Blake's 7

Mark Wright

Description

At the very edge of the Federation lies an area of space that doesn't appear on any star chart. No one has ventured there for decades. No one knows it even exists. The Forgotten are waiting.Under attack from a fleet of Federation ships commanded by Space Commander Travis, Roj Blake and his band of freedom fighters pilot the Liberator into a strange, nebulous cloud. Immediately, their systems become erratic, super computer Zen goes offline and life-support begins to shut down. They are adrift, lost in space.Their only hope is a seemingly abandoned space station at the heart of the cloud. But what secrets await them? The Forgotten will be remembered.

Sujets

• Space opera

Informations

• Publié par: Big Finish Productions
• Date de parution: 08 mai 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781844359882
• Langue: English

Extrait

Table of Contents
Copyright
Blake's 7: THE FORGOTTEN by Cavan Scott and Mark Wright
Thanks
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
First published in May 2012
by Big Finish Productions Ltd
PO Box 1127, Maidenhead, SL6 3LW
www.bigfinish.com
Executive Producers for Big Finish: Nicholas Briggs and Jason Haigh-Ellery
Blake’s 7 Producer for Big Finish: David Richardson
Executive Editor for B7 Media: Andrew Mark Sewell
Managing Editor: Jason Haigh-Ellery
Production Editor: Xanna Eve Chown
With thanks to Steve Tribe
Cover design: Anthony Lamb
Copyright © Mark Wright and Cavan Scott 2012
The right of Mark Wright and Cavan Scott to be identified as the authors of this Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information retrieval system, without prior permission, in writing, from the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Blake’s 7 ™ © B7 Enterprises Ltd 2012. All rights reserved.
Blake’s 7 wordmark and logo are trademarks of B7 Enterprises Ltd
and are used under license. Blake’s 7 ™ © B7 Enterprises Ltd 2012.
Based on the original television series Blake’s 7 created by Terry Nation.
Blake’s 7
THE FORGOTTEN
Cavan Scott and Mark Wright
Thanks to our wonderful editor Xanna Chown,
David Richardson and all at Big Finish,
Rebecca Levene, Scott Harrison, Nick Webster, Nick Peers, George Mann, Paul Magrs,
Stuart Douglas, Nick Kyme,
Scott Mann, Andy Smillie, Tommy Donbavand
and, of course, Clare Scott and Paula Robbins.
CHAPTER ONE
Federation Communications Hub, Xantos Beta
Sub-technician Glynd Tandar stared with tired eyes at the flare of data juddering across the large wallscreen. He had been on shift for seven hours, and was not due to be relieved for another two. His red-rimmed eyes ached from the long hours spent monitoring and deciphering the never-ending comms traffic. The coded information held little meaning at this stage of his shift.
Tandar knew the work they did here was important. Maintaining the network of communication hubs across the Federation was vital to security—especially in the current climate. The installation on Xantos Beta was a prime node in this sector for cascading top priority transmits through the hyperspace network. If Xantos Beta ever fell silent, it could cripple the Federation.
Pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve a build-up of pressure, Tandar forced himself awake and focused his concentration back to the instrument banks.
On the chair next to Tandar, clothed in the same pristine white uniform of the science-corps that he wore himself, Olivar yawned. They had been working this shift together for nearly three years, and knew exactly how each other thought.
Tandar glanced at his younger comrade, adjusting a control as he did. ‘You too?’ he asked.
Olivar ran a hand though sandy hair and smiled ruefully. ‘Yeah. The Eighth Hour,’ he announced with mock drama. It was a joke among the comms technicians on Xantos Beta. The Eighth Hour: the hour of your shift cycle where, if you were going to make a mistake, it would be then. Olivar pointed his stylus at the screen. ‘I’ve no idea if this is detailing troop movements on Saurian Demos, or if it’s the President’s shopping list.’
Tandar smiled. Olivar always knew how to cheer up a long shift. His colleague waggled a plastic beaker at him and he nodded. Olivar picked up another beaker and walked the short distance across the control room to the food dispenser. He placed a beaker in a small alcove and pressed a button. With a dull whine, the machine began to dispense a dark, steaming liquid.
Olivar leant against the wall and watched the stream of liquid. ‘They should just get computers to do everything. Aren’t they supposed to enhance the quality of life?’
‘You’d soon get bored with all that leisure time,’ Tandar said over his shoulder. ‘And besides, what would you do without me for company?’
‘I’m sure I could think of—’
Olivar broke off as the heavy door at the back of the control room was slammed open. Tandar tensed and rose to his feet as a black-clad trooper stalked into the room, boots thudding heavily on the metal floor plates. The trooper’s face was completely obscured by the helmet and he moved slowly around the room like some sightless mantis. Hefting a standard-issue Federation blaster rifle, the trooper looked first at Tandar, then at Olivar, before raising a comm-unit to his mouthpiece.
‘Section Gamma clear,’ the trooper rasped into the unit. ‘Green condition.’ Satisfied, the trooper stalked back to the door, the two technicians watching nervously as he stopped at the drinks dispenser. Without a word, he took the recently poured beverage and left the room. The door was pulled closed after him with almost unnecessary politeness.
Olivar visibly sagged against the wall and Tandar realised he had barely breathed throughout the last minute.
‘These additional security checks make me nervous,’ said Olivar as he stabbed the button to dispense another drink.
‘Relax,’ soothed Tandar. ‘They’re doing their jobs.’
‘Yeah, scaring innocent Federation citizens.’ Olivar walked quickly back to his work station, drink in hand. ‘Just because some freedom fighter goes on the rampage, our personal liberty has to suffer because they up all the security rotations.’ He sat heavily back at his seat. ‘Am I the only one who sees the irony in that? Thanks a lot, Blake.’
Tandar had to laugh. ‘This Blake seems to be getting the blame for everything now. I even heard a transcription clerk blaming the quality of the food in the refectory on him.’
‘Maybe she has a point.’ Olivar took a gulp from the beaker and returned his attention to the screen.
‘It’ll all die down soon enough,’ Tandar tried to reassure his colleague. ‘These things always do. Remember all that trouble with Bayban the Butcher? How often do you hear about him these days?’
Olivar shrugged. ‘I guess.’ He returned to work, tapping a sequence on the wide control panel. ‘Do you think we can reach the end of this shift without any foul-ups. I’d quite like to enjoy some personal relaxation time later.’
Grinning, Tandar wheeled his chair up close to the control bank next to his colleague. ‘I’m sure we can get through the next two hours without—’
Tandar felt a sudden pressure as a cold, solid tube was pressed against his neck. He froze.
A voice, soft and calm, said: ‘If you do exactly as I say, neither of you will be harmed.’
Olivar leapt to his feet, immediately squaring up to the presence standing behind Tandar, but was roughly shoved back into his seat by a dark-haired man who appeared from the shadows.
‘Sit down,’ hissed this second newcomer, pressing an identical device hard against Olivar’s cheek. The tube was attached to a cupped base of concentric rings and smooth moulded black handle. The man’s thumb wavered over a stud set into the device’s base. Tandar had never seen anything like it, but the intent behind its use was obvious.
‘You won’t shoot us,’ Tandar said, his pulse quickening as adrenalin rushed through his body.
The man standing with Olivar broke into a thin, sardonic smile. ‘My friend here has a streak of honour that renders the chance of him pulling the trigger at around 98 per cent. I, on the other hand, have no such emotional disability and guarantee you, one hundred per cent, that I will shoot if you do not follow our instructions.’
‘That’s enough, Avon. We have a job to do.’
Avon? Had Tandar heard right? Olivar was hauled roughly from his chair and the man—Avon—shoved him bodily across the control room. Seconds later, Tandar himself was pulled from his seat and thrust towards the back of the room. Olivar caught him and helped him to stay on his feet.
Both men faced the second aggressor. He stood a short distance away, covering them with the strange weapon. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘don’t move and nobody will be hurt. I give you my word.’ This tall, powerfully built man radiated a calm sense of power. He was clothed in heavy boots and some sort of hooded green combat fatigues, much like his comrade.
But it was the face that Tandar was drawn to. The unruly mop of dark hair framing an intelligent face. And the eyes, careworn and sad, darting between Tandar and Olivar.
Tandar knew that face. It had been burned into his memory from the constant security bulletins that dominated the Federation comms network.
Roj Blake.
Insurrectionist. Rebel.
Murderer.
Blake didn’t take his eyes from the technicians. ‘Avon?’
Behind him, the other man had sat at the bank of instruments, moving dexterous, confident hands across the controls. ‘I’m concentrating,’ he said without looki