“Vila weighs seventy-three kilos, Avon.”
The door closed on its own, inches from Vila’s face, and all Vila could do was sit and stare at the metal, unseeing, fear flooding his bones. No way out but one, and Orac had found it, but Avon wouldn’t, he’d never.
Would he?
Vila’s feet knew the answer before his heart would admit it, and he was down the ladder, hunting for the rungs blindly, hands slipping with sweat, then once halfway down he let himself fall the rest of the way; he’d misjudged the height and the pain of the impact shot all the way from ankle to knee, and he knew that if he broke his leg he was dead. Where could he hide? He blinked away tears of agony, swiping at his face, cursing quietly at the salt in his eyes because he couldn’t afford not to see. It wasn’t a large shuttle; he couldn’t go back up; Avon would be coming from there, any moment now, and he needed to get away—but where to, where? There was just the cargo hold, but Avon had sent Vila there, he’d expect him—
“Vila?”
The cloying voice slid down Vila’s spine, and his last feeble hope that Avon didn’t mean to kill him shriveled away into nothingness. Avon had never sounded like that, not in all of their time together, not in their worst moments. Vila hit the door lock, and he was in the cargo hold, the only place he could go, his legs still burning in pain but blessedly not broken, and the voice—that voice—followed him like in a nightmare, “Vila, Vila,” and he slammed the door mechanism shut to keep it out.
He had no time to pick out a good hiding place. He climbed up into a compartment at random, in the back and in the shadow as far as possible. Would it be enough? There was nothing he could use to block the view and hide behind. If only he’d looked for another option: the racks in the back, perhaps, or maybe a panel in the wall—but then he heard the door opening, loud in the silence, and he knew he was in it for good or ill.
“Vila? Are you here?”
He folded his legs as close to his chest as he could and trembled, not daring to breathe.
“I need your help,” the voice that wasn’t Avon’s voice said.
The door whooshed shut, and they were sealed together in their private crypt.
“Vila, I know you’re here. Come out.”
He could faintly hear boots on metal, stepping softly to muffle the noise: a predator’s steps. And then Avon turned a corner and Vila could see him. He could see the gun in Avon’s hand, too.
Vila shut his eyes, like a child hiding in plain sight who thought he’d not be seen—but that was even worse; he had to look; he didn’t want to look.
“Vila. I know how they did it but I need your help. Please help me.”
Avon was right underneath, now. One glance upwards would be all it would take, and there was nothing Vila could do, nothing at all.
There was scattered cargo at Avon’s feet: some sort of transparent cube, hard to see. If he tripped, that would be Vila’s one chance; he could drop and try to disarm him. He planned the motion, the best way to grab Avon’s arm that held the gun; he could fight well if he had time to plan, it was not so different from a sleight-of-hand trick. He closed his fist as he thought of how to throw the punch—and his trembling elbow hit the panel at his side and dislodged a metal piece that fell to the floor, clattering loudly.
A hand was on his collar, yanking brutally hard; he was falling face first, and the floor came up to meet him. He’d lost.
“Get up,” Avon rasped into his ear, too loud and too close.
Continue reading on Ao3
Originally published in the Blake's 7 zine Rebels and Fools #7
