‘It’s not all about you, Blake,’ Kroe said mockingly. He touched the tip of the gun against Blake’s face. ‘You’ve got one hell of an ego, you know.’
Blake watched Kroe carefully from the corner of his eye. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘To be clear…’ The tip of the gun prodded Blake in the cheek, just enough to move his head. ‘You’re not very important. Not to me, not to Servalan, not to the Federation…’
Blake stared straight ahead. The mutoids on either side of him still had their blasters levelled.
The Liberator gun prodded him again.
‘It’s the ship,’ said Kroe. He prodded Blake’s cheek again, a little harder this time, so that Blake’s head moved further. ‘The ship’s the thing.’ Prod. ‘It’s the Liberator. That’s the key.’
‘And it’s mine,’ said Blake clearly.
‘No it’s not. You found it.’ The gun prodded again, this time with enough force to turn Blake’s head. ‘Stole it.’
‘Let me guess: the Federation wants to put me on trial again. They missed that particular charge on the first two occasions.’
Kilus Kroe laughed softly, quietly, just enough to show that he appreciated the humour. ‘I like you, Blake. Plenty of spirit.’ He stroked the tip of the gun barrel across Blake’s face until it rested next to his right eye. ‘Powerful, are they, these alien weapons?’
‘Very.’
‘So I could blow your head clean off from this range?’
The tip of the barrel nudged Blake’s eye. His felt his eyelid flutter slightly. He could also feel the perspiration running down his face. ‘At this range you’d probably blow a hole in the bulkhead wall too. The auto-sealant might repair the damage in time, but it’s not advisable.’
‘I want the ship, Blake,’ said Kroe. The sudden change of subject caught Blake by surprise. Kroe’s voice dropped to an intimate whisper. ‘You’re going to give the Liberator to me.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘I can see I will have to persuade you.’
Blake turned his head and looked him in the eye. ‘Then you will have to be very, very persuasive.’
‘Oh, good. Because persuasion is my speciality.’
*
The pursuit ship was silent. The stardrive had been powered down to idling speed, the computers in stealth mode. The interior lights had switched over to combat red.
Travis relished the quiet. He stared at the forward viewscreen. The dull amber sphere of the gas giant filled the picture, sliced across the middle by the edge of the ring system. It looked as sharp as a blade from this distance; closer up it would be revealed as a vast plain of ice and rubble. Closer still it would be a thick cloud of hurtling moon debris. But Travis’s attention was held by a string of gleaming white dots visible against the black shadow that curved across the surface of the planet beyond.
‘Increase magnification,’ ordered Travis. ‘Full.’
The mutoid previously known as Chan touched a control and the image on the screen swam forward, expanding and sharpening as the computer recalibrated the definition. The white dots turned into four distinct space pods, all connected via airlocks, and attached to the transport ship York.
Travis pointed the index finger of his bionic hand at another, distant point beyond the transporter. ‘What’s that?’
Chan increased the magnification still further and used computer enhancement to zoom in. Orbiting the planet, some distance from the ice rings, was another ship. A central rocket with a trio of massive neutron blasters mounted on pylons hung over the penal transporter like the claws of a bird of prey ready to strike.
‘The Liberator,’ breathed Travis, his hand automatically clenching into a fist.
‘Blake is here,’ Kiera said.
‘Of course he is,’ Travis snapped. He sat slowly back in his flight seat and lifted the large crystal mounted on his bionic hand to his lips. ‘And so is Kilus Kroe,’ he added more thoughtfully.
‘Kilus Kroe, sir?’
‘The prisoner in Pod One. His identity was redacted from the manifest.’
Kiera stared into space for a moment. Travis guessed that she was accessing the Federation data records via a neural network link. It only took seconds. ‘Kilus Kroe,’ she intoned, eyelids fluttering slightly as the information was downloaded directly into her cerebral cortex. ‘Federation Intelligence Bureau – Executive Office number Gamma 3099. Seconded from Space Command access Rho 3477-89. Top-secret duties only – maximum security echelon. Transferred to the Inquisition Service five years ago. Arrested and court-martialled under–’
‘That’s enough,’ Travis told her abruptly. ‘I know exactly who Kroe is. I know every inch of his service record. It was me who arrested him. What I want to know… is what Kilus Kroe is doing on that penal ship?’
‘That information is still redacted.’
‘I know, and there’s only one person in the Federation who can do that – Servalan.’
Kiera turned in her seat. ‘Sir – why would the Supreme Commander redact that information?’
‘Because she put him there, obviously. But why? That penal transporter was en route to K5 with nothing but Delta Grades and a handful of subintelligent crimos. Kilus Kroe was a maximum-security prisoner. During his time in service he had access to top-secret data. He would never have been sent to a penal planet. It doesn’t make sense, unless…’
Travis thought for a long moment, flexing the mechanical fingers of his laseron destroyer.
‘Unless…? Kiera prompted.
Travis looked at her. He realised that he had probably said too much, that he had been using the mutoid as a sounding board, thinking aloud, feeding off her reaction.
Travis turned his attention back to the viewscreen. The planet, the ring system, the York. And further away, in the distance, the Liberator.
‘Kroe was the top interrogator – the spider at the centre of the Inquisition Service’s web of intrigue and betrayal. He had one purpose: to track down and expose traitors in the Federation and strip their minds of every last secret. He was sanctioned to use any methods, any kind of torture, to get the information he required. He exposed countless rebel operations and dissident cells. But there was one man he never got his hands on – the top prize, the number one…’ Travis’s eye bored into the image of the Liberator on the screen. ‘Roj Blake.’
*
The mutoids grabbed Blake’s arms, lifted him right of his feet and threw him into the steel chair at the centre of Pod One. The impact reverberated through every bone in Blake’s body.
He knew the talking wouldn’t last forever, but he was still shocked at the sudden savagery. It brought long-buried memories bubbling up to the surface of his mind: subliminal flashbacks to men in black masks punching him repeatedly while he was held down, unable to defend himself. More beatings. Syringes, serums, chemical agony…
‘Familiar?’ asked Kilus Kroe, stepping into view.
Blake looked up at him and waited for his vision to focus. ‘Go to hell.’
‘I’ve been.’ Kroe leaned down, a hand on either armrest as the mutoids fastened Blake’s wrists to the chair. ‘I know the way to hell, Blake, and I’m going to take you there. A personal guided tour.’
Blake felt the molecular bonds fusing to his skin like hot brands. He thought he could smell burning meat but he knew that was impossible. Molecular bonding didn’t work like that, but his mind was conjuring up the stench of roasted flesh to match the searing heat of the pain. Sweat broke out of every pore in his skin.
‘I was Servalan’s top interrogator,’ said Kroe. ‘Federation Inquisition Service. I’ve waited a long, long time for the chance to do this.’
‘Interrogate me? Good luck.’ Blake spat a clot of blood onto the floor. ‘I’ve been questioned by the best before. I’ve been drugged, beaten, brainwashed – you name it, they’ve done it to me. So you’re wasting your time, Kroe. I won’t tell you anything. I won’t give you the Liberator.’
‘Oh
, I’m not bothered about that. Getting the Liberator is easy.’ Kroe placed the palm of one had gently on Blake’s chest. ‘You’re the real prize as far as I’m concerned.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Vila felt himself being pulled away from the shooting. He was happy about that. The mutoids picked their targets with cold, brutal efficiency: every shot was fatal. Prisoners staggered backwards, dead before they hit the ground. One man was blown off his feet, a red mist of blood hanging in the air as he hit the floor.
Zake grabbed at one of the mutoid’s autoblasters. For a second he was locked in combat. Teeth clenched, green eyes blazing with frustration and anger, Zake stared into the mutoid’s dark eyes. ‘Stop it! You’re killing everyone and they haven’t done anything!
The mutoid twisted and flung Zake bodily into the wall. He smashed into the bulkhead with bone-cracking force and slid to the deck. Immediately he climbed back to his feet, seething.
‘All my life people like you have threatened and picked on me!’ he yelled. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
The mutoid aimed her weapon and shot him through the forehead. His brains struck the wall behind him and Zake’s body crumpled to the deck.
Vila caught sight of Drena, standing open-mouthed in shock.
And then Melson was pulling Vila away. In seconds Vila found himself at the back of the pod, shielded by the milling prisoners. The gunshots were getting less frequent; the mutoids either had the pod under control or they’d run out of prisoners to shoot.
‘But Drena… and Zake…’ began Vila helplessly.
‘Never mind them,’ said Melson, as Vila twisted around to look. ‘Get this airlock open now.’
Danger, and the intense fear that went with it, acted as natural spurs for Vila. He instinctively keyed in the correct sequence to unlock the hatchway and it hissed open. Melson was already pushing Vila through the widening gap, bundling him into the short connecting archway and into the next pod. He hit the control and the airlock hissed shut behind them.
‘Good work,’ Melson said.
‘Good work?’ Vila echoed in disbelief. ‘I must have memorised the right code when the mutoids opened the door to Pod Three. Didn’t even realise I’d done it. But all those people… killed… and they shot Zake…’
‘Stop gabbling and listen.’
They stood in the darkness for a few seconds but there wasn’t anything to be heard apart from the soft hum of the life-support systems.
‘The shooting’s stopped,’ Melson said. He listened carefully for another moment. ‘Doesn’t look like they’ve missed us yet.’
Vila realised they were back in the rearmost pod – Pod Four, where he had materialised with Blake, Avon and Gan what felt like a lifetime ago. ‘Why is it dark in here? Who switched all the lights off?’
‘There’s a control somewhere...’
The lights came on suddenly and brightly, making Vila squint. Melson stood with his hand on the environment controls by the airlock. Vila let out a groan of dismay. The rest of the pod was full of bodies. Dead bodies. All the prisoners that had been killed when Kilus Kroe’s mutoids first broke out had been thrown into Pod Four. They lay three deep in a pile of rumpled clothes and tangled limbs.
*
‘It’s gone very quiet down there,’ Zola said. Her eyes hadn’t left the hatch in the floor. It was locked but it wasn’t a very strong lock and she was worried the mutoid zombie would come back and try again.
‘Shh,’ Garran said. He lowered his voice. ‘It might hear us if we talk. Maybe it will forget there was anyone here.’
Zola shook her head. ‘I saw the look in its eyes. It won’t forget.’
Something scraped slowly along the underneath of the hatch – like the blade of a knife being dragged across the metal.
She stared at the little square in the deck, full of loathing and fear. The scraping came again. Long, determined, considered. Something was testing the material of the hatch. Something with unnaturally hardened fingernails.
‘Persistent bugger,’ Garran said.
‘It won’t get through the hatch,’ Zola said. ‘Will it?’
‘Not like that, no. It’s plasteel. It’s not armoured, or even reinforced, but she won’t get through.’
‘She?’
The scraping came again – harder and more desperate now. Zola felt her pulse quickening.
‘Mutoids were all normal people once,’ Garran said.
Zola shuddered as she remembered her last glimpse of Norton at the bottom of the access shaft. She closed her eyes.
Something banged hard against the hatch and Zola jumped.
Garran got to his feet, sweating, staring at the hatch. It visibly shook in its frame as something pounded ferociously against the plasteel once more. And then again. And again.
‘That’s not going to last,’ Garran said. He began looking around the flight cabin for a way out. Hesitated when he caught sight of the emergency flight-seat jettison controls. Dismissed them instantly. Then he looked straight at the airlock leading to Pod One. It suddenly looked very inviting.
‘You’re not thinking of going in there?’ Zola said. ‘With Kilus Kroe?’
‘It’s got to be better than waiting in here for that – that thing…’ Garran pointed at the hatch. It jolted again as the mutoid beneath smashed at it again.
‘Wait a minute…’ Zola opened the spacesuit locker again. The transpex suit looked uncomfortable and old-fashioned, if not actually obsolete – but she was sure it would do the job. ‘One of us could use this,’ she said.
‘Outside?’ Garran said. He sounded terrified. ‘Spacewalk?’
‘It’s possible,’ Zola told him. She was terrified too but she tried to sound confident. She had done quite a few spacewalks in basic training, but most of them had been simulations. She didn’t have many actual hours in suit. But the theory was just the same, and she knew all that perfectly well. ‘Use the emergency airlock, out onto the transporter hull, and then work back along the pods.’
‘There’s a space-facing airlock at the back of the rearmost pod,’ Garran said. He was thinking about it seriously now. ‘You could get back inside that way.’
Zola pulled the suit towards her, but stopped when Garran put a hand on her arm.
‘Hold on a minute,’ he said. He held her arm firmly. ‘Let’s think about this. I’m the ranking officer here.’
Zola stared at him in disbelief.
‘I’m captain of the ship,’ Garran went on brusquely. ‘It’s my duty to go.’
‘Your duty?’
‘It’s Federation protocol. I’m a higher ranking officer. I have a duty to do everything I can to ensure my survival.’
‘What about my survival?’
‘The Federation have invested a lot of training in me, Zola. And I’ve got a lot of experience. It would be a terrible waste of resources if I died.’
‘I can’t believe –’
‘Besides which, I have a family to think of,’ Garran added. He was speaking quickly, saying anything that came into his mind that might bolster his cause. There was spittle on his lips.
‘It was my idea,’ Zola said lamely.
‘And it was a good one. I’ll see you get a commendation for it – posthumously.’ Garran pulled the spacesuit towards him.
And Zola pulled it back. ‘Let go!’
‘Give it to me, Zola!’
‘I’m taking it!’
‘It’s mine!’
The absurd tug of war continued until the banging from the hatch grew more frantic and the metal suddenly, loudly gave way.
For a moment both Zola and Garran just turned to look, shocked and fearful, as the hatch was prised open from beneath. The plasteel bent with a screech and a hand pushed out through the widening gap, clawing at the deck plates. The fingers were torn and bloody, the skin grey as a corpse.
Just for a second Zola forgot about the tussle over the spacesuit, until Garran’s open hand slammed into the side of her face. She w
as thrown backwards, crashing into the bulkhead wall between the spacesuit locker and the airlock.
Garran shook the spacesuit out and unsealed it. The suit was designed for emergencies, with ease and speed of use the most important criteria. The transpex material was loose enough to fit over normal clothes quite easily.
It wouldn’t take long for Garran to get the suit on. Panic was making him move faster than he would normally, pudgy hands scrabbling at the material.
Zola launched herself from the bulkhead and cannoned into him with a roar of anger. He was propelled backwards, smashing into the flight controls. Zola punched him with one hand and grabbed at the spacesuit with the other. He pulled it back and the pair of them slid off the control board and rolled onto the deck.
The mutoid was half way through the hatch. The trapdoor had been forced open against the locks and then bent backwards. The mutoid was trying to get out through the narrow gap, dragging herself free by digging her fingers into the mesh of the deck. Zola caught a glimpse of the mutoid’s face: black lips drawn back from blood-stained teeth, burning eyes staring out from clammy white flesh. She was growling like a wild animal.
Garran kicked Zola away and yanked at the spacesuit. It slipped from Zola’s grasp and she fell again. Garran positioned himself to kick her, drew his foot back, aiming for her head, but the kick never game. The mutoid’s fingers had clamped around Garran’s ankle.
Zola took her chance, hauling the spacesuit towards her and pulling it on. She got both legs in, pushing her feet down into the integral boots, and pulled the sleeves up. Her fingers slipped as she fumbled with the seals.
The mutoid had bitten deeply into Garran’s leg. He screamed and lashed out but the mutoid’s jaws were as powerful as those of an attack dog.
Zola yanked open the wall locker and pulled out the helmet and gloves. The gloves went on first; they seemed to take an age and it was a fiddly matter to get the metal rings on the suit sleeves to clamp to the corresponding fitting on each glove.
The mutoid finally lurched out of the hatch and sank her teeth into Garran’s throat. There was plenty of flesh there; he was fighting for his life but there was really no point now. His screams turned to a hot, spluttering gurgle just as Zola pulled the space helmet over her head and the magno-seals clamped it to the suit collar. The sounds of Garran’s death throes were instantly and mercifully cut off.
Blake's 7: Criminal Intent Page 12