Zombies, Pt. 2
The Zombie Master
or
PGP of the Living Dead
Pt. 2
THREE WEEKS AFTER
"All the repairs are complete," Tarrant reported. "And I've finished installing the drive. Your ship" -- he put the slightest annoyed emphasis on "your" -- "should be spaceworthy."
"Good," said Avon, lounging comfortably back into the chair in what had once been Blake's office.
"There's just one thing."
"Oh?" Avon sounded bored, as if Tarrant were keeping him from some more amusing pursuit, like ordering Vila to polish his boots.
Tarrant took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm pretty sure I've managed all the repairs successfully." And a hell of a job it had been, too. If Scorpio's stardrive had been any less advanced, it would hardly have been worth the effort of salvaging. "But there's some doubt in my mind as to whether Dr. Plaxton's drive will function compatibly with this particular type of ship. There's a chance -- a small but nonzero chance -- that the resonant feedback from the main engines could interfere with the stardrive and destroy the ship. I'm afraid that there's not really any way to tell without a test flight. I'd say a fairly long one, in fact. At least four or five days, to allow for the maximum energy buildup." Which, purely by coincidence, of course, just happened to be the round-trip flight time to Malodaar.
Avon looked annoyed. "Really? Well, then, I suppose you will have to make one."
"Me? Oh, of course, me. You wouldn't risk your own neck, would you Avon? Not when you have an army of slaves to take all the risks for you!"
Tarrant fought the temptation to cross his fingers behind his back for luck, the memory of his last conversation with Blake playing over in his mind. Blake had proved to be a veritable fount of Avon Manipulation tips. "Reverse psychology might work," he'd said, "as long as you don't overdo it. Make him think your own reasons are selfish and irrational and he'll probably delight in overruling you."
"I can see why he likes to order you to keep quiet," Tarrant had said with amusement. "But at this point, I think I know how to deal with Avon better than you do."
Blake had winced at that. Oops.
At any rate, Tarrant was about to see whether he'd been right. The cold smile on Avon's face seemed a promising sign.
"You're the pilot, Tarrant."
"I'm expendable, you mean!" He was finding that he didn't remotely have to fake his indignation.
"If you like. A functional, fast-moving ship could prove vital to the safely of all of us, should the Federation return. I'd say that's worth the risk - if it as miniscule as you claim."
"You can't expect me to make a four-day test flight on my own!"
"All right. Take Vila." Avon smiled that sick smile of his. "He is only slightly less expendable than you are."
"That's an order, is it?" said Tarrant through gritted teeth. "Mr. Zombie Master, sir?"
"Yes. Now get out!"
Smug bastard. Serve him right if they did blow themselves up, depriving him of his precious stardrive and two-fifths of his zombie slaves and whatever might be left of that dark, twisted mess he so laughably called a soul.
Tarrant found himself so irritated that he couldn't even properly appreciate his rather stunning victory in the Avon-Manipulation Olympics.
So he went and shook the soul-jar until its contents turned a seasick grey and began flailing desperately against the glass. Petty, but it did make him feel better.
He met with Vila later in the Zombie Liberation Front Headquarters (better known as Blake's bedroom, so designated because it was, aside from the universally-avoided tracking gallery, the one room that Avon displayed a strange reluctance to enter) to give him the good news.
Needless to say, Vila did not take it well.
"Why me?"
"Because, according to Avon, you're almost as expendable as I am," Tarrant responded bitterly.
"Don't make me go back there, Tarrant, please. Take somebody else!"
"Look, Vila, you wouldn't exactly be my first choice, either. But Avon ordered me to take you, so I don't get a choice in the matter, either. You're coming along if I have to tie you up and haul you onto the ship bodily, whether I like it or not, so there's no use protesting."
"But why do we have to go at all?"
"Vila..."
"No, Tarrant, look." A forlornly hopeful expression had crept onto Vila's face. "We've got a piece of his soul already, right? It's a pretty big piece, too." He fumbled the jar out of its hiding place in Blake's dresser drawer, holding it up for Tarrant's inspection. "See? Fills up close to half the jar! Why can't we just call that enough? Sneak into his room while he's sleeping or something and, you know," he shrugged, "give it back to him."
"Because," said Tarrant with exaggerated patience, "he needs the whole thing back in order to break his hold over us. Haven't you been paying any attention at all? One piece won't work!"
"Well, OK, OK, but what if we gave this one back to him, anyhow? It might make him, you know, a little less nasty. And then maybe I could talk him out of making me go..."
"Oh, that's a lovely idea, Vila." A bright smile started to form on Vila's face, then faded again as Tarrant continued in his most deeply sarcastic tone. "Let's alert him to what we're doing so he can order us to put a stop to it. Wonderful! Or did you think he wouldn't notice he'd suddenly got a large chunk of his soul back?"
"All right, all right," muttered Vila morosely. "It was just an idea. Can't blame a guy for trying."
"Yes I can," said Tarrant, smiling. "Come on. We need to get packed." He reached out and gave the soul-jar another solid thunk before sequestering it back into its hiding place, watching the contents' gyrations with a faint amusement.
He turned back to Vila and allowed his expression to soften a little, magnanimous in victory. "I know it's difficult for you," he said, a trace of real sympathy in his voice. "But it is necessary. And at least this way he won't suspect a thing..."
**
They were up to something. Avon had come close to dismissing the impression, but even his supreme confidence in his newfound power was insufficient to overcome a lifetime's habit of suspicion. The stray looks he'd caught them exchanging, the way they tried to arrange the breaks in their work shifts to overlap... Little things, to be sure, and even he might not have thought much of them, if it weren't for the strange feeling that had been niggling in the back of his head of late...
But it paid, in situations like this, to listen to one's instincts. He placed his hand on the intercom button, intending to call Vila in here and order him to explain just what was going behind his back. He pressed the button down...
No. Wait. There it was again.
He released the intercom button and leant back, closing his eyes, trying to focus on the maddeningly vague sensation. Yes, there it was again, definitely: an odd feeling tingling lightly across those senses the old witch woman had taught him to use. Like something inside him, and yet external. Something disturbing... Disturbed? Perhaps even slightly painful.
Hmm.
His eyes snapped open, half-formed thoughts chasing each other around the inside of his head. Grimly, he held onto the faint thread of sensation and followed it...
...and nearly ran into Tarrant and Vila coming out of Blake's quarters.
Fortunately, they seemed as oblivious as he had nearly been, and Avon was able to duck quickly back around the corner and watch them without himself being seen. Vila's face wore a furtive, unhappy look, Tarrant's a smug one. Yes, they were up to something, all right. In Blake's quarters?
There being no good, rational reason not to enter, Avon did. And knew immediately that whatever-it-was was in here. Yes, there, in that drawer...
He knew what it was immediately, of course. Impossible not to recognize one's own soul, however bizarre and unaesthetic one might find its appearance.
Well, well, well. So this was their game.
Ignoring the soul-fragment's frantic attempts to beat through the glass and rejoin with him, Avon carefully placed the jar back into its drawer. And smiled. And did nothing.
TWENTY-FOUR DAYS AFTER
Tarrant handed Vila his helmet.
"All right, now, you know what to do? Just stay in the airlock. You've got your mag boots and your tether, so you should be fine, even with the door open. When I'm in position, according to the dowsing rod, I'll signal you, and you open the jar." He flashed a slightly-rotten smile. "Simple. Right?"
"If it's so simple, why don't you do it?"
"Because I have to fly the ship. In you go!" He gave the quivering Vila a none-too-gentle shove, propelling him towards the looming airlock door.
"I mean it, Tarrant. Don't make me go in there!"
"Oh, come on, Vila. You're already dead. What's the worst that can happen?"
Vila swallowed, trying not to think about that.
"I have to get back up to the flight deck, Vila. Now, put your helmet on!"
Vila found himself obeying without thinking about it, in much the same way as he did with Avon these days. And then he was standing in the airlock. Over Malodaar. Just the situation he'd always wanted to find himself in. As if having nightmares about it wasn't bad enough.
He watched the soul-bits inside the jar swirling around with each movement of his shaking hands. Rather hypnotic, actually. Interesting to watch. Much better than looking at the empty nothingness outside the now-open outer hatchway, or the ugly, looming bulk of the planet below him.
"You damn well better appreciate this, Avon," he told the jar. "You just damn well better. Oh, what am I saying? Of course he won't appreciate it. He'll probably be furious. Probably take away my brain ration in retaliation. It's not worth it. It's not. It'll never work, anyway, so I don't know why I'm out here risking my life. That's it. I'm not doing it. I'll just go back inside. Maybe Tarrant won't even notice the jar's not any fuller."
"Vila?" Tarrant's voice crackled over Vila's suit-com. "We should be in position. Open the jar... now!"
For a moment, Vila considered ignoring the voice and just going back inside, anyway, but, no, Tarrant would just make him come back out and do it all over again, and then he'd be nasty all the way home, and Vila got enough nastiness from Avon these days, thank you very much.
He fumbled at the lid, normally dexterous fingers unfamiliar and clumsy inside the suit gloves.
And he dropped the jar.
"No!"
"Vila? What's happening?"
"Er..." He made a rapid grab for the jar, which was hovering weightlessly in front of him, and succeeded in getting his fingers wrapped around it. "Er, nothing, Tarrant. Just getting ready to open the thing."
"Well, get on with it!"
"'Get on with it!'" Vila mimicked under his breath. Very carefully, he unscrewed the lid.
Suddenly, there was something on his faceplate. He screamed and batted frantically at it before he realized what it was. It clung to him, black and amorphous and diseased-looking, writhing spasmodically as if it were trying to tunnel through his faceplate to get to him. He could feel it, emotion radiating from it: grief and guilt and a hot, desperate urge to live. He screamed again.
"Vila?" He jumped, nearly dropping the jar again, before he realized it was just Tarrant.
Desperately, he brought his fingers up to claw at the mess attached to his face... coincidentally, bringing the jar up closer to it as well. The soul-fragment pulled back from him slightly, and Vila would swear, later, that it looked at him, in a sad, sorry sort of way... And then it was gone.
"Vila?" Tarrant sounded mildly panicky now. "Vila? Are you all right? Answer me!"
"I'm still here."
"Did you get it?"
He held the jar up in front of his face. It was definitely fuller than before.
"I got it." His voice sounded squeaky and pathetic in his own ears. "Can we go home now? Please?"
THIRTY DAYS AFTER
This is never going to work twice, thought Tarrant, the knowledge of where he was going to have to go next weighing heavily on his unbeating heart. But I suppose I've got to try.
"Avon," he said, "I think the Terror is going to need another test flight."
Nobody had ever admitted to painting the name Terror from Beyond the Grave on the side of Avon's new spaceship, but nobody had bothered to paint over it, either, and, absurdly, somehow the name had stuck.
Avon simply sat there, feet propped up on Orac, a look of utter unconcern on his face. "Fine."
"You see, I think there's still some..." Tarrant stopped, replayed Avon's last utterance through his mind just to be sure he'd heard it right, and blinked.
"Fine? Just like that?"
"You're the pilot," said Avon mildly. "I trust your judgment. If you say the ship needs another test flight, who am I to argue?"
"Oh." It was all Tarrant could think of to say. Well, except for "Who are you, and what have you done with Avon?" but that probably wouldn't be the smartest thing to say right now, would it? After a moment's reflection, he tried, "Anxious to get rid of me?"
Avon smiled. "Yes." Oh, well, perhaps that explained it. "Take Vila with you, if you like." He held up a hand. "No, wait. Take Blake. He's scarcely doing anything useful. How long will you need this time?"
Tarrant did some quick calculations. "Um, another five or six days?"
"Fine."
"Fine," Tarrant echoed, feeling a little numb, and went to tell Blake they'd both be going to Terminal.
THIRTY-FOUR DAYS AFTER
Tarrant was surprised when the light switch actually worked. Dim lighting revealed dust and dirt, pieces of medical equipment scattered about the floor, and a gaping hole where part of a wall had fallen, spilling rubble out into the darkness of the corridor beyond.
More interesting, though, was the flickering image that had appeared on the wall screen: Blake, looking much younger and considerably less putrefied. The real Blake stood there staring at it as if hypnotized, absently wiping at the fluid that leaked from his facial scar and shaking his head.
Tarrant shook his own head and looked around the room again, as if expecting to see Avon's soul hanging around here somewhere looking embarrassed. Instead he saw the body.
"Blake..."
They both huddled around the still form, half-buried in the rubble. The cool, dry air of the underground complex had left her remarkably well-preserved. A wild, desperate thought came rushing into Tarrant's mind.
"Blake, what if..."
Either Cally's corpse had transferred her mind-reading abilities into Blake, or he'd seen that ridiculous light of hope on Tarrant's face and correctly interpreted it. "Would you be willing to give up half your soul, Tarrant? Do you think Cally would want that?"
"No," he said softly. "It was just a passing thought. Never mind." He reached out and closed her eyes. "We should give her a decent burial, though." At least that'd be more than we got.
Blake nodded. "When we've finished here."
They stood, both of them staring sadly down at the corpse for a moment longer. Suddenly, Tarrant found some appalling, unwelcome portion of his mind wondering what condition her brain was in, under that desiccated skull. His undead salivary glands began to water, even as his stomach clenched.
"Then, for god's sake, let's do what we came to do so we can get out of here!"
Whatever Blake was thinking, he certainly seemed to agree on that point. He had already retrieved the jar from his capacious pocket and was unscrewing the lid.
Three separate soul-pieces rushed passed them, one from somewhere in the vicinity of Cally's body, and two from father down the corridor, where they'd watched the Liberator break up, where Servalan had told Avon that Blake was dead. All of them seemed to be screaming and sobbing.
"I'm really starting to hate this job," said Tarrant, watching as Blake replaced the lid with noticeably trembling fingers.
FORTY DAYS AFTER
The members of the Zombie Liberation Front stood staring at the clearly marked spot on the star chart with expressions of glum resignation (or, in Vila's case, incipient panic).
Tarrant apparently felt the need to utter the word, anyway, possibly for dramatic effect: "Earth."
"Let me guess. Servalan's basement." Vila sounded as if he were desperate for someone to contradict him.
Dayna made a valiant attempt at it, just not in the way he would have hoped. "Except it isn't Servalan's basement anymore," she pointed out smugly.
The others exchanged a collective nervous glance.
"Well," said Tarrant finally with an apologetic grin, "actually, it is."
"What?"
"Servalan's managed to worm her way into the presidency again," said Blake. "After the previous holder of the position met with an unfortunate accident, of course."
"Seems she's taken credit for the deaths of a bunch of notorious terrorists," added Tarrant. "Namely, us. Between that and whatever else she's been getting up to, it seems 'Commissioner Sleer' has become quite popular with the Federation of late. Enough so that it no longer particularly matters to anyone who she used to be."
"How do you know that?" Dayna's voice was disbelieving. "Don't tell me Avon let you have access to Orac?"
"Who needs Orac?" said Vila. "It's been on all the Federation newsfeeds!"
"Then why didn't I know about this?"
Vila grinned. "Maybe you should watch the news vids more often."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?" She looked about ready to spit nails.
"Because we knew you'd get that look on your face," said Soolin.
Dayna glared at her and had her mouth open to fire off a retort when Blake broke in. "Can we stop arguing amongst ourselves and concentrate on the business at hand, please?" His voice was soft and low, but at the sound of it the others quickly lapsed into a sulky silence.
"All right. It seems to me that this in fact presents with us a golden opportunity." He ignored the others' incredulous stares. "Servalan is officially ascending to the presidency three weeks from now. At that time, there will be a grand reception at Residence One, with all the major political figures of the Federation in attendance. This could be a perfect chance to kill two birds with one stone!" His eyes were blazing fire now, which was rather disconcerting, considering that they were also somewhat green and puffy.
"You mean attack Servalan's party, don't you?" Vila squeaked.
"Strike off the Federation's head," blazed Blake, "and leave the entire Administration crippled!"
"Isn't that what Anna Grant tried?" said Vila. "Look where it got her!"
"Yes, and the same thing's likely to happen to us," commented Soolin dryly, "if Avon discovers the real reason why we're there."
"You weren't there, Soolin. Don't make jokes about it. It wasn't funny."
Soolin raised an eyebrow at Tarrant's apparent, and rather uncharacteristic, defense of Avon.
"We," said Blake, "will not make the mistakes that Anna Grant made."
Soolin and Tarrant quit looking at each other and turned to Blake, identical puzzled looks on their faces, as it occurred to them to wonder how on earth he knew about Anna Grant, and, for that matter, why he hadn't so much as blinked at the mention of Servalan's basement.
"Dayna told me," he said.
"Trying to justify Avon's current mental state to him?" Soolin asked her.
Dayna made a growling noise.
"Can we please try and remember who the real enemy is here?" asked Tarrant with annoyance.
"Avon?" said Soolin.
"The Federation," corrected Blake grimly, determined not to be led off the track. "If we can get in touch with the rebel groups on Earth, tell them to be ready to seize control once we have the leaders captured..."
"Or killed," interjected Dayna darkly.
Blake ignored her. "It could work! It will work!"
"Aren't you forgetting one thing?" asked Vila.
"Yes," said Tarrant. "How do we get Avon to go along with this plan of yours?"
Blake smiled. "Oh, I think I can convince him." He rose and made for the door, as if the entire issue had been settled.
It was Tarrant who gave voice to the thought written clearly on four separate faces. "Uh, Blake, I'm not sure that's really such a good idea. Maybe one of us..."
But Blake just grinned. "Don't worry. I can deal with Avon." And before Tarrant could properly formulate another sentence, he was already halfway down the corridor that lead to "Avon's office."
For a moment, no one seemed quite capable of speech, not even Vila.
"Is he even allowed to talk to Avon today?" said Soolin finally.
Nobody answered.
**
"What could have possibly made you think that I'd be interested in carrying on this ludicrous war of yours, Blake?"
Blake carefully did not say "Because you did it for two entire years after I was gone." Much as he wanted to. Instead he said, "Because you know you can never be entirely safe while the Federation still exits."
"I hardly see how participating in a guerilla assault on the presidential palace can be considered conducive to my personal safety."
"You needn't come, Avon, if the danger concerns you that much. The rest of us can handle it." Oddly, he wasn't sure whether he'd be relieved or disappointed if Avon were to agree to that.
"Oh, no." Avon had a weird, faraway look in his eyes. Well, weirder than usual these days, which was saying something. "No, if we are going to bring her down... I intend to be there to see it."
"Is that a yes?" Blake found he wasn't breathing. Then again, he mainly only kept doing it out of habit these days, anyway.
Avon appeared to be considering it for a long, expressionless moment. "Yes."
A huge grin spread across Blake's face and, quite without thinking about it, he reached forward to clasp Avon's leather-clad shoulders in the closest thing to a hug one could get with Avon without being in danger of losing some of one's more valuable body parts.
Avon pulled away quickly, grimacing with distaste at the faint trails of slime Blake's fingers had left on his jacket.
"Go eat something, Blake. You're starting to decompose again."
"Yes, sir!" Blake snapped him a mocking salute and left, triumphant.
See, Tarrant? Nothing to it!
SIXTY-ONE DAYS AFTER
It was, of course, far less bloodless than Blake had hoped. Not that Avon much minded. In fact, he was rather enjoying himself.
The sight of the mildly decomposed bodies of known-to-be-dead rebel terrorists lurching towards them had proved to be quite satisfactorily demoralizing to the Federation security forces. The fact that said undead bodies refused to be stopped by bullets or laser blasts didn't hurt either, of course. The occasional brain-eating was really just the icing on the cake of intimidation.
Vila, in particular, had got very much into the spirit of things. Avon had actually been quite impressed by the ferocity with which the usually violence-aversive thief had ripped off the skull of Madame President's Chief Financial Advisor and happily guzzled down his cerebral matter in front of a roomful of fainting dinner guests.
He'd doubtless feel slightly sick about it later, of course. Vila always did. Still, Avon regarded the prospect of having to put up with his complaining about it tomorrow an entirely fair trade. Mentally, he patted himself on the back for having made the decision to keep Orac's newly-developed artificial brain formula secret from them until after the operation. Dwindling brain supplies had obviously given his zombies that lean, hungry edge.
Speaking of which... Here came Dayna, striding into the room he'd just finished securing, self-satisfaction evident in every line of her body. Her megawatt grin was almost a match for Tarrant's, on one of his better days... at least, if you ignored the splatters of blood around it and the occasional reddish-gray scrap lodged between her gleaming teeth.
She was holding an only slightly gnawed-on brain in her hands, thrusting it out towards him as if awaiting his approval, a cat proudly laying a dying mouse at its master's feet.
"Servalan!" she crowed triumphantly, lifting it closer for his inspection. "I finally did it! This--" the brain shook in her excited hands, sending tiny drops of blood flying across the room "--is the woman who killed my father!"
It actually took him a moment to get his face under control, mainly because he couldn't quite decide which of his mixed emotions it would be safe to reveal. Regret was hardly appropriate, and open revulsion would surely damage his imperturbable image. Jealousy over making the kill would seem somewhat churlish. He finally settled on a look of quiet, predatory satisfaction, only to discover it completely wasted, as she'd already turned away from him and was skipping back out the door, Servalan's brain still held triumphantly in front of her.
Ah, to be young and undead.
He wondered where the others had got to. Though it was just as well they were now mostly out of sight. Blake's rebel friends had finally shown up -- amazing to think that some of Blake's supposed allies had actually come through for once, though he supposed there was a first time for everything -- and while an army of undead was a fine thing for striking terror into the hearts of one's enemies, it might prove a bit difficult to explain to one's friends.
Avon glanced through the door, spied a uniform-clad figure trying to sneak down the hallway in an apparent break for the exit, and calmly shot him in the back.
Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The others. Well, of course he knew where they would be.
They'd be in the basement.
Smiling, he headed for the stairs.
**
Vila wasn't quite sure why he'd ended up with the jar. Except for the fact that he always seemed to end up doing everything. Not that he really wanted to contemplate some of the things he'd done today. What he really wanted was to get out of this dank, miserable basement, and away from the blood and gunfire upstairs, steal away somewhere with a nice bottle of something and get very, very drunk. Not that he could.
"Well, go on Vila, what are you waiting for?" Soolin turned from him to Tarrant. "This is the spot, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Tarrant. "Go on, Vila, open it."
Vila pulled himself up out of his personal pit of self-pity, more or less, and wrapped his blood-slick fingers around the lid.
There were footsteps on the stairs. Vila looked up in sudden panic, saw Soolin and Tarrant draw their guns...
"Blake!" He almost dropped the jar in his relief. Blake descended the stairs and moved aside so Vila could see who'd come along behind him. "And Dayna! You two nearly gave me a heart attack. I thought you were Avon!"
Dayna simply laughed at him. She was licking her fingers and grinning as if she'd just achieved a life-long dream. Vila very carefully didn't ask.
Instead he turned to Blake, holding the jar out tentatively. "You want to do the honors, Blake?"
Blake scratched absently at the fresh collection of bullet holes his torso had accumulated to keep Avon's company and shook his head. He had just achieved a life-long dream, Vila suddenly realized, but at the moment his attention seemed entirely focused on the jar. "Just hurry."
Vila unscrewed the lid, bracing himself against the now-familiar (though no less disturbing) sensations as the screaming streak of blackness hurled itself at him from the ancient brick wall and was sucked into the jar with its fellows.
They all gathered round and peered at the jar.
It was full.
And that, of course, was when Avon came in.
He was smiling, as if being in this place didn't bother him, didn't mean anything to him at all. "Thank you," he said mildly, coming forward to inspect the jar still held in Vila's outstretched hand. "It really was very considerate of you to go to trouble of gathering this up for me. But I believe I should be taking it into safekeeping now."
"We were going to give it back to you!" Vila almost winced at the pathetic defensiveness in his own voice.
Avon's smile grew even creepier. "But I don't believe I want it back in the way you intended to give it to me, Vila."
Tarrant stepped forward, his voice angry and disgusted. "Avon..."
"Shut up. Don't move. That goes for all of you." Obediently, resentfully, they all froze. "Except you, Vila. Give me the jar." He stretched out his hand.
Vila watched helplessly as his arm extended towards Avon. He felt ready to cry, as he hadn't felt since Malodaar, and that had been Avon's fault, too. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! They'd won Blake's revolution, won freedom for the masses, and they were all going to live out the rest of their unnatural lives as slaves to this smiling, egomaniac bastard! It wasn't FAIR!
Suddenly, Vila was fighting it, fighting it with every ounce of will in his body. His muscles trembled, his hand shook, but he kept reaching forward, reaching forward, watching it all happen in slow-motion, as Avon's fingertips closed in, almost touching... It's not FAIR!
His fingers convulsed, slipped, skidded, still slick with blood, against the glass.
The jar fell.
He watched, openmouthed, as it plummeted towards the hard stone floor of the basement, as Avon, his face a mask of shock, made a frantic grab for the tumbling, falling jar...
The sound of shattering glass was astonishingly, impossibly loud. Vila watched as the shards flew upwards in a bright-edged cloud, the trajectory of every tiny piece etched in perfect detail on his mind. He saw the string snap, the tiny piece of bone go flying to land amid the shards. For a moment, all was utterly silent, even the sounds of gunfire and shouted orders from upstairs miraculously stilled.
The silence was broken by the sound of Avon's screams.
"No! No!" He was flailing madly against the smoky black mass that had gathered around his head. "No! I don't want it! I don't want it! Vila!"
Vila involuntarily started forward at that cry for help, his feet crunching loudly on the broken glass. He lifted a hand towards Avon, uncertain whether he actually intended to try and wave the stuff away or to hold Avon still so it could get at him, or even whether it would have made a difference one way or another, but by the time he had finished the gesture, it didn't matter.
Avon's soul was pouring itself up his nose, into his mouth, his eyes, his ears, the pores of his face. He made a horrible choking noise, as if the stuff were suffocating him... and, just that suddenly, it was gone.
Avon slumped to the floor.
Blake shouted Avon's name and came rushing to his side.
"We can move!" shouted Dayna. "We've done it! It worked!"
We? thought Vila, rather unkindly. But why bother saying it? They wouldn't give him any credit. They never did.
He looked down and saw, much to his astonishment, that there were tears on Avon's face. Oh, great. He'll kill me for having seen that. Well, at least he can't order me to do it to myself any more...
He turned back towards the others, who were still standing there, looking as shell-shocked as he felt. For once. Buoyed up but that thought, he actually managed a shaky smile. "Well," he said. "I hope that old witch woman doesn't mind us losing her jar!"
Good. If they were busy rolling their eyes at him, it meant they weren't looking at Avon.
By the time they did, Avon was standing again, looking as if he had himself fully under control. Of course, he also looked as if he were standing in a room full of hostiles. From the look on Tarrant's and Soolin's faces, he might be right. Even Dayna didn't look like she quite knew how to feel. Come to think of it, Vila figured he probably ought to be thinking about the idea of getting revenge on Avon, too, after the hell he'd put them all through in the last two months. Not to mention that little matter of getting them all killed in the first place.
They all looked over at Blake, still standing there beside Avon, not saying a word. If anybody was justified in taking it all out on Avon, it was Blake.
Blake smiled. His eyes twinkled. He clapped Avon on the back.
"Come on, Avon," he said jovially. "Now that you're back to yourself again, it's time to meet your adoring public."
"What?" The question came from five separate throats, Avon's not least among them.
"The masses," said Blake casually, "need a figurehead. Can't you hear them out there?"
Indeed, now that their attention was drawn away from Avon, they could hear them. The sound was faint, but to be heard through the thick cellar walls at all, it must be coming from a huge mass of people. Hundreds of people, cheering, shouting, chanting...
"It's your revolution, Blake." Avon's voice was raspy, but controlled.
"Our revolution, Avon. Or, rather, your revolution." He smiled at the stunned incomprehension surrounding him. "They'll need someone to lead them, now. A famous rebel leader." He grinned at Avon.
"Of course," said Dayna, stepping forward uncertainly. "But surely, you, Blake..."
"Look at me. Look at all of us! The people of Earth are hardly going to accept a rotting corpse as their figurehead!"
Horrible comprehension was dawning on Avon's face. Vila suppressed a giggle at the sight.
"No, Blake...!"
"Yes, Avon." He leaned in close, almost whispering in Avon's ear, though not low enough for the rest of them couldn't hear. "I think you owe me."
Tarrant grinned dangerously. "You know, Avon, I think he's right."
Soolin simply fingered her gun and smiled.
"Damn you, Blake."
Blake made a sweeping after-you gesture towards the stairs. Avon simply stood there for a minute, casting an icy gaze across them all in turn.
Then he sighed, turned, and climbed the stairs, followed close behind by his soon-to-be Zombie Behind the Throne, who was already pouring out advice on what to say in his victory speech.
This time, Vila did giggle. "Well," he said, bounding over to the stairs himself, "it looks like Blake's got his revenge!" Not quite how we expected it all to turn out, I suppose, but we got there in the end!
Laughing, his fellow undead followed him... to meet Avon's public.