‘Farrow Lant?’ Blake repeated. ‘I know that name.’
‘I should hope you do,’ Halla sneered beside him. Lant himself merely stood in the centre of the room, glowering at Blake.
‘My husband was something of a celebrity 20 years ago,’ Alexa said from behind Blake, where she had been checking the back of his head. Whatever they’d whacked him with had left a nasty lump but hopefully no lasting damage. ‘The scourge of the Federation.’
Blake couldn’t work out if Alexa’s tone was full of pride or sarcasm. ‘I should say,’ he commented. ‘Lant was a legend. A real Robin Hood. Raiding Federation stores…’
‘…and distributing the bounty to the poor and destitute.’ Alexa stepped back in front of him. ‘A real hero.’ Definitely sarcasm.
‘Of course there were other stories.’ Blake said, fixing Lant with his gaze. He remembered the tales all too well from his early days in the rebellion. Farrow Lant had led a brief but bloody crusade against the Federation. Yes, there were the stories of his kindness to those the Federation oppressed—and god knew there were millions of those—but there were also accounts of terrible acts of violence. Lant’s group of rebels had been recruited from the criminal scum of the galaxy. Murderers. Rapists. Sadists. They’d all had a grudge against their galactic masters and didn’t care who got in the way. Of course, Blake was fully aware that his own crew was hardly whiter than white, but they always showed restraint. When Lant’s band attacked a Federation outpost, no-one was left to tell any tales. Blake had seen an official report once. A medical ship transporting Federation troopers back from a border dispute had been attacked. Everyone had been slaughtered, doctors, nurses and patients alike. Worst of all, there had been signs that some of the injured soldiers had been tortured before they died.
‘I shouldn’t believe everything your Federation friends told you,’ Lant rumbled, stepping closer, arms folded over his still-impressive chest. However long they’d been here, Lant had obviously kept himself in shape.
‘One thing I don’t understand,’ Blake said, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. ‘Lant was killed. He was executed on Bucol IV.’
‘Lant? Executed?’ Karter let out a weary laugh. ‘If only that were true.’
‘That’s what I’d heard,’ Avon said, his portion of stew now cold beside him.
‘Perhaps that’s what they wanted people to think. The biggest threat to the Federation dead and buried. He was certainly out of the picture—one way or another.’
‘But this Lant is here,’ Cally asked, her empty bowl resting on her lap.
Karter nodded. ‘And has been for the last two decades, more or less. We all have been.’
‘Two decades?’ Cally was horrified.
‘So this was a Federation station,’ Avon said.
‘Indeed, and I was a Federation scientist, which I can see from your face makes you even less likely to trust me. I was just—’
‘Doing your job?’ Avon cut in. ‘Following orders.’
Karter looked straight into his eyes, unrepentant.
‘Yes,’ he said, raising his pointed chin a little. ‘It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, but we can’t all be freedom fighters like Lant and his crew. My work never hurt anyone…’
‘That you knew of.’
‘Accepted. But there wasn’t much in the way of an alternative. I’d love to hear that times have changed and the Federation is not the place it was, but I doubt you’re about to tell me otherwise.’
‘Unfortunately not,’ said Cally, placing her bowl beside her.
Karter paused for a second.
‘A pity, but I cannot pretend to be shocked. Unfortunately there are some things you cannot change.’
‘Not all of us agree with you,’ said Avon coldly.
‘Lant certainly didn’t. I’ll never forget the day he arrived, the day everything changed.’
‘Were you studying the cloud that surrounds this station?’ Cally asked. ‘Trying to work out what it is?’
The question drew another bitter laugh from the old man.
‘No, my dear. The cloud, as you put it, didn’t exist then.’