heartfelt plea itself. She has a split second of horror as she shares the intense pain his body is suffering and the mental anguish he experiences as his thoughts are being confused and ensnared by the powerful enchantment.
Feeling his agony and despair, she tries to send him some of her own frail strength. The contact is so fragile, she cannot be certain he will even know that he has reached her, or that she is trying to help him.
// Avon! Hold on. Please. You must. //
She struggles to her feet, breathing raggedly with the effort, and rushes to the teleport area.
* * * * *
The Sorceress is speaking, asking him something. He registers her voice by the pain it causes in his consciousness, but the words do not make sense to him. He tries to focus his attention.
"What?" he mumbles. His eyes are half closed.
She walks over to him and stands towering above his tortured body. Her attitude of triumph does not intimidate him. It does not fit with the certainty he feels that he has won. Or he will have, when he can force himself to make the last move of the game. He has a sudden recollection, blindingly clear, of what that move has to be. The Sorceress repeats her question, "Do you wish to resign?"
Avon smiles. He is sure now that she has not seen the danger. He must finish the game. Why can't he get to his feet?
"Absolutely not."
She inclines her head, acknowledging that he desires to continue the game. She has a grudging admiration for him. No human has ever withstood her enchantment for so long, in the face of such adverse circumstances, enduring such torture. Her smile for once has a tinge of respect for a worthy opponent. It has a warmth which burns Avon's heart with the white heat of its loveliness.
'I will not,' he thinks, 'complete this conquest flat on my back.'
He drags himself slowly to his knees, the effort almost too much. He pauses for a few moments, holding the balustrade for support as he gathers his resources for the next burst of effort. He forces himself gradually to his feet. Every muscle and sinew is straining to keep him upright, but he is determined to finish the game face to face with his nemesis. Looking over the balustrade at the board below he almost overbalances as the dizziness grows in his mind. Struggling to focus, he can see the game is won. All he has to do is move his piece. Gathering the last vestige of his strength, he holds her gaze as he announces his final move... and seals his doom.
"Bishop... to... King... seven... ... ... checkmate!"
There is absolute stillness for a long moment, as if time itself had come under the spell.
Avon is aware only of the mist in his mind trying to prevent him from moving the Bishop to the square he has chosen. Wave after wave of burning agony assails his abused body but he refuses to fail now.
"No!"
The Sorceress watches in helpless horror as the White Bishop takes his position in front of the Black King. She begins to scream, a high chill note straining interminably and spiralling ever higher until it goes above the limit of human hearing. All the windows in the great hall shatter into thousands of shimmering shards as the pressure from the sound blasts them into fragments. Sunlight floods into the hall. The sudden rush of air into the chamber catches at the costumes of the chess pieces and lifts their hair into tangled tendrils.
* * * * *
Vila is sitting morosely at the teleport console as Cally rushes in from the flight deck. She is breathless and desperate to explain what has happened.
"Cally!" She silences him with a lift of her hand.
"Vila, Avon is in grave danger! We must try and contact him, now!"
Vila operates the teleport, attempting to bring Avon up. Nothing happens. The stasis is still holding the ship.
* * * * *
Avon has won the game. His victory has brought release for the people of the planet, for Dayna and Tarrant, and soon for the Liberator. But the instant his Bishop reaches the designated square and victory is his, he can feel the spell completing its work within him. Although standing in a hall filled with the amber light of the setting sun, he sees only dark, whirling mists which block his sight from within. The oppressive lethargy takes hold of his body so that he is incapable of movement. His heart no longer races with the effort of completing the game, but has steadied to a slow rhythm. His sense of self begins to fragment, dissipating as his control falters and his mind refuses to focus. He does not see the Sorceress, her beautiful face contorted with rage, shimmer like sunlight reflecting on a rippled pond then fade from view. He does not hear her dying scream which pierces the enchantment and tears the dreamers from their centuries of sleep. He does not feel the heavy impact as his ravaged body collapses senseless to the gallery floor at the top of the broad steps, narrowly avoiding pitching headlong down them.
His world is full of mists and darkness, of silence and stillness. His mind drifts, lost and helpless, all alone in another realm. Time no longer exists for him.
The chessmen and the other people in the castle begin to wake up. Dayna and Tarrant awaken to find themselves in the great hall, surrounded by others who have been under the enchantment.
"Dayna!" Tarrant's first thought is for her safety.
She rushes across the chessboard to join him. "He did it! Avon did it."
"It appears that way. At least everyone seems to be waking. We have lost some of the pieces... " He is interrupted by an excited voice behind him.
"They came! I never believed it would happen!"
A lady dressed in a pale blue brocade gown runs across to the King and falls on her knees at his feet. She is smiling through tears of joy and relief. The King gets to his feet. Instantly the guests quiet their excited babbling. They turn to follow his gaze. He speaks to Tarrant, assuming him to be their liberator. "We are in your debt."
Dayna and Tarrant turn to look at the man. He is tall, swarthy and broad-shouldered. His long hair is neatly braided. He is dressed in dark green leather tunic and trousers, with a heavy fur cloak reaching to the floor. He walks towards them with his hands held wide in greeting. Tarrant smiles in response to the open friendliness of the man. "Not us, no. We were under the spell, just like you."
The King raises his eyebrows. He looks carefully around the hall, searching for another stranger. He recognises all the other smiling faces. He looks from Tarrant to Dayna. He manages to recover quickly from his astonishment at her dark complexion, so strange to him. Her beauty beguiles him and he smiles at her, kindly.
"Where is the champion who defeated the Sorceress?"
The guests murmur among themselves, their wonder at these strange people overcoming their desire to maintain etiquette and be silent when the King is standing. They are all olive complexioned, with green or brown eyes and dark straight hair. Tarrant has the pale skin that indoor living promotes, and his curls are a cause of delight to the ladies among the guests. Dayna is a mysterious creature, her short curly hair and dark skin a novelty to them all.
"His name is Avon," she answers quietly, looking around the great hall for him. They cannot see Avon at first. He is not among the throng in the great hall. Suddenly, a young lady wearing a deep crimson gown trimmed with silver, her hair worn in two long dark braids reaching almost to the floor, looks up towards the gallery.
"There!" she cries, pointing upwards. All heads turn in unison.
Tarrant's smile fades to a look of concern as he sees the familiar black-clad figure lying motionless at the top of the stairs, balanced precariously half on the gallery floor and half on the broad top step.
"Avon!"
He mounts the steps two at a time, closely followed by Dayna and several of the King's guests. He hesitates as he reaches the still form. Avon resembles a marble statue. His face in repose has lost its cynical slant. His eyes are closed and his lips open slightly as if about to speak.
The young lady in the crimson dress drops to her knees beside him. She has never seen anyone like him before. Her eyes are wide with wonder. "He's beautiful... " she breathes. She instinctively reaches out to touch him but her awe of him stops her. A tear slips from under her lashes. He has given his life to save her father, the King, their people, and herself.
Tarrant can see no obvious signs of life in him. He is desperate to be certain but afraid of what he may discover. As Dayna reaches his side, he sinks to one knee next to him and checks for a pulse in his neck. After a few seconds he locates a weak slow beat beneath his fingers. A few seconds more and the sensation is repeated. Avon's chest rises almost imperceptibly as he takes a slow, shallow breath. Tarrant's relief is tempered by concern.
"He's barely breathing. His pulse is very faint."
Dayna gives him a wild look. "We must get him up to the ship!"
The people crowd round, concerned for the welfare of their strange deliverer, Champion and saviour, and for his friends. "Bring him here to me," the King commands. Willing hands gently lift Avon and bear him shoulder high slowly down the broad steps to the floor of the great hall. The King's face twists in sympathy for the brave Challenger. His daughter's eyes never leave his face. "Take him to my chambers." The King strides quickly from the hall along a wide passage towards a massive wooden door. As if by magic, it opens before him so that he does not need to pause before entering the chamber. They follow quickly, anxiously, after the King. Tarrant notices the sorrowful looks on many of the faces, tears coursing unashamedly down some. A heavy dread wraps itself around him as he enters the bedchamber. The King stands to one side, allowing the entourage to enter. He indicates the huge canopied bed. His servants and guests carefully lower their precious burden onto the coverlet and withdraw a few paces. The crimson bedcovers only serve to emphasise the deathly pallor of Avon's face. The servants make to leave, but hang back at the doorway, not wanting to desert the man who has made such a sacrifice to liberate them all.
Dayna and Tarrant stand side by side next to the bed. Tarrant removes his helmet and tucks it under his left arm. Dayna cannot take her eyes from Avon. She is too distraught to speak. Tarrant voices their concern.
"We must get him back to our ship. We have medical facilities there. He needs immediate attention."
The King looks at them both, sadly. His daughter stands next to him, her beautiful green eyes clouded with copious tears.
"I am sorry. Truly. Your friend has done us a great service that we have no way to repay. The price of our freedom from imprisonment is severe. It is not his body that ails. He bears the full weight of the enchantment he has lifted from us all."
Dayna looks at Tarrant, willing him to do something, anything, to help Avon.
"What can be done?"
The King shakes his head. "I'm afraid there is nothing to be done. He has redeemed us by sacrificing himself."
"You can't just give up on him!" Dayna is incensed.
His daughter drags her gaze away from Avon and turns to him.
"Father...?" Her pleading look tears at his heart.
"My child, believe me, if we could do anything at all to help, we would gladly do it. We owe him our lives."
Dayna grabs Tarrant's arm and pulls him round to face her. "We must take him back to Liberator."
Tarrant looks desperately from Dayna to Avon. He nods. The King makes to intervene, trying to explain to these strangers that nothing will reclaim their friend from the world of shadows he now inhabits.
"He is lost. There is nothing physically wrong, you understand. His mind is under an enchantment. You must have felt something of it while the game was in progress... ?"
Tarrant's sense of helplessness makes his response sharper than he would have intended. "Of course we did!"
The King, understanding the young man's turmoil, ignores the tone and answers placatingly. "You were aware, but unable to move of your own volition. You had no sense of who you are, no thoughts, no purpose. If you had been taken in the game, you would have allowed yourself to be struck down without lifting a hand to defend yourself nor flinching from the blow."
His quiet tone has helped to calm Tarrant somewhat. He nods in agreement. The King continues.
"Now imagine that the burden of that enchantment which held you captive is holding your friend, only greatly multiplied. Powerful enough to hold an entire kingdom in thrall not just for the duration of a game of chess, but for centuries. If we could not individually break the spell holding us, how can we lift the entire weight of enchantment from him, even if we could somehow combine our strength?"
Tarrant has to accept the logic of the King's argument.
"You did not see the Sorceress my friend. I came face to face with her many hundreds of years ago. She was supremely powerful then, and I can only guess at the range of her powers when your companion managed to defeat her in the game. When she first cast the spell upon my people, she told me she would only release us if she lost the game. She stated that the one to defeat her would lift the curse of the enchantment from my people, taking the burden upon himself. One life in exchange for many."
"Then you will permit us to take him back with us." Tarrant responds quietly.
* * * * *
Cally is pacing the flight deck when the lighting suddenly comes back up to full brightness.
+ Information. All systems are now functioning normally. Liberator is no longer held in the stasis beam +
She runs through to the teleport area. Ignoring Vila, who is half-asleep with his feet up on the console, she thumbs a switch.
"Avon, Tarrant, can you hear me?"
The response seems to Cally to take forever, but is only seconds later.
"Cally, this is Tarrant. Bring us up."
She operates the teleport. The three materialise in the teleport bay. Immediately Cally's face registers concern. Avon is lying inert. Dayna is standing over him, protectively, and Tarrant drops to one knee beside him. Cally can hardly bring herself to ask. "What's happened? Is he... dead?"
Tarrant leans down and puts his hands under Avon's arms to lift him. "Not yet. Let's get him to the medical unit."
She shakes Vila awake. "Vila, help Tarrant!"
Tarrant and Vila carry Avon carefully along the corridor to the medical unit and place him gently on the diagnostic couch. Dayna and Cally stand together at the far side. Cally is distraught. She operates the diagnostic computer with no results.
"What is wrong with him?"
Tarrant takes Cally by the shoulders and sits her down beside the couch. "I don't understand it fully myself yet, Cally. There is nothing anyone can do for him... "
"There must be!"
"Cally... this is not an illness, or an injury. This is something very different. You are not going to have an antidote or a treatment to cure it... "
"We have to try!" She directs her anger at Tarrant.
He swallows his automatic reaction and tries to reassure her. "Do what you can for him. I'll fetch Orac. There may be a way to bring him back."
* * * * *
Vila hovers uncertainly near the door, waiting for news. He knows it is unlikely that there is any change in Avon's condition, but he can't bring himself to give up hope. At least not yet. 'While there's life...' he thinks. Taking a deep breath, he enters the medical unit with what he hopes is a reasonably cheerful expression.
Cally understands more than he realises how deeply worried he is about the possibility of losing Avon. She takes pity on him. She lifts her weary head and offers Vila a pale imitation of her usual radiant smile. Better than nothing.
"Come in, Vila. There's no change. I'm sorry."
Vila instinctively knows that Cally is dreading losing Avon more than anyone. He tries to offer her some hope. "He's no worse then? I mean, while he's alive there's a chance, isn't there? There's always a chance."
Cally is grateful for his positive words. She puts her hand on his arm. "He seems to be in a coma. There is nothing to do for him but wait."
Vila's head droops. It doesn't matter to him now that Avon is always putting him down. He knows that the man respects his skills as a thief. Vila wishes there could be something he could do to help.
"I'll stay with him for a while, if you like... "
Cally shakes her head firmly. "Go on, Vila. There's no point in staying here. Tarrant and Dayna are going down to spend some time on the planet. Go with them."
"But Cally... "
She interrupts him, her anger at the situation finding an easy target.
"He went to a lot of trouble to organise this break for us all. The least you can do is enjoy it now we are here!"
Vila looks pained. Cally is instantly filled with remorse for her outburst and continues in a gentler tone. "I'll call you the instant there's any change. I promise."
Vila sighs and leaves the medical unit. He collects his things from his cabin and closes the door. Following the passage to the teleport area he walks in to join Tarrant and Dayna. He is too preoccupied to notice the way they move apart as he approaches. He collects a teleport bracelet and walks into the bay with the other two.
"Orac, put us down."
Orac operates the teleport on Tarrant's instruction and they disappear.
* * * * *
Tarrant, Dayna and Vila are greeted at the gate of the castle by a servant of the King. He bows solemnly before leading them through to their chambers.
"It is the King's wish that you join us this evening for a celebration to mark the end of the long enchantment. I do hope you will agree?"
Tarrant looks at Dayna and Vila. Dayna nods, Vila looks uncertain.
"We'll be there," Tarrant affirms. The servant looks relieved.
As they are shown to their quarters, Vila speaks softly to Dayna.
"It doesn't feel right, celebrating, when Avon is lying up there."
Dayna looks sympathetically at Vila. "You have to understand that they have waited centuries to be released from the enchantment, Vila. You can't expect them not to celebrate. They want to include us to show their gratitude. They don't know what else to do."
"I suppose not. Well, I guess I'll just have to do my best to enjoy it."
Vila is so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn't realise the growing attachment between Dayna and Tarrant. Not even when they request chambers next to one another. He is too busy worrying.
* * * * *
Tarrant is enjoying the rare pleasure of a hot bath without the usual interruptions from an insistent intercom. He closes his eyes and leans back in the large copper bath, resting his head on a folded towel placed on the rim for the purpose. It was a little strange having a manservant prepare everything for him. Fresh clothes lie ready on the bed. A pile of thick towels to hand. He had balked at allowing the man to undress him, insisting he was perfectly capable of managing by himself. The servant had seemed offended at first, but Tarrant had made it clear that he would far rather care for himself.
Now that he is able to relax, finally, his mind travels back over the recent events. He should have insisted on seeing his brother. There are so many things he will never be able to say to him now. Such a waste. He feels the familiar pain rising in his chest as he recalls experiencing his brother's death as if it were his own. 'Oh, Del! Why wouldn't you let me see you?'
* * * * *
Dayna sits in front of a large mirror, admiring the way the young girl is dressing her hair with a string of pearls. Never having dealt with such short hair before, the girl is using all her ingenuity and skill in an effort to please Dayna, and have her look her best when she is presented formally to the King, later this evening.
The girl had frankly admired her dark skin earlier when helping Dayna to bathe. She had reached out her hand to touch Dayna's face, as if to assure herself that the strange young woman was real. Since she had few inhibitions around her own sex, Dayna had happily talked to the girl while relaxing in her bath. She had so many questions that her head was spinning with the effort of trying to answer them all.
Now she sits, a large towel draped around her body, as the girl puts the finishing touches to the coiffure.
"It is pleasing to you, my Lady?" she asks, timidly.
Dayna smiles broadly. She wonders what Tarrant will make of it. There are few, if any, opportunities aboard the Liberator to indulge in such feminine delights as bubble baths and floor-length gowns, even if she had any prior experience of them, which she hadn't. She had grown up around men and had become something of a tomboy because of it. 'I could almost be mistaken for a lady tonight,' she muses.
The girl brings a soft chemise from the bed and helps Dayna pull it on over her head without disturbing her coiffure. The beautiful jade green silk dress which goes over it is a perfect foil for Dayna's exotic colouring.
* * * * *
Vila is looking out of the window of his chamber disconsolately. He tries not to think about his uncertain future but the worry just won't go away. Without Avon to look out for him, for all of them, what chance would they have? He feels too miserable to think about a party. How can he go down there, with all those strangers, and eat and drink... well, he supposes one little drink would probably do him good. And the food would be better than the fare on the Liberator anyway. Perhaps he should be a gracious guest, since his host had gone to so much trouble.
Cally's words come rushing back and he feels a strong desire to be back on the ship with her, waiting. How long, he wondered, would it be before they would know? How long could Avon lie there, getting steadily weaker, before he succumbed completely and they had to face the future without him?
A future without Avon... with Tarrant running things... he refuses to consider such a hazardous eventuality just yet. 'Anyway, there's still hope. I hope... '
* * * * *
Tarrant, dressed in deep blue leather sleeveless tunic and trousers and a sparkling white full sleeved shirt, considers himself in the mirror.
'I look like an old-fashioned pirate!' he smiles to himself.
Surely that is exactly what you have become? A small voice reminds him.
A knock at the door brings an end to his reverie and he calls out, "Enter." His manservant opens the door but remains in the doorway as he bows to him before announcing that Tarrant is requested to join the King in the great hall. Tarrant makes a last check in the mirror before following the man along the winding passage to the stairway down to the antechamber.
Dayna and Vila are already waiting when he arrives. Dayna catches her breath at the sight of him and smiles with delight.
Vila raises his eyebrows. "Very fetching."
Vila is dressed in red. It is a colour he would not have chosen for himself, but it suits him very well. He is a bit self-conscious to be wearing leather, since he automatically associates it with Avon, rather than himself. The thought reminds him of the reason for the absence, and he hangs his head.
Dayna is not so besotted with Tarrant that she cannot spare a thought for Vila's welfare. Seeing him so dejected, she puts her hand on his arm.
"Come on, Vila. He wouldn't want you to be miserable. He wouldn't expect you to care enough to be unhappy anyway. Try to make the best of the evening. I'm sure there will be lots of pretty girls to entertain you."
Vila smiles at Dayna's attempt to lighten his mood. "Thank you, Dayna. You're looking very pretty yourself." The compliment comes naturally to him and he is surprised at the way Tarrant seems annoyed with him for some reason.
A moment later they are ushered into the great hall to a fanfare of trumpets. All the guests are standing at their entrance, every eye on the strange people who have been such a blessing to them already. The King gets to his feet as the trio approach.
"Welcome Tarrant, Dayna and Vila. You are most welcome here."
At his words, the assembly shout a hearty "Aye!", making Vila jump. He is always nervous among strangers, and the prospect of having to be presented to royalty has nearly reduced his knees to jelly.
Chairs are placed beside the King for them to be seated. Dayna sits between him and Tarrant. Vila sits between the King and his lovely daughter, who has a tinge of sadness in her smile, and a far away look in her green eyes. Vila is fascinated by her.
Servants bring the meal and the musicians on the gallery play cheerful music to accompany the festivities. Vila senses that some pent up emotion is
struggling to be released in the young girl next to him, but is not sure whether to attempt conversation during the meal. He doesn't want to break some planetary rule or other, and waits to take his cue from the others.
She catches his eye a few times during the first two courses. Vila is so distracted he can't even remember what he has eaten. She looks shyly down at her plate much of the time. When the servants clear away the second course, he takes the opportunity to meet her gaze and smile disarmingly at her. She is so surprised, she forgets her manners and speaks before the King has given permission.
"I am Carissa. The King is my father."
"My name's Vila."
"I know. Everyone knows." She suddenly realises what she is doing and looks guiltily at her father. He is smiling at her, indulgently. She looks back at Vila with relief.
The King turns to Dayna and inclines his head.
"You look exquisite my dear. It gives me great pleasure to be able to provide this evenings humble entertainment for your enjoyment."
Once the King has spoken, a babble of excited conversation erupts around the table. Tarrant is the object of many interested glances from the ladies seated at the tables around the hall. However, tonight he can see no-one else but Dayna.
He wonders why he isn't able to pay her pretty compliments, like the King, or even Vila. He is out of practise. It is so long since he mixed in polite company that he has almost forgotten how to speak to a lady. And that is surely what Dayna is, for all her warrior ways aboard the Liberator. Just sitting next to her excites him. From the surreptitious glances she is giving him, she must feel the same way.
Course follows course through the evening until they cannot possibly eat anything else and be comfortable. Vila has consumed a fair quantity of the local wine, which is extremely good (and he should know, after all) and which at least has the effect of reconciling him to leaving the Liberator. He decides to be sociable. "Tell me how this whole thing got started."
She smiles a little uncertainly. "The trouble with the Sorceress? Oh, it is such a long time ago. In those days the kings each had their own lands, with knights to defend them and armies. The Sorceress gradually overcame them one at a time. Only my father, and my... and King Holsun, from the lands which border ours, were free from her tyranny. They decided to cement their alliance against her with a marriage. I was to marry prince Marik, the son of Holsun. It was arranged when we were still children. I have never met him. On the night our betrothal was to be celebrated, a banquet was organised. The chess game was part of the entertainment. I was to play the Black Queen." She smiles at Dayna. "Your friend made a far more beautiful one."
Vila looks at her. She is so unconscious of her own compelling loveliness. "I think you would have made a wonderful Queen."
She looks shyly down at her hands, folded in her lap. "Marik was to have been the White Knight. Before we had time to be presented to the court, the Sorceress arrived. She said that she would play chess against anyone who would challenge her. The victor would have dominion over the entire planet, every kingdom. No-one dared accept the challenge. It was the fulfillment of our oldest prophecy. We never expected it to happen. Then we were put under enchantment. That is, until... ." Carissa steels herself to ask the question that has been troubling her all day.
"How is your friend, Avon?"
Vila suddenly feels entirely sober. The change is so noticeable that even Tarrant is aware of it, though engrossed in his own problems. All other conversations come to an abrupt end as everyone around the hall waits anxiously for Vila's response.
Vila concentrates on Carissa's lovely face, trying to keep his voice even.
"He is not responding. I think... I fear he may die. But I hope I am wrong."
Carissa nods sadly. She takes Vila's hand in hers and looks intently into his eyes. She waits for the hum of conversation to resume before commenting quietly to him, "I am so very sorry for you all, Vila. And for myself."
"You? Why?" Vila's face is a picture of confusion.
She tries to find the words to convey to him the upheaval that has occurred in her life in the last few hours.
"Because I have looked on the face of love itself, and can never bear to let another take its place in my heart."
Vila thinks he understands the problem. "And since you have been under an enchantment for hundreds of years, the prince is long since dead and you cannot bear to marry another?"
She is astonished. "No, no Vila! Prince Marik is here, in the castle."
Vila is more confused than ever. "I don't understand."
"Vila! It is not Marik that has captured my heart. He's a sweet enough boy, I suppose. Not much older than I. They are all pale in that family, unlike us. Pale skin, pale hair, blue eyes..." her voice trails to silence.
"You mean that you are betrothed, but someone else has taken your fancy, is that it?"
She looks down at her hands as she speaks the words which will rock the two kingdoms to their foundations when they become known to the rest of the family.
"I have lost my heart irrevocably, Vila. I cannot marry Marik. I am lost... "
"But who?" Vila, of course, had not been present when the spell had been broken. He had not witnessed the effect on Carissa of her first sight of her deliverer. He is totally unprepared for her reply.
"Avon." It is barely above a whisper. She looks up at him, her amazing green eyes brimming with tears which overflow and drop down her face.
To say Vila is stunned by the revelation is to use a gross understatement. He realises women could be, well, to be honest, they often are attracted to Avon, but he cannot imagine this fragile young creature to have lost herself so completely to someone with whom she has never spoken. He does not know how to comfort her. She quietly rises from her chair, curtsies to her father without raising her eyes to his face and hurries from the hall.
The King has been concentrating his attention on Tarrant. He notices that he seems to be finding the social event severely taxing.
"You do not appear to be enjoying our entertainment, Tarrant. Perhaps there is something you lack?"
Tarrant tries to cover his awkwardness. "No, nothing. Nothing at all."
"Then I suspect that something is troubling you. Will you allow me to offer you assistance?"
Tarrant looks at him with surprise. "No! I'm fine, really... "
"Forgive me, my friend. We have perfected our sympathetic response to others through centuries. I can feel a great pain in you. Will you not allow me to have one of our healers comfort you? It would be an honour to do anything we can to help you and your friends."
Tarrant wants to refuse, but something inside him hopes that they will be able to take away this gnawing emptiness and despair which threatens to overcome him and drive everyone from him. "Very well. Thank you. I accept."
The King speaks quietly to the servant standing behind his left shoulder. The man leaves the room quickly and returns a few moments later with a young man, about the same age as Tarrant. He walks towards the King and kneels before him.
"You summoned me, my Lord?"
"Yes, Tal. Please take our guest Tarrant to your house of healing and aid him in freeing himself of whatever troubles him."
"Right away, my Lord."
The young man gets to his feet and smiles at Tarrant. "Will you come with me, Tarrant?" Tarrant gives Vila and Dayna a wry smile and leaves the hall to follow Tal.
* * * * *
Cally is caring for Avon in the medical unit on the Liberator while the others are on the planet. She looks at Avon's face in repose.
'He really is beautiful,' she thinks, wistfully.
She checks the diagnostic computer again. Getting the same inconclusive result, she crosses to Orac and inserts the activator. It begins operating.
"Orac. Diagnosis of Avon's condition."
+ Avon is in a state of deep unconsciousness +
"I can't understand it. The computer says there is nothing physically wrong with him... "
+ The diagnostic computer is functioning perfectly +
"Then what is causing this?"
Cally frowns with frustration at her inability to help Avon. Orac interrupts her contemplation.
+ The information I attempted to impart earlier may have a bearing on his condition +
" What information?"
+ The Challenger in the chess game is not immune to the effects of the spell, and will have to contend with it whilst the game is in progress... +
Cally's interest is instantly aroused. She reaches out to brush Avon's hair back from his forehead. She keeps her gaze focused on him while she questions Orac.
"So, he's had to play for all our lives while his mind has been fighting the enchantment?"
+ Precisely. That is not all. He has to use his own strength to move his pieces... +
She interrupts. "His own strength?"
+ The pieces do not move of their own volition. In order to complete the moves, Avon has had to use his own force of will, and his own physical strength. The more moves made during the game, the less strength remains. If the Sorceress played for time, eventually his strength would give out completely and the spell would claim him +
She looks sadly at his motionless form.
"It seems that is what has occurred."
+ There is an additional problem for the Challenger +
"What?"
+ Each piece which is taken by an opponent has to be killed to be removed from the board... +
She is horrified. "But Dayna and Tarrant... !"
+ Avon had to structure his game in such a way that neither of them would be at risk +
"It doesn't seem possible that anyone could win under such constraints."
+ There is another reason for his failing strength. As each of his pieces is killed, Avon has physically experienced their pain, further draining his strength and making it more difficult to consider his moves carefully +
Cally considers the effort of will it must have taken Avon to have continued playing once the situation became apparent. "It's a wonder he's still alive." She does not realise she has spoken the thought. Orac's response jolts her.
+ He may not recover +
'He must.' She cannot bear to consider the possibility of losing him.
"Is that your prognosis?"
+ Logic would suggest that it is +
"Does logic suggest a cure?" she asks, bitterly. She puts her cool fingers against his cheek. His skin feels dry and cold to her touch. She checks the monitor again.
"Pulse down to 35, respiration 4 per minute. He's not responding to anything, Orac."
+ Affirmative +
Cally slams her clenched fists down on the monitor.
"We can't just let him slip away... !"
Orac continues to operate but does not respond.
* * * * *
Tal shows Tarrant into a comfortably furnished room. The stone walls are hung with tapestries and carpets. Rugs and skins cover the floor. A log fire blazes in the hearth, which is big enough to stand in. He indicates that they should sit on the couches, facing one another. Tarrant is worried that he will not want to attempt whatever remedy Tal may suggest.
"Tarrant, I will help you overcome your pain."
"How?"
Tal understands his reluctance and tries to put him at ease. It is difficult to explain to a stranger how the people of the planet have perfected their powers of mental healing over many centuries, and can use these to help overcome even those traumas which lie deeply buried in the subconscious.
"You are unable to put your sorrow into words which can convey the deep feelings you are experiencing. Your confusion cannot be expressed. I will help you find the way to the words. The words will be your own."
Tarrant shrugs, sceptically, but decides it would be polite to try.
Tal closes his eyes. His mind flows outward, searching for Tarrant's consciousness. After a few moments, Tarrant can feel a sense of well-being flooding his mind. There is a warmth and security to it which makes him smile involuntarily. The deadening weight of anguish seems to lift from him. He is able to recognise the resurgence of hope within himself.
'You have strong feelings of guilt surrounding the death of your brother do you not?'
The words sound in Tarrant's mind. He is surprised.
"Yes. I do feel guilt."
Tarrant is amazed how easily he is able to speak about such a personal feeling to this near stranger. And yet, he feels completely comfortable with the arrangement.
"There are things left unsaid. Things I should have put right."
Tal sends reassurance to Tarrant with his mind. Tarrant responds.
"I thought killing... taking revenge for his death... I thought it would help, somehow. But it didn't. It only left this emptiness, this terrible loss. And anyway, the person behind his death still lives." Tarrant's face is a picture of pure hatred as he thinks of Servalan.
Tal sends him a feeling of companionship. Tarrant recognises the need in himself to be among friends.
"Yes, I do have others who care. Only I find it so hard to lean on them. I was vicious to Vila, when he was only trying to be kind. I've taken advantage of Dayna, her inexperience. I've hardly spoken to Cally about the loss of her people. I've thought only of my own pain, my own need, my own loss. The others are also suffering, and I've been selfish."
A warm feeling of peace, release from the turmoil, floods Tarrant's mind as he leans back on the couch and drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
Vila is walking in the castle garden. It is a beautiful clear night. He would like to enjoy his time on this peaceful planet. So far, the sun shines each day. The nights are warm and glutted with stars. There is plenty of delicious food, a warm comfortable bed and a bottle whenever he wants one. Everyone treats him with respect, simply because he is Avon's friend.
'Am I, though?' he thinks.
He suddenly recalls the image of Avon lying as still as death, and as pale, in the medical unit. Cally had been businesslike and shooed him away. He has the suspicion that she is certain there is no hope, and doesn't want any of them there if Avon is going to die. She wants to hoard the brief time with him to herself. Vila can't bring himself to reproach her, though he would like the opportunity to say good-bye, if it has to be.
Thinking back over their time on the Liberator, he admits that he has so often driven Avon to a sarcastic retort. He regrets it now. Avon has saved his life more times than he cares to remember, including his defeat of the Sorceress which has saved them all, at such great cost to himself.
'If he lives,' he thinks, 'I'll try to do less complaining.'
It is almost a prayer. Vila is not sure whether he believes in anything, but he does believe in hedging his bets. In his own way, Vila is almost fond of Avon. Perhaps not fond, exactly, but he feels more secure with him around. Of course, they have frequent arguments, usually over the smallest things. He hopes to have another chance to do so. 'Worth a try, anyhow.'
He shrugs and walks back towards the main building. 'I think I'll go and see if Carissa is feeling better. She hardly ate a thing at the banquet.'
He heads for his room first, where he has a nice bottle of wine waiting for him. He decides to take it to Carissa. 'It might cheer her up.'
* * * * *
Cally sits, her head in her hands, trying to think of a way to help Avon. Orac interrupts her thoughts.
+ There is an ancient Earth legend of a spell which kept an entire kingdom in a state of enchanted sleep until the princess could be woken +
Cally frowns. "How was the spell broken?"
+ The princess could only be woken by a kiss from a prince +
Cally sighs. "That's all very well, Orac, but it doesn't help Avon. The spell holding Hyperëon has been broken. Only Avon is affected, so it seems unlikely that such a remedy would be effective."
+ In any event, we are unlikely to be able to find a prince +
Cally is too upset to notice Orac's first attempt at a joke. It doesn't realise that timing is everything with comedy. Now is most definitely not the time. She tries to reach Avon telepathically.
// Avon... Avon, please wake up. Please, Avon. Please... //
There is no response. Cally stands up and checks the monitor again. Respiration is now down to 3 per minute, pulse 28. Avon's face is so pale, it resembles white marble. His chest barely moves as he breathes.
'I'm losing him... '
She can hardly bear the thought. She sinks into the chair and puts her hands over her face.
// Avon, we need you. I... need you. Please respond. Come back to us, Avon. Please. Don't leave me... ! //
* * * * *
Tarrant leaves Tal's house and returns to the main building to find Dayna. She is walking in the armoury, examining the various ancient weapons on display.
"Dayna."
She turns at the sound and smiles at him. Suddenly self-conscious, she waits for him to approach. He crosses the room to stand in front of her. He looks different to her. Calmer. Still troubled by some private suffering, but more like the old Tarrant, before the death of his brother, Del. He takes her hands in his and looks into her eyes, trying to read some clue there as to how to proceed.
"Tarrant, I... "
"Wait, Dayna. Let me say what I came to say, first."
She smiles. "Very well."
He leads her by the hand to a stone bench against one wall. The light streaming through the high windows throws dappled light in patches on the stone flagged floor. He sits her on the bench then releases her hand and begins to pace back and forth as he speaks.
"You know I've spent a number of years since I deserted the Federation trading arms back and forth to the rebels."
"Yes, you explained that when we first met."
"I want to continue to fight for the cause. Blake's cause."
"I know... "
"Let me finish, please, Dayna."
He smiles to take the harshness from the reproof. She sits, patiently, waiting for him to continue. "Servalan engineered my brother's death. I can never forgive that. I can't really believe that he's gone. That I'll never see him again." He stops pacing and stands in front of her, holding her gaze. "When I came back from killing that.... machine she used to kill my brother, I was confused.
Part of me was elated after the combat, needing to release the rush of feelings that threatened to overwhelm me if I didn't find an outlet for them. I had such a strong feeling of desire... I'd never experienced it before. I had to plan to kill a man. To face a man and watch him die, or be killed myself. The effect was... strange. "
He turns from her and resumes pacing. " I don't know how you knew that I would need you at that moment. A need which overrode any other considerations. Now I have found a measure of calm amid the maelstrom. I worry that I have used you in a way that you can never forgive. I can't feel enough to give you hope that there will be any future for us together. Not yet. Always supposing that you would want to think about the future. But even if I could commit to a relationship, our circumstances are not the best in which to try to hold on to happiness." He stops, walks across to the bench and sits next to her. She looks very pensive. He tips her chin up to look into her eyes. "You have no idea how hard it is for me to unburden myself like this to another human being."
She smiles. "Oh yes. I think I do."
"So what do you think?"
She looks away from him for a moment before replying. "I don't think of what we did as being used by you. I knew you were vulnerable. Close combat often has the effect of heightening desire. I wanted you, and decided the most opportune time would be immediately on your return from the Combat Grounds."
"What are you saying, exactly?"
Dayna smiles broadly. "If you used me, I used you too. So let's not worry about that anymore. As to the future... who knows if we'll even be alive a few days from now? I suggest we enjoy one another's company for as long as we want to."
"You'd accept that?" Tarrant is surprised.
"Are you seriously suggesting we avoid one another for the duration?"
"No, but..."
"Then why not just take it one day at a time?"
He pauses to think about her suggestion. Then he smiles. He pulls her to her feet and into his arms, kissing her hungrily.
* * * * *
Cold. So cold. And not a sound except the wind rushing around him. Or is it the wind? He cannot tell. He can't feel any movement. Darkness. Unrelieved, total darkness. Like being buried alive. He has a moment of sheer panic, almost hysteria, before he reasons that he wouldn't be so cold if he were buried. Or would he?
'Why can't I feel anything?' He is unsure whether he is thinking or speaking at first. He tries speaking. "Why can't I feel anything?" he shouts, hoping for a response. At least he could hear himself, so he knows the difference now.
He wonders where the others are. Did he break the spell by winning the game? What happened to the Sorceress? He smiles as he remembers her unearthly beauty.
'Why do the evil women in my life always have to be so beautiful?' he wonders. 'If there hadn't been so much depending on my winning the game, I would willingly surrender to her, follow her to the end of time itself, across the vast reach of space, into another dimension even.... And this despite the certain knowledge that she would kill me, in the end.'
He lies in a state more akin to death than sleep, with dreams.
* * * * *
Cally stands up and takes Avon's hand in hers. She looks at the strong fingers lying motionless. She suddenly realises that she hasn't noticed him take a breath for quite a while. For a moment, she thinks he may have gone. In panic, she feels for the pulse in his neck. She waits for what seems an age but is really only several seconds, then sighs with relief as she feels the faint, slow beat. She begins to pace the floor in agitation, trying to think of a way to keep him from slowly dying.
She thinks about Orac's last words. Perhaps there is a way to bring him back. Maybe the need for a prince to kiss the princess was irrelevant. Perhaps the spell could have been broken by anyone.
'Avon is dying... !' she thinks in despair.
In desperation, she considers trying to wake him with a kiss, knowing he would reject such affection if he were awake.
'If I don't try, I will lose him. If it works, he may never be the same with me again. But, at least he will be alive.'
She crosses to the couch and looks down at his peaceful face. Taking his left hand in hers, she almost loses her nerve, knowing how deeply he would resent the intimacy.
* * * * *
Avon drifts in a place of mists and shadows. He no longer feels the cold. Warmth is slowly creeping up from his left hand, up his arm and down into his heart. 'Now I'm really being fanciful,' he thinks. Still, the warmth is definitely there. And something more than warmth in his mind. A feeling from outside himself. Desperation, need, longing. He can't pin it down. It feels familiar to him. Known. The sensation surrounds him that he is being drawn back from the shadows. Back to where?
* * * * *
Finally, unable to let him go without this last desperate attempt to save him, she leans over and kisses him. She is unprepared for the effect on her of the briefest touch of his lips with hers. She draws back, disturbed.
'If he lives, I can never let him know,' she reasons.
Nothing happens. The seconds tick by with no response at all. She stares expectantly at his face. As time drags slowly by, the last frail vestige of hope dies within her heart.
// Oh, Avon! How can I bear it? //
* * * * *
Avon feels a jolt go through him, a quickening, like a bolt of lightening. His heart feels as if it would burst. Suddenly, the physical abuse his body has suffered returns in full force. He cries out with shock at the intensity of the pain he is experiencing.
His mind is pierced by a cry of despair. The meaning is clear even though he cannot distinguish the words.
// Oh, Avon! (?).... //
He recognises her thought and holds fast to it, using her contact to light his path back to consciousness.
* * * * *
She turns away from him in despair. She has lost everything. Her sibling, Zelda, her home planet and now the one person she really wants to be close to. She stands silently, drawing each breath in pain as she tries to make sense of this irrecoverable loss. He is gone, and there is never going to be a way for her to live with that. She cries out in bitter anger, frustration and hopelessness.
"I should have known it wouldn't work....!"
A voice, his voice, behind her responds quietly.
"I wouldn't be too sure of that..."
She whirls round to look at him. Her face betraying her emotional turmoil. "Avon!"
He is trying to sit up on the couch. Heedless of what he may think, she flings herself at him, tears of relief coursing down her cheeks as she clings tightly to him. For the briefest of moments he seems unsure how to respond. Then he wraps her in his arms and tries to calm her. She cannot stem the tears or the sobs which rack her slight body. He holds her close, without speaking, puzzled at her outpouring of emotion on his account.
When she is finally calm, she tries to pull away, worried that she has embarrassed him. He holds her tighter, close to his body, refusing to let her go.
* * * * *
Aboard the Liberator, Cally and Avon sit in comfortable chairs in Avon's cabin.
"I always thought I would have it to go back to... "
"Auron?"
"Yes. It was something I planned to do. Go back, I mean."
"And now you can never go back."
"No, I can never know again what the true joining of minds is like. I will have only the memory... "
He reaches over and takes her hand in his. "I'm sorry, Cally."
She looks across at his face, so full of genuine concern.
// You can never understand... //
He makes a great effort to concentrate his thoughts.
// What makes you think that? //
She gasps as she realises that he has answered her unspoken thought.
"How... ?"
"I was able to hear you in my mind when I was unconscious. But the spell was so strong that I struggled to answer. Even now, when I am awake, the effort of sending you an answer in thought rather than speaking is extremely tiring."
"But you did it...?"
He smiles, the rare warmth sparkling in his deep brown eyes as his face lights up. "Oh, yes. I did it."
* * * * *
After a moment, Dayna pulls away. "Of course, I don't know what the others will think!"
Tarrant's face clouds with worry. "One thing's for sure... Avon won't be making any sarcastic comments. Not at the moment, anyway."
He sees the sudden distress in her eyes. Instantly contrite, he tells her quietly, "I think it is time we were getting back."
Dayna nods. Tarrant lifts his communicator and contacts the ship.
"Liberator, two to come up."
* * * * *
Vila has been sitting alone in the garden for quite some time. Finally he is unable to bear it any longer. He would much rather be on the ship with Cally. He may even be able to help Avon in some way. Well, he could try.
"Liberator, this is Vila. Bring me up."
* * * * *
Cally sits on the couch in Avon's cabin. Avon lies full stretch with his head in her lap. His eyes are closed.
"Try again," she urges him.
"I've told you, Cally. I appreciate your sharing your sense of loss over Auron and Zelda with me. I feel honoured that you have felt able to express your private thoughts and I am deeply touched that you feel you can trust me with them...."
"But you can't reciprocate."
He sighs. "I wouldn't know where to begin."
Cally strokes his hair back from his forehead absentmindedly.
"One of the things you said to Anna after... " She pauses, uncomfortable with what she is going to say but not seeing any alternative.
"After I shot her?"
"Yes. After. You said you never recognised yourself as a fool."
"I remember."
"What did you mean?"
Avon opens his eyes and examines her face. He reads only genuine concern there. He sighs, heavily.
"Cally, I can't explain it. I think I meant I was a fool to love her. Or to trust her. Or maybe both. I don't know... "
"You made a mistake. It doesn't mean you will repeat it."
"I have no intention of ever repeating it!"
"I mean you could fall in love again, and this time it wouldn't be a mistake."
Avon closes his eyes and frowns. "The trouble is, there is no way of knowing if this is the right one. I am just as likely to make a mistake second time around."
"Better than never giving it a chance, though."
"Oh really?" He is sceptical.
"Don't shut everyone out, Avon. Don't shut me out. We need you."
He is surprised. He sits up, turning to look into her eyes. "I doubt that."
"Do you?" She leans forward and kisses him.
* * * * *
Dayna and Tarrant materialise in the teleport area and head for the medical unit. Finding it empty, they fear the worst and head for the flight deck, expecting Cally to be on watch. Finding no-one on the flight deck either, they decide to try Cally's cabin.
* * * * *
Vila materialises in the teleport area and sets off for the medical unit, meeting up with Dayna and Tarrant who are heading for Cally's cabin.
* * * * *
Cally's cabin door is open, the room empty.
"Well, what now?" Vila demands, determined to find Avon. Or Cally.
Dayna and Tarrant exchange glances. "Someone has to try Avon's cabin... " Tarrant suggests. They all look at one another, then at the floor. Finally, Vila takes a deep breath and walks off towards Avon's cabin. Before he has gone a few yards, however, they hear footsteps approaching from that direction. Vila pauses. Tarrant and Dayna catch him up.
Avon comes around the corner and almost walks into Vila.
"Avon!" Dayna is genuinely delighted to see him back on his feet.
"Hello, Dayna. Tarrant. Vila. Back from your little holiday already?"
Vila is so relieved he dares risk questioning the normally unapproachable Avon. "How did you do it?"
"What?"
"How come you're upright? The last time I saw you, all of about twenty-four hours ago, you were resembling nothing so much as a corpse!"
"Vila, have you no faith?" Avon has a pained expression.
Vila squirms a little under Avon's gaze. "Well, how?"
Avon smiles. A rare, warm smile which lights up his face and makes his dark eyes glitter with amusement. "Well now. Perhaps you should be asking Cally. After all, I was asleep at the time." He walks off, leaving behind a trio of confused crew members. No, make that friends...
* * * * *
A few days later, after the entire crew has taken turns to enjoy the hospitality offered on Hyperëon, Avon is once again on watch during the simulated 'night' aboard the Liberator. He has finally set Orac the task of locating Blake. Not that he has informed the others. Not just yet. After all, he may not be able to find him.
Avon thinks back over the events of the last few days. He doesn't have to worry about Dayna and Tarrant for the time being, as they seem to have reached some sort of agreement as to how their relationship is going to be conducted. Thankfully, they are being very discreet. Vila hasn't yet realised there is any relationship. Avon smiles. There is something else Vila hasn't yet realised...
Avon drags his mind away from pleasant thoughts of that other discreetly handled situation, and concentrates on reprogramming the communications computer. He is almost finished.
Orac suddenly interrupts his work.
+ I have intercepted a message from Blake +
Avon looks up from the communication console. He is sceptical. He crosses over to where Orac is operating. "Are you sure?"
+ Voice pattern is an exact match +
Avon stands, lost in thought...
THE END
This is one of a group of stories based on the television series Blakes 7 and published originally through AVON (the Paul Darrow fan club magazine) and Horizon (the Blakes 7 fan club magazine). See also "Immolation" in this blog.
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