Chapter Text
Muted explosions woke Roj Blake — the sounds of battle. Pinned to his medical bed by weakness as much as by the padded restraints, Blake could only wonder and wait. He had been a prisoner of the Federation for approximately three weeks, since that fateful day on Gauda Prime, with no knowledge beyond collapsing in Avon's arms.
Gunfire joined the cacophony of grenades, sweeping towards him at a relentless pace. At each burst of weaponry, Blake tensed with heightened anticipation, wondering if fate was about to smile or frown on him. Finally, his waiting ended. The door to his room burst open, admitting a black-visaged Federation trooper with a plasma rifle held loosely in his arm. The figure slowly approached the bed, and Blake was certain that his death was in the eyes hidden behind the regulation mask.
But, surprisingly, the uniformed trooper slung the rifle over his shoulder and plucked a hand-held transmitter from his belt. When the invader flipped the mask to gain access to the communicator, Blake recognized the blond man. "Grant," he whispered.
"Delta leader one," the mercenary identified himself. "I've found the target. I want a medtech and retrieval team to Level 2. Everyone else prepare for pull out."
The box crackled with static and a muffled voice replied, "Team three, sir. We're on Level 5. I think we've found another prisoner. He's a...unconscious and hooked up to an interrogation machine."
"Hold." Grant turned to Blake. "Do you have any other people here?"
"I...I don't know," Blake admitted. "It's possible."
"Bring him," the mercenary ordered into the transmitter. Clipping it back to his belt, he began to loosen Blake's restraints. Before he finished, his team arrived.
One man studied the medical data on Blake. "It's safe to move him," he decided, "but I don't want him walking."
"Grant, how...?" Blake asked as the initial shock of rescue faded.
"Avalon," Grant reported crisply. A crooked grin graced his face. "Apparently she finds you valuable, Blake, to pay my asking price to get you out of this mess."
The medical team hustled Blake onto a portable stretcher. "What happened with my base?"
Grant halted the parade with a wave of the hand and looked straight into the rebel leader's eyes. "Gone, Blake. I talked to the natives. There was a mass execution and burial."
Mercifully, Grant immediately returned his attention to their retreat, allowing Blake space and privacy. Why didn't they kill me too? Blake mourned, but he knew the answer. He was too valuable; they'd wanted information before they would allow him the peace of death.
"Good morning, Blake," Grant said from where he was propped in the door of the rebel leader's private quarters, two weeks after transporting him to Avalon's secret base.
"Grant." Blake's face was marred with stubble.
"I heard they released you from medical."
Blake managed a small smile at that. "You usually don't waste time with the obvious. What is it, Del?"
Stepping into the room, the blond man shrugged. "Avalon seemed disappointed with your...lack of interest."
"Is that what she called it?" Blake remembered his conversations with the woman. "Then she probably also gave you my reasons." Carefully, he pushed to his feet. There was still some residual pain from his wounds that demanded caution.
"Blake, we're professionals, you and I. We know the perils of rebellion. People are going to die."
"Because of me!" Blake raged. "They died because of me. I let that Federation spy into the base. Oh, the Federation set me up good that time."
"Everyone makes mistakes," Grant countered. "Let me tell you about the time I..."
"No, I won't be persuaded."
"All right, I won't tell you the cause needs you and you need the cause. But the least you can do is share that knowledge you have with the rest of us."
"Such as?"
"Rumor has it that Avon was there."
Blake sucked in a breath. "Avalon didn't mention that to me."
"Well you weren't exactly talkative either." Perching on the corner of the table, Grant continued soberly, "Was he there?"
"I think you know that he was. What happened to him?"
"We hear he got away, much to the Federation's chagrin. Curious that he didn't take you with him."
"Not so curious," Blake responded tightly, feeling cold anger creep through him. "He's the one who shot me."
Grant's eyes widened. "So there's more to your retirement than the death of compatriots."
"You might say that," Blake said wryly. "Betrayal by an old friend can be discouraging."
The mercenary nodded thoughtfully. "I wouldn't argue that. We were hoping you could help us locate Avon or, more importantly, Orac. It would be a great asset for a project Avalon is considering. However, under the circumstances..." Hopping from the table, he started for the door, hesitating just short of the threshold. "Still, there is something you might be able to do for us."
"I told Avalon that..."
"This would only take a minute," Grant promised. "We haven't identified the man we pulled out with you."
"That was weeks ago," Blake said slowly. "Why? Unless...he died." The words caught in Blake's throat. The dead man might have been one of his.
"He's alive," Grant assured him, banishing some of Blake's gloom. "The problem is rather more complicated. It might be easier if I showed you."
Blake recognized the duplicity behind Grant's visit. The mercenary was trying to re-ignite his rebellious nature, as much out of concern for the man as for the cause. It was, Blake realized, something that he would do for Grant if their situations were reversed. But it was still annoying to be on the receiving end of such thinly disguised pity. And it made any of Grant's suggestions suspect. So he followed him with some reluctance; he was unwilling to be so rude as to deny the simple request.
After a short and considerately slow-paced walk down the corridor, Grant paused at a closed door in the residential wing. "This is his room." He rubbed at his chin as if trying to reach a decision, then palmed open the door, allowing Blake to enter first.
The room was dark and Blake could just make out a shadowy figure huddled on a bed in the corner. The man's features were shaded, but his body language unmistakable. Sitting knees to chest, with his arms wrapped about his legs, he was a curled ball of fear. And that emotion seemed so far removed from Blake's impression of Avon's brash pilot that he almost failed to place a name to the remembered face when Grant flooded the room with light. "Tarrant."
Blake didn't realize that he had said the name aloud until Grant responded, "Del Tarrant? Avon's Tarrant?"
Avon's Tarrant — that rankled even though it echoed Blake's own thoughts. It fueled the flame of resentment that seeing Tarrant had sparked. That boy was largely responsible for the...disaster, damn him. If he hadn't...
"Blake. Blake, are you all right?"
"What? Yes." Blake realized that he had begun to hyperventilate. Unmindful of the strain on his still-healing body, he spun about to face Grant. "He'd know where Avon was. It was rumored that they had a base."
Grant didn't respond; he just waited expectantly.
Blake turned slowly back to Tarrant, recognizing that he was talking as if the pilot wasn't in the room. Subconsciously, he had perceived the total lack of response to their presence from the slender figure on the bed. As Blake approached Tarrant, Grant began to explain. "He can't see or hear you. It makes communication damned difficult. And his lack of cooperation makes it near impossible."
"Lack of cooperation?"
Grant moved closer and poked lightly at Tarrant's shoulder. The response was immediate. The fear vanished to be replaced with defiant hostility. "The consensus is that he thinks he's still a captive of the Federation. We haven't been able to convince him otherwise. Consequently, we haven't learned so much as his name and I doubt he'd be willing to lead us to Orac."
"Which you need," Blake reminded. An idea birthed in his mind and left him uncomfortable that he could even conceive it. But given the loss of his base and comrades, given Avon's action, precipitated by this young man's words, the desire for revenge was understandable if not admirable.
"Well, we haven't the time to pursue it with him. The base is pretty short-handed at the moment and he's as stubborn a boy as I've known. Avalon's hoping that if we leave him alone, he'll begin to trust us...if he doesn't starve to death first."
"I'll work with him," Blake volunteered, surprising himself with the offer. "But I can't promise success."
"Understood."
"And Grant," Blake cautioned, "it would be best if Tarrant didn't learn my identity. Our brief acquaintance wasn't amicable."
"Rest today; start tomorrow," Grant said. "Avalon wouldn't be happy if you relapsed." He gestured Blake from the room. "There's something ironic about his not trusting us."
"And that is?"
"It was one of our explosives that caused his injuries."
Blake spent most of the next two days observing the man he had branded "Avon's pilot." Somehow the deception he planned was more palatable in light of that relationship, because Blake's conscience couldn't deny that his own actions had fueled Tarrant's misunderstanding. But while Tarrant may have been innocent, Avon's precipitous attack wasn't. As "Avon's pilot," Tarrant shared Avon's guilt.
Tarrant's world was necessarily limited by his handicaps. Although he probably expected monitoring as indigenous to a Federation prison, he appeared only to have the strength to maintain a brazen posture when he was sure that someone was in the room. At other times, his mood varied from resigned to hopeless.
Food was served regularly, which the pilot tended to mostly ignore, barely eating enough to sustain life. He seldom ventured from the bed and when he did it was only to use the sanitary facilities. Though shaving was beyond him, he showered semi-regularly and clumsily applied a depilatory to discourage the growth of facial hair. Apparently, even in his depressed state (and Blake easily recognized that condition), ex-Space Captain Del Tarrant couldn't entirely abandon military fastidiousness.
The morning of the third day, Blake entered Tarrant's room to find him fumbling with the bedding which had tangled into a twisted lump. With increasing frustration, the young man tried to straighten and re-anchor the sheets and blanket. Instinctively, Blake moved in to help. Tarrant was unaware of him until their shoulders bumped. He started, stumbling back, then, "lost" in the middle of the room, he froze. Blake ignored him, finished the bed-making, moved to a chair, and waited.
For a while Tarrant stood there, the fingers of his left hand running nervously through his hair. He looked haggard, possibly close to breaking. Then his eyes darted about the room, squinted half closed, causing Blake to wonder if his sight was coming back. But when he passed over Blake's position without pause, he rejected that possibility.
Heaving a sigh, Tarrant stretched out his hands and began shuffling forward. A low table tripped him up and he stumbled but recovered without falling. Eventually, he found a wall and felt his way back to the bed, sinking into its folds with obvious relief. Sprawled on his stomach, he soon fell asleep.
Usually Blake left when Tarrant napped, but this time he stayed, pondering on the man's predicament, wondering what he thought in his dark, silent, lonely world. Covering his ears with his hands, Blake closed his eyes and stood. Even knowing the sensory deprivation was momentary, he felt slightly afraid, more than a little disoriented. A muffled noise drew his attention and he gladly abandoned his pose to explore the interruption.
Del Grant was halfway into the room when Blake blinked open his eyes. Three plates of food were precariously balanced on a tray in his left hand. "Lunch,"
he announced. "I thought I'd find you here. Any luck with the boy?"
"No. I really haven't attempted contact. I've been observing him and trying to decide how to approach him. Just now, I was trying to get his rather limited perspective of the world."
Straddling a chair, Grant chuckled. "So that's what you were doing? Eat," he prodded, "you could use fattening up."
"So could he." Blake nodded towards the bed. "Have you considered force feeding?"
"The meds have and will if it comes to that. They scan him every other day, I know. But they're hoping to avoid it. Afraid the procedure will just convince him that he's in enemy hands."
A beeper sounded from Grant's belt. He flipped a switch and stood, holding his plate. "That will be Avalon returning from Odin Major. I better run. Good luck."
"I never depend on luck," Blake called after him. He stared at Tarrant for a long minute before deciding to attempt contact.
Moving to the bed, Blake sat on the edge, level with the man's waist. Tarrant stirred restlessly in response to the disturbance. He tossed left then right, bumping against Blake's bulk. Meeting the unexpected resistance caused his hands to lash out. Blake grabbed the boy's left wrist and pinned it to the bed. He began tracing letters in the palm; E-A-T over and over again. When Tarrant couldn't break the hold, he started to punch at Blake with his right hand. Despite his semi-starved condition, the blows were forceful enough to hurt. Twisting away, Blake jumped free, barely resisting the urge to fight back.
"I won't tell you anything," Tarrant yelled, pushing to a sitting position. He flailed out, searching for the intruder. When that proved unsuccessful, he began checking the length of the bed. After exploring half its length, he paused in his erratic pawing. He touched the bed again, this time gently, smoothing along its surface. He had just realized that the bed was made, Blake determined. Taking advantage of Tarrant's temporary distraction, Blake grabbed his wrist again to spell E-A-T in his palm, springing back as soon as the "T" was completed.
"No," Tarrant said loudly. "Leave me alone."
"I should," Blake answered. "But I need something from you. You are going to have to talk to me sometime and I think it's important to show you how determined I am."
Striding back to the bed, Blake reached down and grasped Tarrant's upper arm. He yanked him to his feet, surprised at the lightness of the very tall body, and dragged him across the room. Using both of his own hands, Blake forced Tarrant's palm to the door release. It slid open, admitting a slight breeze from the outer corridor. Blake pulled Tarrant through the opening. Then he released him.
Tarrant turned slowly around, arms outstretched, murder in his eyes. "You better stay away," he warned.
Blake grabbed a wrist again and palmed F-R-E-E.
To the rebel's surprise, Tarrant threw back his head and laughed. "Free? I'm not that naive. Where would I go?" The laugh bubbled loose again, taking on an
hysterical edge that almost turned to a sob before the boy whispered, "Where...where?"
It made Blake nervous and he took the pilot's arm again, gently this time, and led him toward the table. Tarrant struggled weakly, but didn't really try to break the hold, allowing Blake to guide him into the straight-backed chair.
"You have a choice, Tarrant," Blake said, picking up the untouched plate of food and waving it beneath his nose. "You can eat this or wear it."
The man stubbornly ignored the utensil Blake placed in his hand and wouldn't open his mouth when a spoon of food was put to it. Unceremoniously, the rebel leader picked up the plate and overturned it on top of Tarrant's curly head. The pilot's dumbfounded expression in response was very satisfying. Without further consideration, Blake retrieved his own half-finished meal and left the room.