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

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• 18 Mar 2026
• Fan Fiction
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PART TWO

Tarrant’s fist slammed the metal door of the prison cell, and he gave out a loud grunt, partly from the pain of the impact, and partly due to frustration. Somehow, he’d been captured. And they had his teleport bracelet.
His short-term memory was a blank. The last he could recall was being on the Liberator, discussing… he wasn’t sure. Flight plans, or something. Avon had been there, and Vila and Cally, and the new girl, Dayna.
But what then?
He had no more time to think about it. The cell door slid open, and what he presumed was a Federation doctor, wearing a white gown and mask, entered, accompanied by an armed Federation guard.
The doctor held up a large syringe.
“Don’t resist,” he advised Tarrant matter-of-factly.
Tarrant, equally matter-of-factly, resisted, and was felled by a blow from the guard for his troubles.
As he lay on the cell floor, dazed, the doctor injected the fluid.
Tarrant was flooded with a sense of warmth, wellbeing, and an urgent desire to be as helpful as he possibly could be. He smiled gratefully.

* * *

“A truth serum?” queried Servalan, studying the monitor screen, as she and Carnell sat comfortably in the control room, “Won’t that invalidate the experiment?”
“On the contrary, Madame President,” Carnell assured her smoothly, “It will show just how reliable this method actually is.”
Servalan watched the screen.
“What if the serum doesn’t work on Tarrant?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“I’ve never had dealings with Dev Tarrant,” Servalan replied, “But he’s one of Security’s best men – that I do know. Their training in how to combat interrogation techniques is second-to-none. But then, you know that, don’t you, Carnell?” she smiled at him, like a panther baring its teeth.
“Of course, Madame President – the work of Security and the Psychostrategists has always been closely linked. I know all about Tarrant.”
“So, it wasn’t just the name?” Servalan posited, doubtfully.
“Not at all,” said Carnell, “Dev Tarrant’s relationship – such as it was – to Del Tarrant was what first brought him to mind, of course. But I was already toying with the idea of employing a… volunteer from Security to be the subject of this experiment. As it happened, the two dovetailed nicely.”
“Interesting,” Servalan remarked. She and Carnell found themselves eyeing each other for a moment that seemed, to Carnell, like an eternity. He would never, of course, have admitted to it, but he was at a loss as to what she might be thinking, and – as always, when she held his gaze – he felt butterflies in his stomach, his heart started to beat faster, and he could feel the blood rising to his face. It had been a long, long time since Carnell had encountered anyone who could discomfit him in that way. It was terrifying – and hugely stimulating.
“Well?” said Servalan, as she privately noted the effect she was having on Carnell, with satisfaction, “Shall we continue?” Carnell blinked and was back in the room.
“Indeed,” he said, a little stiffly, and swung round to face the monitor. The doctor had by now left the cell, and a brutal-looking Federation interrogator had taken his place. Dev Tarrant was still slumped in his chair, a dreamy smile on his face. If he was in any way resistant to a truth serum then he was certainly doing a good job of hiding it.
Carnell spoke into his microphone,
“You may proceed.”
The Federation interrogator looked up at the camera, nodded, and took a step towards Dev Tarrant.

“Confirm your name,” snapped the interrogator, as Dev Tarrant lolled in his seat, still smiling dreamily.
“Del Tarrant,” he replied confidently.
“Confirm your age,” ordered the interrogator.
“Twenty-three,” replied the obviously middle-aged Tarrant.
“Confirm your rank.”
“Federation Space Captain – dishonourably discharged,” stated
Tarrant.
“Confirm your place of birth.”
“Earth, Citadel 3, Section 24.”
“Confirm your next of kin.”
“Next of kin: Roj Blake, father; Veeta Meerall, mother.”
“Confirm your next of kin’s current status.”
“Roj Blake, believed deceased; Veeta Meerall, deceased.”

Carnell glanced nervously at Servalan, as the interrogation proceeded. She seemed unmoved, but her eyes were fixed on the screen – no mistake, no mishap, no flaw or weakness in the procedure was going to escape her attention. He pursed his lips. He was confident. And terrified. Everything was riding on this. His rehabilitation. His future. He’d been on the run so long. Now was his chance to come in from the cold. Would Servalan embrace him? He'd come to realise that that was all he wanted, all he needed. He’d allowed himself to be captured for it. He was ready to risk death for it.

“Confirm your adopted parents,” continued the interrogator, in a bored tone. He hated truth serum sessions – a waste of his time and talents. Any junior functionary could elicit the answers just as easily.
“Dev Tarrant, Senior Security Officer, and Naru Hassan Tarrant, housewife.”
“Confirm your adopted parents’ current whereabouts.”
“Dev Tarrant, Senior Security Officer, currently posted to the Outer
Worlds, where he is – “
Servalan’s voice cut Tarrant off in mid-stride.
“Let’s skip the preliminaries, Interrogator. I want to see how he functions when you dig a little deeper. Press him on more… emotive issues.”

Servalan sat back in her chair, her eyes still on the monitor.
“Let’s see who this man really thinks he is.”
Carnell felt his pulse racing, yet he was in his element.
“This is my arena, Madame President,” he thought to himself, “And I am pulling Dev Tarrant’s strings. But ultimately, we’re all dancing to your tune, aren’t we?”

The interrogator relished the opportunity to, as Servalan put it, ‘dig a little deeper’.
“Now listen to me, Tarrant,” he commenced, “We know that your short-term memory is impaired. You had an accident. So let me fill you in. You’re in a Federation detention centre on Earth, and the Liberator’s in orbit. The other members of the crew – Avon, Cally, Restal, Mellanby – they’re all under detention also. Your ship is in our hands. Avon and the others… they’re here for good. They’re not leaving. But you… you’re an ex-Federation space captain. You’ve made mistakes, but you’re still young. Young, but with a wealth of knowledge and experience. So, it’s not too late. You can serve the Federation again. A few months in the reprocessing centre, you’ll be fit for duty again.”
The crumpled, weary figure of Dev Tarrant didn’t look fit for anything. Aside its complacent smile, his face spoke of a man who was burnt out – and the lines etched into that face spoke of cruelty, bitterness, regret. But his words told a different story.
“Like you say,” he rasped, “I’m young… and I’ve endured a lot worse than this.” The truth serum could erode the mental capacity to lie, but it was not a pacification drug. There was a lot of fight left in this prisoner. At least, so he truly believed.

“Indeed,” the interrogator replied, “I’ve checked your service record. You’ve been through a lot for one so young. Held hostage for over three weeks and refused to crack. It seems you earned your promotion.” Tarrant nodded, proud of the memory, in spite of himself.
“Would that you had continued in that vein,” the interrogator went on, “And yet, a mere seven months later, it was all over. Jumped ship and joined the rebellion.”
“There is no rebellion,” Tarrant replied, truthfully.
“So it would seem,” replied the interrogator, “We feared the worst after Star One - why deny it? But, thanks to President Servalan,” he continued, in an obsequious voice, “order has been restored. Looks like you chose the wrong side.”
Tarrant merely smiled back blankly, though as Dev Tarrant’s face had moulded itself over the years into a permanent half-smirk, his expression appeared to communicate contempt.
“But then perhaps I’m barking up the wrong tree.” The interrogator was a huntsman in his spare time, in the Federation’s luxurious and exclusive private game reserves, and he had a fondness for antiquated turns of phrase that bespoke his not being merely one of the rabble.
“It was never about the rebellion, really, was it?” he went on, “Not for you. For you, it was all about Blake. About joining up with Blake.”

Tarrant nodded but didn’t speak. Something deep within him was finding the will to resist the serum’s effect, at least to some extent.
“The Space Fleet Academy, commendations, promotion, command of your own Pursuit Ship. And yet, it was never about the Federation. Never about loyalty, devotion, duty. Not to us, at least. Not to the Federation. Your only sense of loyalty, it turns out, was to a father you’d never met.”

In the control room, Servalan was thoughtful. It was Dev Tarrant’s face she was looking at, but if Carnell’s technology was all it promised to be, it was his stepson Del Tarrant’s expressions that she was reading on that face, and Del Tarrant’s mind that was forming the replies.

“I wanted to meet Blake,” Tarrant nodded, in confession, “I also wanted to do my duty, as a Federation Space Captain, when the call came to protect Star One, and our own galaxy, from invasion.”
“But you didn’t, did you?” sneered the interrogator, “Star One was destroyed, and when you boarded the very ship that was leading our defence, the Liberator, you piloted it away from the battle.”
“Not true,” Tarrant replied, with a serum-induced conviction that irked the interrogator, “The ship’s flight controls were under the command of its flight computer Zen. Zen refused to take orders from anyone other than the crew of the Liberator. It wasn’t possible to re-establish manual control.”
“How convenient,” replied the interrogator sardonically, “And what happened to the Federation squad that also boarded the ship?”

“I eliminated them,” Tarrant confirmed blithely, “I needed to gain control of the ship. It was evident that Blake was no longer on board, and in his absence… well, I am his son. The ship was mine, by right of inheritance.”
“And what did the others have to say about that, when they made their way back? They can’t have been too impressed to find out Blake’s son was a Federation Space Captain.”
“They don’t know I’m Blake’s son. At least…,” he hesitated, “I don’t think they know. It’s possible that the telepath, Cally, is aware of the truth. But she’s never said anything.”
“And Avon?”
“Not to my knowledge. We’ve certainly never discussed it.”
“Why did they accept you into the crew then? Some random Federation Space Captain boards their ship in their absence, and they just let you join up?”
“I made up a story on the spot, about being a small-time smuggler. I used the stories I’d heard about my brother Deeta.”
“Convenient. I’m going to – “
“Interrogator,” came Servalan’s voice over the intercom. “A moment, please.”
The interrogator nodded, and stepped back, while Tarrant went back to smiling at the wall.

* * *

“Is this verified?” Servalan asked Carnell.
“Madame President?” replied Carnell.
“These are Del Tarrant’s memories, implanted in Dev Tarrant’s mind – correct?” she went on.
“To an extent,” said Carnell, in a non-committal tone.
“You mean to say…” conjectured Servalan, as she eyed Carnell suspiciously, “That you’ve implanted false memories?”
“That’s a rather crude way of putting it, Madame President. Bear in mind that we so-called puppeteers have turned the science of psychology into an artform. What might be mere conjecture in the hands of lesser scientists becomes… well, let’s say that I’m confident that the false memories we’ve implanted in Dev Tarrant’s brain are reliable approximations of the truth.”

“Tarrant… the real Del Tarrant, that is,” replied Servalan, after a moment’s thought, “Will find himself in that interrogation cell some day – Tarrant, Avon, Cally, the whole lot. And when that day comes, I will ascertain, by the most thorough methods, just how reliable your approximations turned out to be. Do not assume, however, that you are safe until that day comes.”
“I assume nothing, Madame President,” replied Carnell smoothly. “It’s not my way.”
“Good,” smiled Servalan coldly, “Proceed.”

“So, here you are, Tarrant,” the interrogator went on, “The adopted son of a high-ranking Federation Security Officer – of the very man who was instrumental in Blake’s sentence to be transported to Cygnus Alpha, no less – and you’re stuck in a high-security Federation Centre, being grilled like the common criminal – no, let us say, like the terrorist, that you’ve become. Because that’s what you and your friends are, is it not, Tarrant? Terrorists? That’s what your father was. That’s what Blake was, am I not right?”
“I don’t believe you’re right,” replied Tarrant, truthfully.
“You don’t believe I’m right. And what about your stepfather? What about his beliefs? How do you think Dev Tarrant feels about what you’ve become?”

Dev Tarrant reclined in his chair, blissfully unaware that he himself was the very man he was being asked to consider. Unless it was that something, some niggling disquiet, spoke to his conscious mind from deep within him, at the mention of the name.
“Dev Tarrant means nothing to me,” were the words that came out of his mouth, however, “I barely saw him when I was growing up – he was usually stationed on the Outer Worlds, and even when he was on Earth, he was hardly ever at home. I don’t know even know why – “ he broke off, hesitating.
“Yes?” the interrogator pressed him, “You don’t even know why…?
What were you going to say, Tarrant?”
Tarrant made no reply.
“You don’t even know why he adopted you. Isn’t that what you wanted to say? Only you couldn’t, could you? The truth serum stopped you saying that. Because it isn’t true, is it? You found out exactly why he adopted you.”
“I found out…” Tarrant winced. Something in him was struggling so hard to stop him speaking. His head ached, and his brain felt like an electrical storm was raging in it. Yet he was still smiling.
“Yes, I found out,“ he repeated simply, in a more definitive tone.
“You found out what?” the interrogator asked gently.
Tarrant winced again and shook his head.
“I can’t….”

“Oh, yes you can, Tarrant,” the interrogator insisted – and as he spoke, he turned to a small black metal box beside him, withdrew a probe-like device from it, and pointed it at Tarrant, “And you will.”
Tarrant was starting to sweat. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
“Blake knew Dev Tarrant. Trusted him. Tarrant was his teacher, at the Academy. But to Blake he was a friend. My mother, Veeta… she was older than Blake. I don’t know the full story. She became pregnant – for the first time, with Deeta. My father… well, he was little more than a boy himself, only 16, but he wanted to marry her. She said no. Somehow – Blake didn’t know how – it was all kept quiet. Deeta stayed with his mother, but Blake kept seeing them. Then, she was pregnant again. With me. This time, he was told it couldn’t be concealed. Tarrant stepped in. He offered to bend Federation rules and adopt us both. But there was a price to pay – Blake could no longer see his children. Too risky, Tarrant said. Well, what else could Blake do but agree? Fathering a child under the age of 21 is a criminal offence. He thought Tarrant was helping him – which, in a sense, he was, I suppose,” mulled Dev, oblivious to the irony, as he unknowingly contemplated his own past deeds and words.

“You must have been… rather touched, to find out about all this. And from Tarrant himself, I presume?” the interrogator pressed him.
Dev Tarrant nodded, “My stepfather told me what he did,” he snorted, “And then he told me why. Blake was identified as a malcontent from an early age. And Tarrant was assigned to him. He watched Blake constantly; made sure he was always there. Always. Blake believed that he and Tarrant started the Freedom Party together.”
“Indeed,” noted the interrogator. Always there. “So, Tarrant was always there – a fixture in Blake’s life. But he wanted more, didn’t he? He wanted a hold over Blake, a means by which to control and manipulate him. Come now… you say don’t know the full story about Blake and your mother, Veeta Meerall. But I think you do,” he leaned in close to Tarrant, “Tell me the truth.”

“It was planned… we were planned, Deeta and I, from the start. Not by Blake, of course. By Tarrant, by my mother, by the Federation. Veeta was a Federation agent, just like Tarrant. Loyal. Fanatical. Cynical. But as soon as we were adopted, she’d outlived her usefulness. And she knew too much. So, they disposed of her.”
“Did Tarrant tell you that?”
“That much I worked out for myself, eventually.”
“That she had no value to the Federation. But you and Deeta did?”
“Deeta and I were… I don’t know… some kind of long-term insurance. An emotional hold over Blake, if need be.”
“But then your stepfather found other means of dealing with Blake. How do you think he felt about being left to complete your upbringing, after Blake had been arrested?”
“He felt indifferent. Like I say, he was never there. But I suspect he knew that somewhere down the line, my father’s path and mine would cross again.”
“Really? You really think he believed that?”
“I think he believed it was a possibility. For him, I never really stopped being insurance.”
“Thank you, Interrogator,” said Servalan, over the intercom, “I’ve heard enough.”
The interrogator nodded and stepped back again.
Dev Tarrant relaxed in his seat, oblivious to everything.

* * *

“Impressive,” acknowledged Servalan, “He showed no signs of self-awareness whatsoever.”
“As you saw, Madame President, this goes beyond simple brainwashing or false memory implants. I’m sure I don’t need to point out the potential of this technology,” Carnell enthused.
“You do not,” replied Servalan coolly.
“This, however, was only Stage One of the experiment,” Carnell went on.
Servalan could not conceal her surprise,
“Stage One?”
“Indeed. Stage Two involves subjecting Dev Tarrant to a sustained hallucinatory experience that he will believe has actually happened to him – or rather, to the person he believes himself to be: that is, his adopted son, Del Tarrant. A dream within a dream, if you like,” he suggested.
“How poetic,” smiled Servalan. “And when does Stage Two commence?”
“The equipment’s ready and waiting, Madame President,” Carnell spoke into the intercom, “Commence with Stage Two.”
The interrogator nodded. Without warning, he dealt Tarrant a brutal blow to the back of his head. Tarrant groaned and slumped to the floor. As he lay there, the interrogator took a large needle from his nearby stack of tools. He inserted the needle into Tarrant’s shoulder. Within seconds, Tarrant appeared to be lifeless.
Servalan’s face was a mask, but she was engrossed in the proceedings, and Carnell knew it. He was having the time of his life.

* * *

The comatose Dev Tarrant was being strapped on to a table in Detention Cell Five. Probes were positioned against his head. The table was surrounded by complex banks of computers.
Carnell and Servalan stood to one side, observing the proceedings closely.
“Once the operation starts, he will begin to hallucinate. He’ll believe he has regained consciousness in Detention Cell One. The door will open for him, and he will exit Detention Cell One and start to explore his environment. He will, of course, believe himself to be Del Tarrant throughout. He will be looking for his teleport bracelet, in order to get back to the ‘Liberator’. Eventually, he will find his way to your office. There, he will confront you, demanding the return of his teleport bracelet. You, apparently quite overwhelmed by his assertiveness, will order one of your guards to return the bracelet. However, while his attention is momentarily distracted, another guard will approach him from behind. He will feel a flash of plain against the back of his head and lose consciousness. At that point, the operation is over. We remove Dev Tarrant from the operating table, move him to your office, lay him on the floor, then revive him. He will regain consciousness, believing the entire hallucination to have been a real experience. At no point will he stop believing that he is Del Tarrant.”
Servalan pursed her lips. Already, her mind was racing ahead to what she might do with such technology.
“Begin,” she said quietly.
Carnell smiled and signalled for the operation to commence.

The operation unfolded almost as Carnell had predicted. While Dev Tarrant was comatose, the ‘hallucination’ scenario was fed into the computers. Then the technology mapped Tarrant’s neuro-electrical activity onto the projections predicted by the computers. The results indicated that Tarrant was experiencing and responding to the hallucination almost as anticipated. The two sets of data were close, but not identical. There were occasional peculiar spikes, indicative of mental conflict or agitation. As he analysed the data, Carnell felt his first flickers of doubt, but his face showed no signs of worry.
“We’re nearly done,” he remarked to Servalan. She too was observing the data display. Carnell doubted that it meant anything to her. He reckoned – correctly – that her intent study of the display was for appearance’s sake only. Not that Servalan was such a fool as to pretend she understood scientific details that were beyond her experience.
She was resolved not to ask anything. She would watch and wait, without emotion and without speaking, until Carnell was ready to elucidate. In her scenario, Carnell was the supplicant, offering up his technological wonder, should she choose to honour him by accepting it. At no point would she allow him to forget this.

Carnell watched a series of indicator lights flicker on the computer banks. He signalled to the lead technician.
“That’s it,” he said, “Have the patient brought to Servalan’s office, then revive him.”

Slowly, the room swam into focus. Dev Tarrant groaned and instinctively put one hand to the back of his head. The outside of his skull throbbed, while the inside was a maelstrom of confused thoughts and images. But one thought was uppermost: “Do not give in! Do not give in!”
“Give in to what?” he wondered to himself, as he began to focus on his surroundings.
“I am a Federation officer!” he thought. And in that moment, his eyes fixed on Servalan, and memories came flooding back. He was in the President’s office. He had escaped the detention cell but escape alone had not been sufficient. He’d been searching for something. What?
Servalan was holding something, toying with it. Of course! His teleport bracelet! He had to get it back!
But as soon as the thought struck him, he felt a note of discord in his brain. Another voice seemed to say, “No”. That same voice that he’d awoken to, that was still urging him not to give in.
And then he noted Carnell, standing just behind Servalan, smiling down at him.
“Carnell!” he thought, “The puppeteer! He’s behind all this. He’s pulling the strings.”

Carnell and his team of psychotherapists were not strangers to Dev Tarrant. They had crossed paths on numerous occasions, in the course of his Security assignments. He had valued their skills and acumen, whilst, like everyone else, fearing them. But that knowledge was now buried in his subconscious. Consciously, he found himself wondering how he, a former Federation Space Captain, now an outlaw, seemed to be so familiar with Carnell.
“You’re being used!” the voice in his head shouted at him.
“Being used.” Dev Tarrant had been used by the Federation all his life, though he knew it only in his heart. Institutionalised, indoctrinated, perverted, the only ideal instilled in him had been that of unswerving loyalty to the Federation. That loyalty was the entirety of his moral and emotional compass. Nothing and no-one meant more to him. Not his mother, whose death he had blotted out of his memory at a young age. Not his father – Tarrant had been the youngest Security agent ever to receive a Presidential Commendation for his role in his father’s arrest and successful prosecution for drug dealing. In the end, only his wife, Naru, came close to meaning more to him than the Federation.

Naru had not chosen him, and in the beginning, having been likewise raised in the service of the Federation, she had mistaken his fanaticism as a sign of integrity. She herself was very young, after all, and from a sheltered background, and therefore she had no reason to doubt that the Federation was all that it claimed to be.
But then they adopted Blake’s children. Time passed, and her husband’s long periods of assignment on the Outer Worlds drove a wedge between them. Naru came to see Dev Tarrant and the Federation for what they were. Left mostly on her own, she found herself the stepmother of boys entering adolescence just as their biological father was acquiring political notoriety as the leader of the Freedom Party. Politics had never interested her – but now it did. She became more and more intrigued by Blake and his message of freedom, but she knew better than to share her curiosity with Del and Deeta.

What she didn’t know was that the Federation had been carefully tracking the rise of the Freedom Party, and stage-managing the political environment in which Blake and his comrades felt free to speak out. Nor did she know that her husband had been at the heart of these efforts.
Yet even Naru, in the end, found a way to use Dev Tarrant, by syphoning credits from his bank account into hers, in order to fund the fake identity documents needed to smuggle Deeta off planet.
Naru had seen it coming. Dev Tarrant, consumed by his work and his obsession with Blake, had not. Deeta had become increasingly volatile and rebellious in his adolescence. Several brushes with Federation law enforcers had brought him to the attention of local Freedom Party members. Naru knew that it was only a matter of time before they reached out to him. He would meet his true father, and his fate would be sealed. She saw another path for him – off-world. And she encouraged him to take it. Frustrated, bored, and angry to a degree he didn’t understand, Deeta took his chance and never looked back.

Dev Tarrant, in due course, discovered Naru’s betrayal. For the first time in his life, he hesitated to file his report. And in that hesitation he found another reason to despise Blake, for he believed Blake to have been at the root of it all – Naru’s betrayal, Deeta’s flight. He hadn’t hesitated for long – mere seconds – but he had, undeniably, hesitated, nevertheless. The awareness of that hesitation, and the pain he felt when they came to arrest Naru, would stay with him and fester in him until the day Blake was arrested for the first time, and long afterwards – never sated until he finally saw Blake sentenced to Cygnus Alpha.
He had done his duty. And he had seen at least one of his adopted sons do his – passing through the Federation Space Fleet Academy with flying colours, becoming one of the youngest commissioned officers.
And yet, in his heart, Dev Tarrant had felt used by his political masters, the Federation.
The feeling had always been there, but suppressed, buried deep. It was only with Naru’s arrest and subsequent imprisonment that it began to grow powerful. He had fought it every step of the way, throwing all his energy into his work and his persecution of Blake, in which he persisted, even during his postings to the Outer Worlds. He gave no thought to Deeta, and as little as he could to the imprisoned Naru. He maintained a cordial yet distant and loveless relationship with Del: they saw little of one another – less as the years went by. Soon, he was hearing of Del’s activities only through official channels. He didn’t miss him, had hardly known him, and – had he given it any thought, which he didn’t – could have reasoned accurately that Del Tarrant felt the same way about him.

But it wasn’t enough. He still felt used, and the voice inside him grew louder, even as the promotion he had anticipated, following Blake’s sentence to Cygnus Alpha, failed to materialise – doubtless because of Blake’s subsequent escape. The blame could not possibly have been ascribed to him, but Tarrant knew that as far as the Federation was concerned, he was complicit in its political embarrassment. One more reason to hate Blake. One more reason to feel cheated, used, even though he gave no voice to his resentment, not even to himself.
But his resentment was noted. It was expected, it was perceived, it was monitored. And, at the appropriate juncture, Dev Tarrant – after forty years of loyal service to the Federation – was arrested.
Carnell had been instrumental in that arrest. Carnell had a use in mind for Dev Tarrant.
And now, here he was – no longer Dev Tarrant, his memories wiped, his mind replaced by another, his identity erased. Now he was Del Tarrant – backed into a corner, surrounded by enemies, at the mercy of Servalan.
But still he heard the voice in his head… “You’re being used!”
He cursed silently. Who was using him? Avon? He struggled to recollect why he’d been sent on this mission.
“No. That’s not it,” he told himself, “It wasn’t Avon…” he paused, then:
“And I’m not Del Tarrant.”

It came to him in a blinding flash. An epiphany. The truth. Reality. And not just an awareness of what the Federation had done to him in the past few hours. His final images of those he loved or ought to have loved swam in his mind’s eye – Naru’s tears, his mother’s pain, the fear on his father’s face, the watchful anxiety of his stepsons, and, last of all, Blake – Blake’s innocent, uncomprehending confusion as he was beaten to the ground by Federation guards, following his trial verdict.
“We’ve all been used,” he thought.
Tarrant wasn’t sure if seconds, minutes or even hours had passed since he’d regained consciousness. Servalan was still standing, staring down at him. Carnell was still there too, smirking at her side.
“You did well to escape detention, Tarrant,” Servalan announced primly, “Avon and the others would be most impressed.” Dev Tarrant said nothing.
“I take it you want this?” Servalan went on, smiling as she dangled the teleport bracelet before him. Dev, now fully in control of his own mind, no longer recognised the bracelet for what it was.

“Servalan,” he murmured.
“Yes, Tarrant?” she smiled down at him.
“Only a fool would trust Carnell,” he sneered.
Servalan’s smile faded, as did Carnell’s. They both knew well enough what the words signified – Carnell was, to the best of their knowledge, unknown to Del Tarrant. And, in any case, it was clearly Dev who was speaking.
“It hasn’t worked!” snapped Servalan, her eyes still fixed on Tarrant, but her words directed at Carnell.
“Teething troubles, Madam President,” replied Carnell, thinking fast. “Bear in mind that Dev Tarrant is highly trained in techniques for resisting mind control. But we can build on this.”
Silence ensued, for what seemed like a lifetime. Carnell had started to visibly sweat by the time Servalan reacted. Tarrant, for his part, said nothing. He knew his life was over.
Servalan swept towards the exit. She paused in the doorway,
“You have three months to make it work.”
Carnell nodded, then made an enquiring gesture towards Tarrant.
“Keep him alive as long as you need him,” Servalan replied, “But no longer.”
“Of course, Madam President,” Carnell replied.

Tarrant’s head drooped onto his chest. For the first time in his life, he understood Blake. And, for the first time, he fully comprehended the irony of having raised Blake’s sons. Despite himself, he emitted a dry snort of laughter. Servalan had already left the room. Carnell studied Tarrant, who was shaking uncontrollably, in spite of his resolve. Carnell empathised, understanding perfectly all that Dev Tarrant was feeling and thinking. He sympathised, contemplating the heights that Tarrant has risen to in his career, and the depths to which he had now fallen. There had even been a time, in younger days, when Carnell had actually admired Tarrant. But empathy and sympathy were merely tools that Carnell employed in his trade, and he was no longer young. He chose his final words carefully.
“What on Earth happened to you?” he asked, with studied contempt.
Slowly, Dev Tarrant raised his head and fixed his gaze on Carnell. He allowed himself one final smirk, as he reflected on how much of his life he’d wasted, far from the woman he loved.
“Most of it wasn’t on Earth, Carnell. Not what happened to me.”

end of PART TWO
continued in PART THREE here