Blake's 7: Criminal Intent

by Trevor Baxendale

‘Can we move in closer?’ Jenna asked Cally.

  ‘What for? We’re well within teleport range. Any closer and we may trigger automatic sensor scans. At the moment they don’t even know we’re here.’

  ‘They must do. We fired on them, disabled their engines. They may not know who we are or where we are, but they certainly know we’re here.’

  ‘It’s an old space fighter strategy. They lie still, shut down all major systems. Lure the enemy closer.’

  It was a possibility. Jenna recalled used similar tricks in her smuggling days. ‘You think they’re playing dead?’

  ‘I think they want us closer.’

  ‘But it’s a prison ship – a cargo transporter. They can’t have any kind of serious armament.’

  ‘Do we know that for sure? We don’t know anything about Kilus Kroe. We didn’t know there was a contingent of mutoids on board. We don’t even know what’s happened to Blake and the others. We’ve had no signal, no communication, nothing. What if it’s a trap?’

  Jenna looked back at the distant speck. ‘What if it’s not? What if Blake needs our help?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Blake could feel the blood congealing beneath his nose. A dark red crust was forming on his upper lip. The bones of his face – skull, jaw, everything – hurt like hell. He could barely stand, but he forced himself upright. Back straight, chest out, chin up. He made his eyes focus. On either side of him stood a mutoid, impassive cadaver-soldiers of the Federation, and, just this once, he felt grateful for them. Each had hold of one arm, and although he was trying not to let it seem obvious, they were helping to support him.

  It was all he could do to stay conscious and keep looking straight ahead. He allowed the mutoids to walk him forwards. His knees felt weak and he didn’t think he could manage it without them. He couldn’t tell whether they knew this or not, and he actually didn’t care. Their black-gloved hands dug into his biceps like claws; mutoids were fantastically strong but he welcomed the pain. It was helping him to stay conscious.

  They walked him along the gangway running down the centre of Pod Two. Distantly, he could hear his boots clanking along the metal. His footsteps were erratic and his left leg was dragging numbly. Every second step was a metallic scrape.

  The mutoids paused in front of the airlock to Pod One and Blake tried to catch his breath. He had a vague idea what awaited him on the other side. He knew it would be an ordeal; he just hoped it would not be a fatal one. He wasn’t worried. It was too late for that. All he had left was hope.

  The airlock hissed open and Blake was dragged inside.

  This pod was different to all the others. Instead of the central gangway separating two recesses for the prisoners, there was just one smooth metal floor and a centrally placed chair. The chair was large, probably made from some kind of plasteel by the look of the blue-grey sheen, with wide, blocky arms and a high back. It did not look comfortable. It reminded Blake of the pictures he had seen in barbaric history holovids, where murderers had once been sentenced to death in chairs like this: strapped down and wired to a massive electric current.

  But there was another aspect to this chair. It could be mistaken for an instrument of execution, or even torture, but there was no denying that it was entirely reminiscent of something else: a throne.

  This notion was supported by the figure sitting in the chair – reclining, almost, like a king.

  Blake stood in front of the chair, still held up by the mutoids. He was feeling a little better now, but he faked continued weakness. It gave him a chance to study the man in the throne – chair – in more detail than he had previously.

  He was tall, muscular, fit. The hands that rested so casually on the ends of both armrests were large and powerful. His head, too, was big: the skull was clearly large enough to contain a formidable brain – something, after all, had to provide the powerful intelligence behind the dark, recessed eyes. They glittered like gemstones, a hint of redness in them like garnets. The head was completely bald, not just shaven but totally hairless, with no trace of eyebrows or eyelashes. The effect was unnerving; like a baby’s head on a man’s body, with eyes full of determined cruelty rather than innocent wonder.

  ‘So you’re Blake,’ said the man, matter-of-factly. The voice was cultured, plain, but with the faintest of growls. It was a voice that could seduce – or chill the blood.

  ‘And you, presumably, are Kilus Kroe,’ Blake replied. He forced calmness into his own voice, but it was difficult to ignore the pounding of his heart and the numbness in his legs. His lips smarted when he spoke.

  Kilus Kroe smiled but said nothing.

  ‘Would you mind telling me exactly what is going on here?’ Blake asked.

  Kroe raised a long, thick finger and waved it slowly from side to side. ‘Not yet. The rule here is: I ask questions, you answer immediately, or one of the two “ladies” either side of you will break bones. Understand?’

  ‘You don’t frighten me,’ said Blake. He took a moment to make sure he was standing up as straight as he could before continuing.

  Kroe would have raised an eyebrow if he had possessed one. Instead the skin around his left eye simply stretched and the eye glistened attentively in its shadow. Again there was the hint of red, like the tiny glowing ember that starts a fire.

  Blake carried on. ‘There are men and women dead and dying back there because your mutoids opened fire without due cause. Most of the prisoners were unarmed. It was nothing less than a massacre. That’s why I’m asking you what is going on. What, precisely, was the point?’ Blake could feel the bones in his face aching as he spoke. His vision was beginning to blur a little, but he kept his eyes fixed as firmly as he could on the man in the chair.

  ‘Firstly,’ said Kroe, ‘no-one is dying. Every injured person has now been shot dead. The massacre was necessary in order for me to establish immediate and unequivocal power over every person who remained alive. A brutal policy, you may think, but undeniably effective.’

  Brutal indeed, thought Blake. Avon had been hit, he was sure of it. When the mutoids opened fire with their autoblasters, there was only a split second between the stillness and the chaos. It was a like a switch had been flicked and the entire ship had been plunged into carnage. The air was full of the stink of smoke and blood and roasting flesh. It was a smell that Blake was all too familiar with, one that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. In this case, he remembered hurling himself backwards, crashing into Avon and knocking him to the floor. Blake had no idea how he had avoided being hit by any of the blaster bolts, but he was certain Avon had been. When they hit the floor Avon had been utterly still. Blake had lain over him, trying to protect him, instantly aware that Avon was completely helpless. He knew then that Avon must have received a terrible, possibly fatal, wound. As the smoke rolled over them, Blake had tried to move. The massacre lasted mere seconds, but the death toll was huge. He had no idea and no way of knowing what had happened to Vila or Gan.

  Eventually he had been dragged away and beaten up by the mutoids who now stood on either side of him. They had taken his weapon and his teleport bracelet.

  Every injured person has now been shot dead. That had to include Avon. But what about Vila and Gan?

  ‘For clarification,’ said Kilus Kroe, ‘this is my pod. Pod Two has been emptied. The remaining prisoners have all been herded into Pod Three. The bodies of the dead are in Pod Four.’

  ‘How many are there left alive?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  Blake swallowed bile. ‘Out of sixty?’

  ‘Not bad work for just five mutoids in such a confined space. But I think you’ll agree that the survivors are now quiescent.’

  ‘But… what for?’ Blake asked the question through numb lips.

  ‘Order, for one thing, as I explained. Also, these men and women are all Federation prisoners. Criminals, in other words. They were lucky to face deportation rather than execution. Those who survive now should consider th
emselves doubly lucky.’

  ‘You sicken me.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘What about the crew?’

  ‘What about them? Three Civil Administration officers in the transport ship. They are isolated.’

  ‘They will have called for assistance. Federation pursuit ships will already be on their way here.’

  ‘I doubt it. And even if they had called for help, that doesn’t concern me.’ Kroe smiled coldly. ‘You see, I’m a serving Federation Officer myself, acting on the personal orders of Supreme Commander Servalan.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Response signal received from Space Command Headquarters,’ announced Kiera.

  Travis turned instantly. ‘Well?’

  ‘Communications computer advises: it is with deep regret that Supreme Commander Servalan is unavailable at this present time. Please try again later.’

  Travis’s bionic hand curled into a fist and it crashed down onto the armrest of his command chair, denting the plasteel. He sat and fumed for a minute before telling Kiera to abandon the subspace communications signal. He wanted answers from Servalan herself, and it was clear that he wasn’t going to get any now. There was no way to tell whether her unavailability was deliberate or not, but there was very little that Servalan did that was not deliberate.

  Travis had a shrewd idea what the answers to his questions would be, anyway. He was merely seeking confirmation, and, if he was honest, confrontation. He felt angry and humiliated. But those feelings only made him more determined to succeed. Those feelings had made him the man he was today.

  Servalan knew it. That fact helped feed the anger, because Travis resented being used like this. He was fully aware of it, but there was nothing he could do. His only hope was to rise above the manipulation and succeed in spite of it. He would go back to Space Command and stride into the Supreme Commander’s office then rub her perfectly formed nose in it.

  ‘ETA?’

  ‘One minute,’ Kiera said.

  Travis stood up, excitement running like electricity through his limbs. He could feel the power building up in the laseron destroyer built into his hand.

  ‘Reduce speed,’ he ordered. ‘Time Distort point Five. Inform Captain Xos. I want to see what’s happening before they know we’re here.’

  ‘INFORMATION,’ said Zen.

  Cally and Jenna looked up sharply at the huge computer interface. The angular lights pulsed calmly behind the screen.

  ‘Well, what is it, Zen?’ asked Jenna.

  ‘LONG-RANGE SENSORS HAVE DETECTED FEDERATION PURSUIT SHIPS ON INTERCEPT VECTOR.’

  Cally checked the flight instruments. ‘Two marks… just coming into range.’

  ‘They’ll be on us in seconds,’ Jenna realised, crossing to her own flight station. ‘Zen, stand by for evasive manoeuvres.’

  ‘CONFIRMED.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Cally. ‘They may be coming for the prison ship. Maybe it’s sent out some sort of distress signal. Or maybe it’s some sort of local patrol doing a fly-past…?’

  ‘Don’t be so naïve,’ said Jenna.

  ‘We can’t just run. Blake and the others are still –’

  ‘We’re not running – I just want Zen to stand by.’ Jenna looked up at the computer. ‘Keep main engines online, Zen, and the force wall too.’

  ‘CONFIRMED.’

  Cally toggled a control in front of her. ‘Blake! Can you read me? This is Liberator calling Blake. Come in, Blake!’ She cycled quickly through the other frequencies. ‘Avon, do you read? Vila? Gan? Anyone?’

  ‘If we stay here the pursuit ships will see us,’ Jenna said.

  ‘INFORMATION: PURSUIT SHIPS HAVE NOW REDUCED SPEED TO STANDARD BY ZERO POINT ONE.’

  Jenna frowned. ‘That’s holding speed. They’re scoping us out – trying to see what the situation is before they rush in.’

  ‘Only two ships, Zen?’ Cally asked.

  ‘CONFIRMED.’

  ‘Pursuit ships normally adopt a trident formation, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jenna said. ‘That might give us an edge if it comes to a fight. Hopefully it won’t go that far.’

  ‘EVASION MANOUEVRES CALCULATED,’ Zen announced serenely. ‘FORCE WALLS PRIMED.’

  ‘All right, Zen. Notify as soon as the pursuit ships come into active sensor range or make any unexpected moves…’

  ‘CONFIRMED.’

  ‘Liberator to Blake. Come in, Blake. Are you receiving me?’ Cally flicked through the communications channels. ‘Avon? Gan? Is there anyone there? Vila?’

  *

  ‘Vila!’ Gan hauled him to his feet like a child picking up a rag doll. ‘Vila! It’s me – Gan!’

  Vila’s eyes slowly came into focus. ‘Gan? Oh my head… what happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure. The mutoids opened fire. We’re lucky to be alive.’

  Vila rubbed his head. There was a nasty cut on his scalp and his fingers came away smeared with blood. ‘Oh no! I’m leaking!’

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Vila…’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s leaking.’

  ‘There were people here who were badly injured, Vila. They might have survived – except the mutoids killed them all. They checked every prisoner and executed anyone who was hurt.’

  Vila clamped a hand over his scalp. ‘I’m fine, really I am. Never felt better.’ He looked quickly around them. He and Gan were standing at the back on one of the prison pods. It was very crowded. Nearly thirty people were crammed into a space designed to hold twenty. Most of the prisoners were sitting on benches in the recesses, or lying slumped against the bulkhead walls. A few were still standing. Everyone looked pale and dazed. Vila recognised the signs: intense shock. He did another quick scan of the prisoners and then turned back to Gan.

  ‘How did I get in here? Where are Blake and Avon and Cally? Have you tried to contact the Liberator?’

  Gan held a finger quickly to his lips. ‘Not so loud. There are two mutoids on guard just outside the airlock to Pod Two.’

  ‘What are mutoids doing here? I thought we only needed to deal with a few Federation guards!’

  ‘They were working with Kilus Kroe.’

  Vila paled. ‘I’d forgotten about him! Oh, I feel faint… hold me, Gan.’

  ‘I already am.’

  ‘What about the Liberator? Why hasn’t Jenna teleported us back?’ Vila checked his wrist, but his bracelet was missing.

  Gan held up his own wrist. His teleport bracelet was still there, but no longer intact. A wide crack ran through it and the communications panel was defunct. ‘Mine got smashed in the stampede. Yours must have slipped off in the confusion.’

  Vila massaged his wrist ruefully. ‘Wish I had great big fists like yours.’

  ‘You really don’t,’ Gan told him with a sad smile. Then his face darkened. ‘Either way we’ve lost all contact with the Liberator, and Blake and Avon. I don’t know what happened to Cally. I saw her calling the Liberator but nothing after that. We’re on our own for the time being.’

  Vila groaned and sank to his knees. Gan pulled him back up. ‘Keep standing. If they think you’re injured…’

  ‘I remember now,’ Vila said quietly. ‘I was trying to get away. There was a stand-off. Everyone was threatening to shoot each other – and then Kilus Kroe came in with his mutoids and they shot us all instead.’

  ‘Did you see what happened to Blake and Avon?’

  ‘No.’ Vila closed his eyes tightly. ‘I… I was already running for the airlock. I wanted to get into Pod Three…’

  ‘Which is where we are now.’

  ‘All of us?’

  ‘All who survived, at least.’

  Another man pushed his way through the prisoners milling around at the back of the pod. Vila recognised him as one of the men Blake had spoken to when they had first arrived.

  ‘Melson, isn’t it?’

  The man nodded. ‘That’s right. I’m glad I�
��ve found you. Drena and Zake are sitting back there. They’re pretty shaken up. No-one expected anything like this.’

  ‘I can assure you it wasn’t intended,’ Gan said. ‘Any idea what’s going on?’

  ‘Have you seen anything of Blake or Avon?’ Vila asked.

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid,’ said Melson. ‘I think Avon was shot down in the first salvo. Blake fell soon after. That’s all I know. The mutoids killed anyone who was wounded – including Trask, the Federation guard.’

  ‘I just don’t understand it,’ said Gan, frowning.

  ‘It looks like the mutoids are controlled by Kilus Kroe – the man in Pod One,’ Melson explained. ‘As to what he’s doing here, or what happens next – no-one knows.’

  Vila looked from Gan to Melson. ‘So what now?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘So what now?’ Blake asked. ‘You’ve caught me in your trap. What next?’

  Kilus Kroe smiled. ‘Trap? A disappointingly small word, Blake, but it’s appropriate.’

  Blake did his best to hide the seething fury he felt surging through his body, but it wasn’t easy. The sudden tension that froze every muscle in his body must have been visible – a stiffening of his jaw, the flaring of his nostrils perhaps, but just enough to alert the mutoids standing either side of him. Each brought their autoblasters to bear, covering him from point blank range.

  ‘You won’t succeed,’ Blake managed to growl.

  Kroe laughed. ‘I already have! Too late for bluster, I’m afraid.’ He got to his feet in one smooth motion and stared into Blake’s eyes. ‘I have to admit I’m disappointed, Blake. I’d heard so much about you. Never mind.’

  Blake pressed his lips tight together, not daring himself to speak. The blood was pounding in his head like a hammer.

  And something was pounding beneath his feet. He could feel it through his boots. He didn’t look down, because he didn’t want to break the stare with Kilus Kroe or give him any reason to think he was beaten, but the man wasn’t fooled. The noise reverberated around the pod, the metal floor juddering beneath their feet.

  ‘Mice?’ Blake asked.