Blake's 7: Criminal Intent

by Trevor Baxendale

  ‘Not quite. My mutoids were in stasis in the hold below. One of them did not survive the journey – a stasis leak or something. Too all intents and purposes she’s dead, but still moving. She’s been driven mad with bloodlust. What you can hear is the creature trying to get out through the hatchway in the floor behind you.’

  ‘Blood lust?’

  ‘She needs plasma – or at least she thinks she does. It’s too late now. She’s barely more than a zombie.’

  They listened to the mad pounding for a few more seconds. Blake envisaged a pathetic, black-clad mutoid raining blows on the underside of the hatch. Her fists would be bruised and bloodied by now.

  ‘You should give her some plasma,’ he told Kroe.

  ‘Should I? Why?’

  ‘It’s the humane thing to do.’

  ‘But she’s not human… and I’m not renowned for my humane acts.’

  ‘Then at least put her out of her misery.’

  ‘Well, that’s easier said than done – but really, I do enjoy a bit of misery.’

  *

  Zola turned to Garran, who was slumped in his flight chair, chewing the knuckle of one thumb. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ he said. His eyes were bloodshot. Zola could not tell whether it was due to fury or fear or something else. His face was pasty with shock.

  ‘Do we have weapons in here?’ she asked.

  ‘Norton had the only pistol,’ Garran replied dully. ‘Transporter flight crews don’t need to be armed. We leave that to the troopers in with the prisoners.’

  ‘But still, that’s only regulations,’ Zola protested. ‘Surely…’

  ‘Surely we have a couple of guns stashed in here?’ Garran shook his head. ‘Fiddling the flight log is one thing, Zola. Smuggling unauthorised weaponry aboard is quite another.’

  For a few seconds they sat and stared at each other in silence. The flight instruments ticked and whirred quietly in the background, oblivious to their plight.

  ‘Then if we don’t have any weapons, what do we have?’ Zola looked round the cockpit. Cramped, ergonomic, utilitarian. Typical Federation design. Computers, flight controls, navigation helm. She counted them off one by one. There was the emergency flight-seat release system but it only served one and would open the cabin to vacuum. It was a last resort mechanism, a hangover from when all ships like the York were designed to have that kind of option. It was useless. She barely glanced at the access hatch on the floor. The mutoid had tried to force it open from the other side after they had snapped it shut; banging and crashing around like a wild animal. Garran had locked the hatch and then he and Zola had stared at it, both of them sweating and shaking, until the pounding had stopped. Then, and after a long, tense wait, they had heard the sound of the mutoid retreating. A heavy slithering noise indicated that the monster had dragged Norton’s body away.

  Zola’s gaze moved slowly up to the rear of the cabin. There was a narrow airlock leading to the junction with Pod One. It was code locked. The York’s computer held the correct code, but what would be the point of opening the airlock? If there were bloodthirsty mutoids on the loose, perhaps it was safer to be stuck in the flight cabin.

  ‘What’s in here?’ she asked. There were two upright lockers on either side of the airlock. She opened the first and found a toolkit and mobile computer access station. There was nothing in the toolkit that resembled a weapon. In the other locker was a spacesuit.

  ‘For emergencies,’ Garran said when he saw it.

  ‘Well, I didn’t think it was there for fun,’ Zola muttered. She fingered the tough silver material thoughtfully.

  *

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ Melson said quietly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Vila.

  Melson moved carefully, not wanting to attract attention from the mutoid guards. He pulled up the loose sleeve on his prison tunic to reveal two teleport bracelets.

  Gan’s eyes widened and Vila did a double take. ‘What! Where did you get those?’

  ‘Shh,’ Melson said, dropping his sleeve back over them. He glanced quickly around to be sure he hadn’t been seen by any of the other prisoners. ‘I took one off Blake’s wrist after he went down. The other one I found on the floor.’

  Vila clutched his own wrist again. ‘That one must be mine! I dropped it!’

  ‘Shh,’ Gan hissed.

  Some of the prisoners were looking to see what Vila was so excited about, and he immediately quietened down, biting a knuckle hard to stop himself from screaming.

  ‘We can use those to communicate with our ship,’ Gan murmured.

  ‘Better than that,’ Vila whispered. ‘We can use them to get away!’

  ‘All right,’ Melson said. ‘But not yet. Look at the men around you. They’re frightened and desperate. If they think there’s a quick way out of here, they’ll start a riot. They’d tear you to pieces in a minute.’

  The prisoners were beginning to stir. They had overcome their initial shock and terse conversations were starting up all over the pod. Some of the angrier men were starting to look around for someone to blame.

  ‘Good point,’ Vila agreed, keeping his voice low. ‘Let’s keep it quiet. In fact, give me mine now and I’ll keep it quiet on the Liberator. I can be there in a flash.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked another voice. Vila jumped with fright and turned to see the woman called Drena standing behind them. Her brother, Zake, hovered close by. He looked terrified. Vila was almost grateful to see someone more scared than he was.

  Melson smiled at Drena and said, ‘We were just wondering how we were going to get out of this one. Any ideas?’

  Drena looked hard at Gan and Vila. ‘I thought these men and their friends were going to get us out of here.’

  ‘That’s not really fair…’ Gan said.

  ‘Blake said he was going to help us,’ Drena persisted.

  Zake nodded. ‘That’s right, he did. We were going to fight back. I want to fight back! I’m sick and tired of being pushed around. I want to join Blake! We’re gonna become freedom fighters!’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Zake,’ said Drena, not unkindly. She turned back to the others. ‘Where is Blake now?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Gan replied.

  ‘Avon is dead,’ Vila added miserably. ‘Blake may be too. I knew we should never have come here. Why don’t they ever listen to me?’ He eyed Melson’s wrist, eager to get his hands on one of the teleport bracelets. Melson leaned against the bulkhead wall with his hands behind his back.

  They looked up as voices were raised on the other side of the pod. Some of the men – they looked like the crimos from Pod Two – were arguing. Vila bit his lip. Those men were born fighters. In these crowded conditions and with tempers raised, anything could happen. The rest of the prisoners – mainly the Delta Grades – were moving away where they could, trying to give the tougher men some space.

  ‘When we came here we thought the prisoner complement was just people like yourselves,’ Gan explained to Drena. ‘People like us. Dissidents, rebels, victims of the Federation. We didn’t expect to find hardened criminals, let alone Kilus Kroe and a squad of mutoids. We had no idea any of this would happen.’

  ‘Who is this Kilus Kroe person?’ Drena asked. ‘He doesn’t seem to be a prisoner – at least not like us.’

  ‘He’s nothing like anyone you’ve ever met before,’ said Vila darkly.

  ‘I have heard of him,’ Gan said. ‘He was some kind of Federation enforcer once. Had a bad reputation. Violent, sadistic – but clever too.’

  ‘So what’s he doing here?’ Drena wondered.

  ‘No-one knows,’ replied Melson.

  ‘As far as we know, he was a prisoner too,’ Gan said.

  ‘Well he seems to be in charge of things now,’ Drena said.

  ‘Which is why we’ve got to get out of here right now…’ Vila said. He went to snatch one of the teleport bracelets from Melson’s wrist, but there was a sudden commotion
on the far side of the pod. Melson turned to see what was happening, knocking Vila’s hand sideways.

  ‘Wait,’ Drena said. ‘Something’s up…’

  A fight had broken out among the crimos on the far side of the pod. Voices were suddenly raised, fists were flying, people were scattering. But there was nowhere to scatter to. Those not involved in the fight could only back away, shuffling their feet, crowding the people behind them against the bulkhead walls.

  The result was a small arena at the centre of the crowd.

  One man lay prostrate on the floor, unconscious or dead. Three other men were fighting – and the fight didn’t last long. Vila recognised the winner only too easily: Larn Stygo, the big crimo from Pod Two.

  Stygo was a heavy man with big fists that could settle any dispute very quickly. The next man went down easily enough as Stygo’s next blow smashed into his jaw. The man’s head whipped around with enough force, Vila was sure, to dislocate his neck. He staggered badly and then his knees went and he crumpled to the floor.

  The last man now understood the futility of fighting with Stygo. He raised his hands, fingers open and palms outward, in a gesture of peace and took a step backwards. He, too, was a powerfully built individual – one of the men who had been in Pod Two with the rest of the crimos – but he knew when he’d met his match.

  ‘All right, Stygo,’ he said. ‘Have it your way. I don’t care.’

  Stygo eyed him from beneath heavy brows. The nostrils of his broken nose were flared; he was breathing hard. There was a massive anger inside him. ‘It’s not over.’

  ‘I give in,’ insisted the man. He took another step back. ‘I surrender.’

  ‘Then you’re no use to me, worm,’ said Stygo. His right hand suddenly leapt forward and grabbed the other man by the throat. His thick fingers were nearly able to wrap right around the man’s neck.

  The man let out a choked gasp and grabbed at Stygo’s wrist. But the hand around his throat was like a steel clamp, cutting off all blood and oxygen. His face started to turn purple, then grey, as his eyes bulged and his tongue protruded. For a few seconds there was complete silence in the pod – broken only by the sound of the man’s muted gagging. Eventually his hands fell weakly away from Stygo’s wrist and his legs buckled. Stygo took his weight, holding him up by the neck. The man’s head looked like a balloon squeezed out of his giant fist.

  No-one said anything. No-one intervened. The occupants of Pod Three simply watched as Stygo squeezed the life out of the man and then let him drop to the floor. The man hit the deck plates with a heavy, final thud. His bloodshot eyes were wide but sightless.

  Stygo swept his dark gaze around the other prisoners. ‘That settles it,’ he growled. ‘I’m leader – unless anyone else wants to argue about it?’

  For a moment there was nothing but silence. Then one man stepped forward, into the arena, and folded a pair of thick arms over his chest. He stared straight at Stygo.

  ‘I will,’ said Gan.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Have you gone stark, staring space mad or something?’ Vila asked as Gan handed him his jacket.

  ‘No,’ Gan replied. He started to roll up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘I’m angry. And I don’t like bullies.’

  Larn Stygo laughed. ‘Don’t waste your time, worm. I’ll take you apart like a bunch of flowers.’

  ‘Done a bit of flower arranging, have you?’ Gan stood eye to eye with the crimo.

  Melson pushed his way through the crowd and stepped into the space between them. ‘All right, fellas, that’s enough of the big talk. Let’s calm it down right now...’

  ‘Out of my way,’ growled Stygo, bunching his fists.

  ‘There’s two armed mutoids standing right outside that airlock,’ said Melson firmly. ‘If they come in here they’ll start shooting. And you’ll be the first person they aim for.’

  Stygo took a step forward. ‘I won’t tell you again...’

  ‘Seriously, don’t cause a fight in here, Stygo. The mutoids will stop you – permanently.’

  Stygo thrust out a hand and pushed Melson back into the crowd without a word. Melson stumbled and fell, and Vila helped him up. ‘Are the bracelets all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Check them,’ Vila insisted.

  Melson pulled his sleeve back. The two teleport bracelets were still clipped snugly around his wrist. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Those things are our only way out of here! You’ve got to be careful with them.’

  ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about now, Vila! If those mutoids come in here there’ll be another massacre!’

  ‘Which is why I want one of those bracelets!’

  ‘All right! Just wait. Let’s see if we can cool this situation down first...’

  Vila gritted his teeth in frustration as Melson stepped back towards Gan and Stygo. The two of them were squaring up like a couple of prize-fighters. Gan was tall and strong, but Vila didn’t think he was any kind of a match for Stygo. The man was a cold-blooded killer, a murderer many times over. Gan had only ever killed once; he couldn’t kill again because of the cybernetic limiter implanted in his brain by the Federation. What he was attempting now was little more than suicide.

  Vila felt hot tears in his eyes. He had never felt so angry or confused. Gan was acting like an idiot.

  ‘This is your last chance, worm,’ Stygo told Gan. ‘Back off or go down.’

  ‘I’ve never been one for backing off,’ Gan said.

  And then, with a cold chill, Vila realised what was happening. Gan was deliberately provoking Stygo. Everyone’s eyes were on the imminent fight. He was causing a diversion – the kind of diversion Vila could use to contact the Liberator.

  The kind of diversion that could cost Gan his life.

  Stygo attacked without warning. Vila, who had been watching with horrified fascination, didn’t even see it happen. In a savage blur of movement, right up on the balls of his feet and with his full weight behind it, the crimo smashed his fist into the side of Gan’s head. Vila’s whole body flinched in sympathy.

  Gan straightened back up and blood welled freely from a deep cut on his cheekbone.

  ‘Is that the best you’ve got?’ he asked.

  Stygo squared his shoulders and moved in again, but this time Gan was properly ready and shifted his body to one side. The crimo’s punch slid past and Gan grabbed hold of his opponent in a classic wrestler’s grip. Gan had never been a brawler; Vila knew he would not want to get into a straight exchange of blows. Stygo was simply stronger and meaner. But Gan had a grip like a robot autoloader. Stygo pulled back but he was caught fast and at a bad angle. Gan straightened his back, legs braced and the crimo’s boots momentarily scraped clear of the deck.

  ‘Gan! Be careful, for goodness’ sake!’ Vila cried. Part of him just wanted to grab the teleport bracelet from Melson’s wrist and get out of here, but another part of him refused to move. He liked Gan. Gan looked after him. To see him going hand to hand with a lunatic like Stygo made even Vila pause in his headlong flight for survival.

  With a grunt of effort, Gan lifted Stygo up and, twisting, slammed him down onto the deck plates with a massive clang. Stygo roared with anger and, on all fours in an instant, his right hand lay flat on the floor for a second in front of Vila.

  Vila responded instantly and instinctively, stamping his heel down on the big, pink hand. It was just enough of a distraction to prevent Stygo regaining his feet immediately, and in that time Gan dropped onto his back and wrapped his arms around the crimo’s chest. In a flash he’d wound his hands up and back behind Stygo’s neck and locked his fingers together. Stygo thrashed violently but there was no way to break a hold like this. As Gan exerted more pressure, pushing his hands hard into the back of Stygo’s neck, the crimo’s head was forced forward. The vertebrae began to feel the strain and Stygo hissed with pain.

  ‘Go, Vila!’ Gan hissed through his teeth. The veins were bulging in his neck as he strained to hold the
crimo down. ‘Hurry!’

  Vila’s mouth was dry. ‘But what about you?’

  ‘Just go!’

  Vila turned but Melson was suddenly nowhere to be seen. He’d been swallowed up by the crowd of prisoners watching Gan’s tussle with Stygo. Panic flooded through Vila as he searched desperately for Melson.

  And then true fear, cold fear, replaced the panic as the airlock opened and two mutoids entered the pod like dark angels of death.

  Vila froze. The commotion caused by the fight had attracted too much attention.

  The mutoids, impassive and implacable, already had their autoblasters charged and raised. The muzzles flashed brightly and men screamed.

  And still Vila didn’t move.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Kilus Kroe was holding one of the Liberator guns. He examined the clear crystal rod that formed the weapon’s muzzle and the curled wire that led to the power pack.

  ‘I was wondering where those had got to,’ Blake said. His own gunbelt, as well as Avon’s, was in a heap on the floor of the pod. The gun in Kroe’s hand must have belonged to Gan or Vila. That meant one at least was still missing. Blake wondered where it was. Could Gan or Vila still be alive, and armed? Or even Cally? He hoped so.

  ‘Interesting weapons,’ Kroe admitted. ‘Not seen anything like them before.’

  ‘They are some way beyond human technology.’

  ‘Where do they come from?’

  ‘My ship.’

  ‘Ah yes, the Liberator.’ Kroe said the name with a sarcastic smack of his lips. ‘Hard-bitten Federation pilots and decorated Space Commanders blanch at the mere thought of it, so I’m told. How did you come by such a craft?’

  ‘I suspect you already know.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Kroe waved the gun around like a magic wand and finished up with it pointing straight at Blake. ‘You boarded it en route to Cygnus Alpha. Took it over and flew off into space, a rebel, a renegade, with a spaceship so powerful that Supreme Commander Servalan will not rest until she has it for herself. Or, at the very least, stops you from having it.’

  ‘Is that what all this is about? Some sort of convoluted attempt to capture me dreamed up by Servalan?’