Blake's 7: Criminal Intent

by Trevor Baxendale

  Zola couldn’t believe what was happening. Norton and Garran had reacted instantly, the trip to Space City forgotten. All Zola had wanted was for the two men to agree to cancel the short cut. Now that all looked harmless and stupid compared to… what? What, exactly, was going on?

  She stared in confusion at the supplementary control boards. Alarm lights flashed insistently. For a long while Zola felt as though she just couldn’t think. Hundreds of different thoughts bottlenecked in her mind.

  ‘Slingshot’s aborted,’ Garran said, ‘but we’re still travelling at Time Distort speed. I’m trimming all forward velocity but we’re effectively out of control until I can get the engines back online.’ Finally his fist crashed down on the armrest of his pilot’s chair. ‘What the hell hit us, Norton?’

  ‘Scanning this space sector,’ Norton said, jabbing at the controls with furious intent. ‘No sign of anything in the immediate area. Wait – what’s this?’ An icon flashed on the edge of a display screen. ‘Another ship. We’re under attack.’

  Garran nodded. ‘Could be pirates.’

  ‘They wouldn’t attack a prison ship,’ Norton argued.

  ‘Space Rats, then. They’re stupid enough to attack anything.’

  ‘Whoever it is, we’re sitting ducks like this.’

  ‘We’re not exactly capable of firing back, either.’

  Suddenly the decision logjam in Zola’s head cleared, and she knew exactly what had to be done. ‘We must alert Space Command,’ she said, reaching for the communications array.

  Norton swung around in his seat and grabbed her wrist. ‘Wait.’

  Garran had turned around as well. His eyes bored into hers. ‘There’s no need for that. Not yet.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Zola said. ‘This is a Federation spaceship and we’ve been attacked. Alert Space Command!’

  ‘If we put a call into Space Command they’ll know our exact location,’ said Norton. ‘They’ll want to know what we’re doing in the Zotral system.’

  ‘Unauthorised course deviation, remember,’ Garran said. ‘Won’t look good on our service records. Or yours.’

  Zola thought about this for a few seconds. Her heart was racing. She didn’t want any kind of black mark on her record, but this was all wrong. ‘We’ve been fired upon,’ she said as calmly and as clearly as she could. ‘We have to call it in.’

  As Zola reached again for the deep space communicator, Norton pulled out a small pistol and aimed it at her. ‘That’s far enough, Zola.’

  ‘What are you doing? Put the gun away, Norton!’

  ‘You’re the junior officer here, Zola,’ said Garran tersely. He turned back to his flight controls as if the fact that his co-pilot was aiming a gun at the junior navigator was all part of normal procedure. ‘You’d do better to remember your place.’

  Zola stared at the ugly black muzzle of the gun. Norton’s hand was white with tension but the gun didn’t waver. Slowly, Zola sat back in her seat.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Norton.

  ‘Tell her about the prisoner in Pod One,’ Garran said.

  Zola frowned. All this was moving too quickly for her now. ‘What prisoner?’

  ‘A special prisoner,’ said Norton. ‘Category Alpha Zed.’

  ‘An Alpha Zed?’ Zola repeated, frowning. ‘I didn’t know anything about this. I was told this was a routine assignment. Who is the Alpha Zed prisoner?’

  ‘You don’t have the clearance to know that,’ Garran told her. ‘I’m breaking all the rules telling you what I have told you.’

  ‘It’s a bit late to worry about breaking the rules now,’ spat Zola vehemently. ‘We’re stuck in the middle of nowhere on an unauthorised detour with a secret A-Zed prisoner on board? You two were planning a jolly to Space City, and then pulled a gun on a junior officer because she happened to question whether or not the fact that this Federation vessel has been fired upon by an unknown aggressor in deep space should be reported to Space Command.’ Zola took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I think I’d better be cleared pretty damn fast, Captain.’

  For a few seconds all that could be heard was the hum and tick of the automatic flight controls.

  Then Norton said, ‘It’s not that big a deal, Zola. You’re overreacting.’

  ‘Really? You’re the one waving a gun around.’

  Norton licked his lips and stowed the blaster in its concealed holster. ‘All right, so let’s calm things down a bit, shall we?’

  ‘Be quiet.’ Zola turned to Garran. ‘You’re the senior officer here. You tell me.’

  ‘I’ve already told you: Pod One contains a Category Alpha Zed prisoner. Special grading, fast-tracked for deportation to K5. Obviously, it is supposed to be top secret.’

  ‘You won’t let me contact Space Command. There’s only us here. So carry on.’

  Garran spread his hands. ‘There is only one prisoner in Pod One and he has to be kept separate from all the other prisoners.’

  ‘One pod for just one man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mean he’s in solitary confinement?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  TEN

  Pod Three contained twenty low-level prisoners with no hope and no chance of escape. As Trask, the senior guard on duty had said, it wasn’t so much a case of keeping order, it was more like babysitting. The prisoners didn’t even deserve to be called criminals. Pod Three was full of the sort of pseudo-intellectual malcontents and dead-end delinquents that were ruining the Federation. Nuisances and irritants… but not criminals.

  Trask was leaning against the bulkhead, his blaster rifle hanging from his shoulder. The prisoners were all looking down at their feet, murmuring their pointless conversations to each other. Trask didn’t mind them talking. It was too much effort to keep them quiet.

  Kazlov strolled across the central gangway. He was young and keen and eager to patrol backwards and forwards, and Trask was happy to let him.

  But even the young and eager can get bored. Kazlov sauntered over to Trask and let out such a long sigh that the lenses of his helmet nearly misted up. ‘Is there much longer to go? I don’t think I can stand much more of this. Talk about boredom.’

  Trask smiled. ‘As soon as we complete the first leg of the journey we can switch on the stasis fields. This lot won’t even notice the difference. Then we can get some kip.’

  ‘I don’t know why they won’t let us switch the stasis fields on when we blast off,’ Kazlov grumbled.

  ‘Too expensive. Waste of power. They do everything on the cheap, Civil Admin, you know that. With just two guards per pod and the minimal use of the stasis fields they save a fat load of credits that can be better used keeping the Supreme Commander in new frocks.’

  Kazlov nearly choked. ‘Be careful how you talk about… about things like that!’

  Trask chuckled. ‘No-one’s bothered what we say or do on this trip. Relax.’

  Kazlov rolled his shoulders and tipped his head from side to side. ‘That’s the problem. I’m too relaxed. Look at them…’ He gestured at the rows of prisoners sat in the troughs to either side of the gangway. ‘Have you ever seen such a hopeless bunch? Hardly fit to be called criminals.’

  A few of the prisoners raised tired-looking eyes and looked despondently at the troopers. Trask fancied that in one or two of the forlorn expressions he could see a kind of shame. He sincerely hoped so.

  It gradually dawned on him that something wasn’t right.

  One of the prisoners, a tall, clumsy-looking fool with a twisted arm, was staring past the two troopers. It took a moment for Trask to realise that the prisoner was actually looking at the airlock hatchway to the rearmost pod. In that same instant Trask saw the indicator light on the airlock switch from red to green. There was a soft click and the hatch began to open.

  There was no good reason for the communicating airlock between the pods to be opened during flight. Trask was a Federation trooper and well trained; he responded instantly, pulling the
blaster rifle at his side up into the firing position while, at the same time, dropping to one knee.

  The door opened fully and a man stepped through, holding a weapon. Trask aimed and fired.

  *

  Blake saw the threat instantly as he stepped through the narrow airlock into Pod Three: a Federation trooper to his immediate left, dropping to one knee and firing off a blaster rifle. Blake felt a sudden, intense heat but he was already shooting his own weapon, guided purely by instinct. He heard the unearthly howl of the Liberator gun and watched the Federation man lurch backwards with an agonised curse.

  ‘Drop your gun,’ said a voice from the centre of the pod.

  The second trooper had one arm crooked around a prisoner’s neck, a blaster pistol rammed against his head. The black skull of the trooper’s helmet showed nothing of the man within.

  Blake stalled. He could still feel the burn of the first trooper’s shot and there were stars flashing in his vision. There was no way he could stop the Federation man from blowing the brains of his hostage halfway across the pod.

  ‘Not another step,’ the trooper said. His voice was steady.

  The prisoner, held tightly in his grip, did not move. He was powerless, and expecting the worst, just as he had been all of his short life.

  ‘I said drop your gun,’ the trooper repeated clearly. The respirator lenses stared implacably at Blake.

  Slowly Blake lowered his weapon. As he did so, a bright ring of light appeared on the far side of the pod and coalesced into Cally. She pressed the tip of her gun against the trooper’s helmet and fired at point blank range. The trooper fell backwards, dead.

  ‘Good timing,’ Blake said. He leant against the bulkhead and pressed a hand against the burning wound on his arm.

  ‘I got tired of waiting on the Liberator,’ Cally replied.

  ‘I’m glad.’

  She holstered her weapon and checked his arm. ‘You’re injured.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You were careless,’ said Avon, moving past them into the pod. He walked across the pod to the first trooper, who was lying on the deck. He was injured but alive.

  ‘Wait,’ Blake said through clenched teeth. There was a sharp pain in his left shoulder as Cally inspected his wound. ‘Don’t shoot him.’

  ‘He’s still alive,’ Avon reported.

  ‘I know, that’s what I mean,’ Blake said. ‘Don’t shoot.’

  The trooper lay on the floor, looking up at Avon, straight into the barrel of his gun.

  ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘You singed him,’ said Avon, indicating the blaster scorch on the trooper’s tunic. His tone was disapproving, suggesting that if it had been him, the shot would have been fatal.

  ‘Then we’re even,’ Blake remarked. He rubbed his own shoulder ruefully.

  ‘Fortunately there is no serious damage,’ Cally reported. ‘The shot has put a crease in your skin. A wound patch will deal with it for now.’ She finished applying a field dressing. ‘You’re lucky I brought some medical provisions.’

  ‘Thanks. Gan’s in the first pod with another injured trooper. There’s a woman with him, a doctor I think, called Drena. See what you can do to help.’

  Cally nodded and swept through to the rear pod.

  ‘That’s two Federation prisoners so far, Blake,’ Avon said. ‘We can’t allow for any more.’

  ‘What do you want to do? Shoot him in cold blood?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  ‘It’s not,’ said a voice, coming between them. It was Melson, aiming a Federation rifle at the fallen guard. Zake was with him. His knuckles were white he was gripping a blaster gun so tightly.

  ‘Zake and I will look after him,’ Melson said. ‘You two do what you have to.’

  Avon holstered his own weapon, and moved away.

  ‘I don’t want him killed,’ Blake said to Melson. ‘Is that clear?’

  Melson nodded. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘It’s not you I’m worried about,’ Blake said. ‘It’s your nervous friend.’

  Zake licked his lips and gripped his gun. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I won’t shoot. Unless I have to.’ He glared down at the fallen guard, a hard smirk on his lips.

  Melson prodded the trooper. ‘So what’s your name, trooper?’

  ‘Trask.’

  ‘Take off your helmet, Trask – slowly, though, because as you can see my friend Zake here is very nervous and he’s not used to handling weapons.’

  At first the trooper didn’t move, but when Zake jabbed him roughly with the muzzle of the rifle again, he complied. The face beneath the helmet was sweat-streaked but flushed. The eyes were full of contempt. ‘You’re all stark, staring mad,’ he repeated. ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ said Zake. ‘They’re taking over this ship. They’re setting everyone free!’

  Blake turned to the rest of the prisoners in the pod. Twenty anxious faces looked up at him. They weren’t the faces of criminals. They were broken people – a collection of half-lived lives that had been ground into submission, threatened, humiliated and pushed until something inside each and every one of them had fractured. Perhaps some of them had tried to fight back. Others may have simply argued, or dissented, or just muttered something under their breath at a Federation guard. But whatever spark they had shown had been ruthlessly extinguished.

  Now these broken people were staring up at Blake with eyes that still had fear in them, and very little hope. He took a deep breath.

  ‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘We’re here to set you free. Those who want to join us, can. Those who want to just disappear from Federation control – well, you can do that, too.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ said the trooper, Trask. He was sitting on the deck, propped up against a wall with Zake’s gun pressed against his head, but he was addressing the prisoners. They were used to his voice. Blake and the others were simply strangers. The trooper was a familiar presence.

  Melson glared at the fallen guard. ‘Be very careful what you say next,’ he said. ‘My mate here is not in the best of moods.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to say to these people,’ Blake told the guard.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ Trask urged, still speaking to the prisoners. ‘They’re rebels. Armed raiders. They’re not interested in y–’

  A heavy kick from Melson silenced him. ‘That’s quite enough from you, scumbag.’

  ‘Blake,’ said Avon. ‘We should move on. The next pod…’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Trask twisted around to see what Blake and Avon were doing. They were examining the hatchway connecting to the next pod. Vila joined them with a toolkit and set to work on the airlock.

  Trask turned to Melson in disbelief. ‘They’re setting everyone free?’ he repeated. ‘Seriously?’

  Melson nodded. ‘Pod by pod, they’re taking this ship.’

  Trask simply threw back his head and laughed.

  ELEVEN

  Cally found Gan in Pod Four, his bulky frame kneeling by a badly injured Federation trooper.

  ‘This is Drena,’ Gan said, introducing her to a thin-faced woman with her hair tied back. ‘She’s got a medical background but it’s in neurosurgery.’

  Drena looked apologetic. ‘I’m really not much use with this sort of thing…’ The trooper was lying on her back on the walkway. There was a pool of blood underneath her shoulders. It was congealing, sticking the black one-piece uniform to the metal. ‘I’m all right when it comes to mucking about with brains. Not so good with battlefield wounds though.’

  Gan shot Drena a look. He was thinking about the limiter implanted in his own brain, Cally could tell. The limiter that had been put there by the Federation to prevent him from killing. Cally could sense the confusion in Gan’s mind: could Drena help him? Or had she, or someone like her, been responsible?

  Cally placed a hand on Gan’s arm. ‘Let me.’

  Gan fr
owned but sat back as Cally leaned over the stricken trooper. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  The Federation woman stared up at her without speaking.

  ‘Do they even have names?’ Gan spoke with an edge in his voice. By nature a gentle man, he had a giant’s strength. The two things were not always easy to manage. And he loathed the Federation and all it stood for. The trooper licked her dry lips. ‘Dort,’ she said. Her voice was slurred; Gan had already given her several analgesic hypo-shots to ease the pain. ‘The name’s Dort.’

  The surgeon prisoner, Drena, caught Cally’s eye and gave a minute shake of her head. Dort wasn’t going to make it, that much was obvious.

  ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’ she said.

  ‘I think you already know the answer to that,’ said Cally. She didn’t like to see anyone in pain, but the woman’s uniform, and everything it represented, repelled her to the core.

  Dort closed her eyes. ‘Talk to me,’ she said quietly.

  Cally didn’t know what to say. Her mind whirled for a second. And then she heard herself asking, ‘Why did you become a Federation trooper? What made you into… this?’

  ‘I never had a choice.’

  ‘Everyone has a choice.’

  ‘You know that’s not true,’ Dort said. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘Not when you’re part of the system. We’re graded and channelled and selected from infancy. I was sucked into the Administration with all the rest. Passed the intelligence tests and the aptitude exams. It doesn’t take them long to filter you into the military. They need a lot of troopers.’

  Cally nodded. ‘Yes, they do.’ The analgesics were loosening her tongue as well as killing the pain. Dort couldn’t help talking now, although her breathing was getting shallower all the time. Cally wondered how long the girl had left and thought it could be no more than minutes.

  ‘My parents… were so proud,’ Dort whispered.

  ‘Proud?’

  ‘I was the first in our family… first to make it out of the Civil Administration. Uniform and rank. My father cried.’

  Cally bit her lip but said nothing. The trooper’s face was unnaturally white, her lips grey.