In his cavernous old troop ship, Blake sat locked in the master cabin, cuffs about his wrists. Time to do his duty. He'd had three days for acquiescence, for patience. The question was Avon.
He lies to me, why? Orac detected me, and unless Orac's given up interference these days, he'd have counselled Avon to remove the threat. But Avon keeps on about a neurochemist. Can't knock away his crutch? I haven't lied. Just had the bad news stuck in my throat.
Stiffly, his age catching up with him, Blake bent over to the speaker and demanded to see Avon. This ship had been in the hangar, and the only furniture in the cabin was the sleep slab where he sat and a chair. Blake pulled the chair close.
The door slid for Avon. Aged too but no different, his chaste, corrupt face. He mesmerised me and I did my damnedest to mesmerise him, with my great faith in him, or my vanity about being important to him. He can hate me, as long as I help him so he can't forget me. And here he is for this. I'd go away and suicide elsewhere, but he'd think me negligent after he's crashed his ship over me.
"Hello, Blake. I hope I'm not here to uncuff you now we're in space, I like you in them."
His artless sensuality. My dreams, to be strict. He means, you can't do anything silly in cuffs and if you're after the key you have me to persuade. Blake told him, "We may have to argue about that."
"Why not?" Skirting the chair, Avon leant next to the porthole and glanced outside. Baroque, those gloves at his waist. In his dowdy technician's blues when I met him. "Argue away," prompted Avon. "You say I can trust you, do you?" A quick, pungent grin. "Is that your argument?"
"I think you know it isn't."
"Not the game of I know what you're thinking. After two years apart it's difficult to play."
He's harsher. And he's fatigued by the evasion. "Yes, and we've danced around the truth for three days. I surmise Orac has acquainted you with the truth? Of what has to be done. Or am I to be your prisoner forever?"
"I needed your bounty hunter alias for flight clearance. You need a mental clinic." His teeth gleamed. "Years too late."
"Avon, is a neurochemist the plan? If you're anxious, my mind control is unconscious and neatly targeted. I never noticed, nor Jenna, therefore I have the freedom to do the job."
"You're being ambiguous."
His shapely black and silver against the grey metal, like a painting, hard to tear the eyes from. "You're being courteous." Unperturbed, he stated what Avon wasn't going to. "I have to be dead, Avon."
Last updated on 24th of December 1997.