Articles Home » Fan Fiction » PART ONE of New Identities, by Ian Armstrong

• M1795537OCVirn
• 18 Mar 2026
• Fan Fiction
• 128 Reads

New Identities
a Blake's 7 story by Ian Armstrong

Introduction by the author:
Ever wondered why Travis changed so much between seasons? Why more people didn’t recognise Sleer? Why Tarrant was all in Avon’s face one season, then seemingly toeing the line the next, and why he bears a passing resemblance to Blake? These are some of my perpetual wonderings when I watch ‘Blake’s 7’, and this story is a whimsical attempt to address the above, and a few others, in one fell swoop. The story is in four parts: Part One takes place across the period between the end of Season One’s ‘Deliverance’ and the beginning of Season Two’s ‘Shadow’; Part Two takes place probably some time between the end of Season Three’s ‘Deathwatch’ and the beginning of ‘Terminal’, while Parts Three and Four take place between the end of ‘Terminal’ and the beginning of ‘Rescue’.
My thanks to M1795537 for thoughtful suggestions and improvements to the draft.



PART ONE

“I can look after you Carnell,” purred Servalan, “As long as you put me first”.
Carnell mentally processed a multitude of responses in microseconds, then replied,
“I will. I do. How can I be of service?”
“Travis,” replied Servalan bluntly, satisfied that Carnell’s response carried conviction.
Carnell raised an eyebrow and waited patiently for her to elaborate. He was not a man to waste words.
“I need Travis for a very… sensitive mission. To retrieve what will be a very valuable…” she paused and corrected herself, “A priceless asset for the Federation. I will collect this asset myself. I intend to go in secret, and to be accompanied by no-one other than Travis.”
Servalan fell quiet, as if no further comment nor explanation was needed – her face an impassive mask. The hint of a smile played around her lips, as she waited for Carnell to prove his worth.
A lesser man would have sought context, would have asked various questions that Carnell himself deemed trivial and inappropriate. He analysed Servalan’s words and body language, considered what he knew about both her and Travis, and correctly concluded that she wanted to know one thing only, and to be told that one thing without having to answer questions.
“Yes,” said Carnell emphatically, and paused for dramatic effect, as the smile on Servalan’s lips broadened. She waited patiently, refusing to take the bait.
“Travis, as you know, is volatile, headstrong, reckless… well, as I say, you know all this. What you are asking is ‘In the event that you and he recover this priceless asset, can he be trusted not to shoot you in the back and run off with it?’”
“Quite,” replied Servalan.
“And I reiterate: yes, he can be trusted.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if he couldn’t be trusted, you’d have no intention of asking him. After all, you know him far better than I do, Supreme Commander.”
“That’s debatable,” mulled Servalan, “I doubt there are any of us that the Criminal Psychology Division don’t know intimately. But what if my judgement is wrong? What if Travis can’t be trusted?”
“He can be trusted. He’s a Federation officer to his core. He would not betray his Supreme Commander. But, as I say, you know this already.”

Servalan smiled again, like a cat contemplating its next victim.
“Thank you, Carnell. That will be all.”
The dismissal was abrupt, but Carnell showed no sign of surprise. He merely returned a smile, nodded his head slightly, and exited as discreetly as he had entered.
Servalan watched him go, more curious than she had shown herself to be – or so she believed. Carnell, in fact, had been fully cognisant of his effect on her, and was currently walking down the corridor towards his shuttle craft with a look of self-satisfaction etched into his handsome features. As always, the puppeteer was pulling the strings.

* * *

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Travis,” snapped Servalan, as a residual halo of teleport energy faded in front of their eyes. She had watched Blake, Orac, and her dreams of absolute power literally vanish in front of her eyes. For once, she gave vent to her emotions without thought and instantly regretted letting her guard down. Travis had now been forewarned. He was shrewd enough to have surmised his fate anyway, but perhaps, just perhaps, a little smooth talking could have reassured him. Now however, he was an injured animal, backed into a corner. And she was alone with him.
At least his built-in gun had been disabled by Avon’s sharp shooting. At this point, she was grateful for small mercies but also took the time to file a mental note on Avon’s prowess.
“If I survive this, I’ll have you burnt alive, Carnell!” was her next thought. But rationality over-rode her anger, as it often did when she was under pressure. “On the other hand,” she mulled wryly, “If I do survive this, then I suppose you were right.”

* * *

“By all means correct me if I’m wrong, Carnell, but I don’t recall you predicting he’d pull a gun on me and force me to fly him to the nearest space port he could lose himself in,” remarked Servalan icily. She was reclining in her comfortable leather seat behind her opulent desk, irritated that Carnell was not standing to attention and breaking into a cold sweat, as would normally be the case when she hauled her junior officers over the coals.
Carnell, however, was technically not directly answerable to Servalan. As such, he could adopt a similarly relaxed posture in a seat across the desk from her – and was doing so. That was one reason for his lack of visible concern. Another reason, she was beginning to realise, was that Carnell was Carnell.

“As I say, Supreme Commander, we didn’t specifically discuss what would happen if you failed to secure the… asset. However, I did assure you that Travis would not betray you – and he didn’t.”
“You call going on the run an act of loyalty?”
“In fairness, you had all but assured him that his career as a Federation officer was over. But even then, he didn’t kill you.”
Once again Servalan had cause to rue the hastiness with which she had rebuked Travis on Aristo. In politics, timing is everything, and Servalan was, ultimately, a politician. Which is why she now accepted that Carnell had a valid point, and why she vowed to cut him down to size when the time was right. Which was not now.
“Point taken,” she smiled sweetly, “And now, as I’m sure you will appreciate, I have much else to attend to.”
“I do, however, have one suggestion I felt you might like to hear – to resolve the Travis situation,” replied Carnell, almost hastily by his standards, as Servalan’s body language indicated the meeting was over. Her eyes flickered upwards, briefly, to take in his demeanour.
“Go on,” she sighed, sounding irritated and bored. Inwardly, Carnell smiled. He knew that he had her attention.

* * *

“Crimos!” stated Servalan, disbelievingly, as she cast her eye over the ragged band assembled below her on the training ground. Carnell stood beside her, grinning from ear to ear, like a boy about to demonstrate how his new toy worked.
“Criminal psychopaths,” he replied, “I emphasise the formal term, partly because we prefer to use it, and because… well, because I’d hate to give the impression that I was trying to pass them off as anything more or less than they are. They are criminal psychopaths, each and every one of them – and unquestionably as dangerous and as volatile as their reputation would indicate. They are loose cannons. And their leader, if you’d care to focus on him, is, by some considerable margin, the worst.”
Servalan had already focused on him – a man who carried an unmistakable air of authority over his companions, his face displaying a mixture of arrogance and savage brutality. As the Crimos moved around the training ground, he barked orders like a born leader – or rather, thought Servalan to herself, like a born herder. Not a captain of men, not senior officer material. This man, she had no doubt, had been a sergeant in the regular forces, shouting and bullying his men forward into action, making sure they were more afraid of him than of certain death.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Krell,” replied Carnell, “Olag Krell.”
It was a name Servalan would have recognised, if there had been a reason to. Not doing so only increased her scepticism.
“You want to pass him off as Travis?”
“No, Supreme Commander,” Carnell corrected her, “I want to make him Travis.”

* * *

“And I’m supposed to believe you can do it?” asked Servalan archly, as they settled down into comfortable seats in her office, each with a drink in hand, “Brainwash a common thug into believing he’s a Federation Space Commander?”
Carnell shook his head blithely. He exuded, if anything, an even more relaxed confidence than usual. The drinks and the comfortable chair had told him that, in spite of her derisory tone, Servalan was intrigued and willing to listen. Puppeteers, after all, did tend to be listened to.
“Not brainwashed,” he corrected her, “’Re-written’, you might say – ‘recorded over.’”
Servalan placed her drink on the table, pressed her fingers together, and crossed one voluptuous leg over the other, a cunning expression on her face as she took in the implications.
“Wiped,” she hypothesised, “His old identity erased, to be replaced by a new one.”
“Exactly,” beamed Carnell, “Except,” he corrected himself with affected humility, “That it would only be a new identity for Olag Krell. To all intents and purposes, he will become Space Commander Travis.” Servalan detected a note of apology in his voice.
“To all intents and purposes?” she echoed, “That sounds a little… contingent.”
“Of course, it’s impossible to entirely suppress an individual’s real nature. But what will emerge from the conditioning will be a man who believes, with utter conviction, that he is Space Commander Travis. His persona will, most likely, continue to be that of Olag Krell, but his mind will be that of Travis.”
Servalan mulled this over, as she picked up her drink from the table and swirled the wine around the cup. Carnell hesitated, fearful of saying too much or too little, then decided he might as well press on and sound his final note of caution.
“Therefore, of course, aside from the obvious physical difference, there’s the question of whether Travis’ former subordinates will take to their commander’s new personality.”

“Let me deal with that,” replied Servalan smoothly. As outlandish at it appeared, Servalan could see value in Carnell’s proposal. But she wanted to be sure that he was thinking along the same lines. Aside from anything else, it would help her get the measure of this mysterious, and oddly attractive, man.
“Why do it?” she asked him simply, “Why go to all this trouble? What’s in it for me?”
Carnell knew that she already had the answers to her own questions, and that he was now on trial. On trial and in his element.
“Travis… that is, the real Travis, is on the run. At best, a potential embarrassment; at worst, a dangerous enemy. Finding him could take an enormous amount of time and resources if he doesn’t want to be found. Time and resources that you can ill afford, if you want to capture Blake.”
He paused for dramatic effect, but Servalan’s face was a mask.
“Therefore, neutralise Travis. He doesn’t want to be found. He’ll be more than happy to remain in hiding, under a new identity. Now, if Olag Krell becomes Travis, then, effectively, Travis hasn’t disappeared, hasn’t gone on the run, doesn’t need to hunted down and captured. Let the old Travis quietly disappear and be forgotten about. Problem solved – and much more than that.”
Servalan knew what was coming next, what observation he was about to make. She raised a hand to silence him. She’d seen and heard enough. Now, she wanted to put it to the test.

* * *

The officers, and the assembled troops, stared blankly at Olag Krell. His newly acquired eye patch put them in mind of the mysteriously absent Space Commander Travis. Otherwise, they were at a loss as to who he was and why they were standing to attention in front of him – or who the man was standing beside him, with a look of preening self-congratulation etched on his face.
“Gentleman,” announced Carnell, with jarring politeness, “I give you Space Commander Travis.”
Carnell took a step backwards, leaving Krell – Travis – to acknowledge the recognition due to him.
None was forthcoming.

Krell/Travis surveyed his men with an icy stare.
Lieutenant Reever, the most senior officer present, aside from the questionable credentials of this mysterious imposter, finally spoke on behalf of his men. He addressed Carnell.
“There seems to be some… confusion… sir,” (he added ‘sir’ for good measure, unsure of what civilian status the man he was addressing possessed).
“Indeed… there does,” replied Carnell unhelpfully, smiling affably.
“Stand to attention when I address you!” barked Travis, sounding more like a drill sergeant than the commanding officer they had known. But his words had the desired effect. As one, officers and troopers straightened and clicked their heels together, staring straight ahead of them, past Travis - aside from the unfortunate Lieutenant Reever, at the front and centre of the ranks, who found himself making direct eye contact with his new commander.

“Confused, are we, Lieutenant Reever?” queried Travis, in an icily soft and polite voice.
Reever’s throat went dry. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the man facing him was a Crimo – he had that air about him. Which rendered Reever all the less inclined to argue with him. And yet… what if this was some kind of test? And was it his loyalty to the absent Space Commander Travis that was being tested?
“Think, Reever!” he silently implored himself, “Say the wrong thing now, and you’re a dead man!”
Travis patiently awaited his subordinate officer’s reply, noting with satisfaction the beads of sweat starting to roll down Reever’s forehead.

Just as the tension was becoming unbearable for Reever – who had it in his mind at that second to turn and flee rather than give an answer – a side door slid open, and they watched Servalan glide in, her full-length white dress sweeping the floor, a luxurious fox fur draped round her neck. Her eyes and her cropped hair were as dark as space, and her blood red lips were pressed into an unnatural smile.
The troops and their officers watched in awe as Servalan approached Travis and Reever, while Carnell eased himself discreetly further into the background.
Servalan eyed the panic-stricken Reever.
“Is there some kind of problem, Lieutenant Reever?” she asked, with the same gentle vibrato in her voice that had seduced him and many others before him.
“Supreme Commander,” Reever saluted her, “I… to be honest, Ma’am… I’m unsure of how to react. I think we all are,” he added, indicating his men, who certainly did look completely bemused.
“Understandable,” Servalan replied smoothly, “Space Commander Travis has been absent for some time. On his return, you find him… altered. That is to be expected. Space Commander Travis has been on a highly confidential assignment, the details of which are known only to the High Council and myself. One of the reasons his assignment was so highly confidential was because of how dangerous it was. Space Commander Travis has endured much and sacrificed much, for the sake of the Federation. Such endurance, such sacrifice, changes a man. Need I say more?”
Lieutenant Reever, finally cognisant of the correct response, did not miss his cue.

“Supreme Commander!” he saluted her again, “Sir!” he saluted Travis, before turning to face his men, “All men stand to attention! Space
Commander Travis,” he indicated, stepping back to stand alongside Travis.
Travis, now flanked by Servalan and Reever, smiled with satisfaction as his men enthusiastically voiced their support and obedience.
Behind them, Carnell gloated silently, his mind on his future prospects, whilst he admired his rear view of Servalan.

* * *

Servalan and Carnell watched as the man who had been Olag Krell paced up and down her office, as if seeking to release his pent-up energy.
“Take a seat, Travis,” invited Servalan gently.
“I don’t want to sit,” he snapped back.
“Then stand to attention and address me by my title,” barked Servalan.
This was language Travis understood. He immediately complied.
“Supreme Commander!” he saluted.
“You have concerns?” Servalan asked.
“The men…,” he replied, “They don’t recognise me.”
“And that confuses you.” It was more of a statement than a question on Servalan’s part.
“It concerns me,” Travis replied. “Without recognition, there can be no respect. Without respect, there can be no authority, no loyalty. My men were loyal to me.”
“They were,” Servalan assured him.
Travis hesitated, frowned, then nodded.
“Yes,” he went on, “It confuses me.”

“And you have been very confused lately, haven’t you, Travis?” Servalan purred.
Travis nodded reluctantly.
“Since the Aristo mission?”
Travis nodded once again.
“What did your retraining therapist tell you?” Servalan asked.
Travis winced, evidently reluctant to recall the details of his time with the therapist.
“He told me to expect this.”
“And?” Servalan pressed.
“And to deal with it as a Federation officer should.”
“Which I trust you will,” Servalan concluded.
Travis hesitated for the briefest of moments, before replying firmly,
“Yes, Supreme Commander.”
“That will be all, Travis. Dismissed.”

Travis turned and marched out of the room. Servalan watched him go, then turned her gaze to Carnell, who - seemingly uninterested in the interview – was inspecting a small hand-held computer. He may have been playing games on it, for all she knew. Despite herself, she couldn’t help admiring his poise.
“Will the conditioning hold?” she asked.
Carnell glanced up, “Of course,” he replied.
“You seem very sure about that,” Servalan acknowledged, before adding, “I’m not so sure Olag Krell is.”
“Olag Krell, Supreme Commander, no longer exists. At least, not consciously. The only memories that man has now are those of Travis. He is, to all intents and purposes, Travis. He believes it, you believe it. And as long as he believes it and you believe it, everybody else will fall in line, as you saw just now on the parade ground. Repeat a lie often enough, and it becomes the truth.”
Servalan pursed her lips.
“We shall see,” she murmured thoughtfully, “But I concede that if this project works, then it takes my… our ambitions to a new level.”
“Most certainly, Supreme Commander,” smiled Carnell, sensing the moment was right to gravitate towards her until their bodies were almost touching.

“The Federation gave Blake a false life, false memories – successfully, up to a point,” Servalan reflected, “But we never asked him to stop believing he was Blake. We never tried to erase Blake completely. “This…” she gestured towards the door Travis had just walked out of, “is progress.”
“And,” murmured Carnell in her ear, “It’s only the beginning.”
Servalan inclined her head toward him and smiled seductively.
“Let us hope so, Carnell,” she whispered, “Because if it turns out to be a false dawn, it’ll be the end of you.”
Carnell blinked, as the grin on his face hardened into a taught, fixed smile.

* * *

Vila was bored. Bored and anxious, as he explained to Cally.
“How can you be bored and anxious at the same time?” she smiled, as she monitored the controls on the Liberator’s flight deck.
“Easy,” he shrugged, “I’m a man of many talents.”
“You keep them well hidden,” replied Cally distractedly, her attention drawn by the controls.
Her relative lack of interest probably wounded Vila more than the jibe. But now his own attention was also swiftly refocusing on whatever it was that was worrying Cally.
“What is it?” he asked anxiously, no trace of boredom left in his voice.
“Nothing,” she replied hesitantly, then more confidently, “No, it’s nothing. I thought we’d picked up pursuit ships. Looks like it’s just space debris.”
“Well, let’s hope we’re not part of it by the time Blake’s ready to come back up,” bleated Vila, “What’s taking them so long?”
“It’s risky enough up here, Vila,” Cally admonished him, “Teleporting down there is a thousand times more dangerous. Blake and the others have to tread very carefully.”
“Wonderful,” Vila moaned, “Consider the irony. One minute we’re sitting watching the Liberator blow up on the monitor screen. The next it turns out to be a duplicate. It’ll be ironic if we blow up after all, while Blake’s down there doing shady deals.”
“He’s not doing shady deals,” replied Cally, with a certain lack of conviction, “We need to contact the Terra Nostra. The man Blake’s meeting can set it up for us. That’s all it is.”
“Shady man brokers deal with shady drug dealers,” Vila snorted, “Nothing shady about that.”
“Look, Vila,” sighed Cally, “I don’t like it any more than you do. But we can discuss it with Blake when he gets back.”
“If he gets back,” replied Vila, anxiously, before slumping into his chair, to resume being bored.

Vila’s anxiety, had he known it, was entirely justified. Things were not going well.
“At least we got the information,” muttered Jenna, as she and Blake peered out of the small hillside cave in which they had taken shelter. Behind them, Avon and Gan were trying in vain to contact the Liberator.
“Liberator!” Avon hissed into his teleport bracelet for at least the twentieth time.
“It’s no use, Avon,” sighed Gan, “We can’t get a signal inside this cave.”
“And we can’t risk leaving it,” said Jenna, over her shoulder.
Avon opened his mouth, intent on reminding Blake of how reluctant he’d been to participate in this ill-advised venture.
“Blake!”

The voice was not Avon’s. Yet it had a coarse, bullying quality to it that seemed oddly familiar to Blake.
“Where is he?” said Jenna, squinting at the Federation guards down below in the valley, in an effort to identify who was speaking, “Sounds like he’s in charge.”
“I can’t see him for all the troops milling about. Not an accident, I’d imagine,” Blake replied.
“He’s keeping out of shot?” Jenna speculated. Blake nodded.
“Blake!” came the voice again, “I know you’re up there somewhere. Show yourself, or the hostages die!”
The hostages in question were an abject pool of clearly terrified citizens sitting at gunpoint amidst a surrounding semi-circle of Federation troops.

Blake made to exit the cave. Jenna grabbed his arm.
“You can’t go out there, Blake!”
“She’s right, Blake,” barked Avon, “Do you want to get us all killed?” He also reached out to grab Blake.
“I’ve got to go out there,” hissed Blake, desperately, “We all do! We can’t reach the Liberator inside this cave, and we can’t just sit here until they find us. Anyway, I don’t think he’s bluffing.”
Reluctantly, Avon let go of Blake’s arm, unable to fault his logic. Blake held Jenna’s gaze, and after a moment she too let her arm drop.
“If he doesn’t shoot me on sight, follow me out,” Blake commanded.
“It’s our only chance.”
“Let me go first, Blake,” said Gan, “At least I can try to cover the rest of you.”.
“No, Gan,” Blake replied calmly to the burly giant, “I think it’s me he wants most, so I’ll draw his attention – then follow me out and try to teleport.”
Gan looked vexed but knew better than to prolong an argument with Blake when his mind was made up.
Blake steeled himself, then stepped out of the cave.

“That’s better, Blake,” came the taunting voice from below, “Now we can see one another.”
“Except I can’t see you,” replied Blake, “Why don’t you show yourself?”
Blake and his crew had retreated to the cave in short order, at the first warning of encroaching Federation troops. It was only a short distance from the mining settlement, which ordinarily was monitored only by a skeleton crew of Federation guards that Blake and the others had easily been able to bypass. Blake had little doubt that both his contact and his information had been reliable. His senses were by now highly attuned to Federation agents masquerading as rebels or outlaws. This contact had been the real deal. And yet, somehow, it had nevertheless been a trap.
Beneath him, a gap appeared in the ranks of the Federation troopers. Through it stepped what was evidently the man who had been addressing him, presumably their commanding officer. Blake heard a gasp behind him, as Avon, Gan, and Jenna emerged from the cave.
“Travis!” breathed Jenna.
But Blake shook his head, peering closely at the figure below.
“That’s not Travis,” he said confidently.
Jenna squinted, seeing a man in black with an eye patch and a black glove covering one hand, in which hand was embedded a familiar golden crystal, the energy cell of a laser gun. Avon too was studying the man.
“Well, if it isn’t Travis, it must be his biggest fan,” he remarked wryly.

“I’ll give you thirty seconds to throw down your gun, Blake, then start making your way down here. If you don’t comply, we start to shoot,” shouted Travis, indicating the terrified civilians.
“Blake, don’t listen to him,” hissed Avon, “Whoever he is, he’s a Federation officer. He can’t be trusted.”
Blake stretched his gun arm out sideways, the gun pointing down towards the ground.
“Listen to me, Blake!” snarled Avon, “Drop that gun and we’re all dead!”
“I have to go down there,” Blake replied calmly, “I don’t have a choice.”
“He’s right, Avon,” said Jenna, “What other choice is there? We can’t just leave them to their fate.”
“Oh, I can. And will,” replied Avon coldly, “Anyway, they’re only under threat because we’re here.”
“If he sees us try to teleport, he’ll start shooting, Avon – that’s obvious,” interjected Gan, “I wasn’t keen on this plan of Blake’s either – but we’re here now. We can’t risk their lives.”
“Time’s up, Blake,” shouted Travis, “Drop the gun!”
Blake immediately complied, then started walking down the hill.

As he did so, Travis quietly and casually commanded his men to start shooting the hostages.
Blake came to a halt, stunned and appalled as he found himself, yet again, witness to a brutal Federation massacre in cold blood, as if one of his recurring nightmares was being replayed in front of his very eyes. His throat was too dry to speak, let alone shout, as screams and shouts of panic reverberated in the valley below.
“Vila!” barked Avon into his teleport bracelet, “Teleport now!”

In an instant, Blake found that the scene before his eyes had transformed into Cally sitting at the Liberator’s teleport controls, before Avon’s words had even registered in his brain. But he snapped out of his shock immediately.
“Put me back down, Cally!” he barked, as Jenna, Gan, and Avon stepped out of the teleport area.
Jenna whirled round to face Blake, “No!” She turned and snapped, “Cally! Don’t!”
Cally hesitated.
“Do it, Cally!” Blake’s voice sounded in her head, and his grim resolve was unmistakeable. Immediately, she operated the teleport controls, and Blake disappeared again.
“Cally!” wailed Jenna.
“Sorry, Jenna, I had to. He spoke to me – in my head.”
“Never mind that now – let’s get him back,” snapped Avon, leaping back to the teleport bay, gun drawn. Gan and Jenna immediately joined him.
“Put us down, Cally,” nodded Avon.

A second later they were back on the hill, standing directly behind Blake, who was staring down at the aftermath of the massacre.
Federation troops were moving amongst the bodies, presumably to check if any were still alive. Behind them stood the Federation officer with the eye patch and the embedded gun.
“You thought I was bargaining, Blake. Not this time. This time, I’m just sending a message. You and I have crossed swords too many times for it to end like this, Blake.”
“Who are you?” shouted Avon, his question designed to undermine the grandeur of Travis’ declamation, as much as it was asked in earnest.
“What’s wrong, Avon?” Travis held up his gun hand, “Going senile? Last time we met, you shot this off. But I wouldn’t try it again, if I were you.”
“Travis,” stated Avon, simply.
“But it’s not Travis,” Jenna insisted, disbelievingly.

Blake remained silent, staring at the corpses piled up below him. At length, he spoke.
“As long as that man says he’s Travis, then he’s Travis. And I’ll see him dead for this.”
“Travis!” he shouted to the smirking figure below, “You’ve made your point.”
Travis smiled and waited, anticipating a vitriol-fuelled monologue from Blake. But he was to be disappointed.
Blake spoke quietly into his teleport bracelet,
“Cally, we’re ready. Bring us up.”
Travis watched as Blake and the others disappeared again.
Once more, the Terra Nostra had played both sides, tipping Blake off to their whereabouts on Space City, whilst simultaneously complying with Servalan’s edict to alert them immediately to Blake’s presence.
But Travis was satisfied with how this round had played out. Had he sprung the trap, Blake would most likely have evaded capture, with that damn teleport of his. No, better this – a short, sharp reminder of who he, Travis, was, and what he was capable of.
“But next time, Blake,” murmured Travis, as he gazed at the pile of bodies beneath his feet, “Next time, I won’t be so merciful.”

end of PART ONE
PART TWO continues here