The Well-Mannered War Part 19

In fact, to the Darkness, the word Gallifrey was synonymous with the concept of time travel. It well remembered its attempts to sneak into the wastes of the vortex, all of them thwarted by the defences erected by those miserable, thin-blooded, infertile, self-crowned G.o.ds, the Time Lords.

The Darkness a.s.sessed the data provided by its foreguard, who had p.r.i.c.ked the female alien. Chemical equations danced around the Onemind.

This blood was cold, from a slow-pumping creature, and contained tiny cleansing organisms not found in the humans of this system. It had come from an augmented, enhanced being, and in the message core of each cell were written very special codes. Unique codes.

They are Time Lords, the Doctor and the female.

The Darkness started to search its memory for more information.

In the Strat Room the departing shuttle showed up on the main screen as a single signal trace, lifting effortlessly through Barclow's grimy speckled atmosphere. Dolne watched sadly as it disappeared, remembering how Rabley had stepped out from it. 'There they go,' he said. 'Poor old Rabley. I wonder how he'd have felt about his replacement.' He turned to Viddeas, who stood at his side, a report clutched tightly in his hand. 'Eh, Captain?'

'Sorry, Admiral. I was thinking.' Indeed, Viddeas's head was tilted at an odd angle, as if he was lost in a daydream. Thankfully, his open aggression had lessened, at least for the moment.

Now the tension in the post had returned to its normal levels, Dolne was feeling more charitable to his colleague. He lowered his voice. 'Come on, man, take a rest period. You've been on duty for nearly forty-eight hours solid.' He reached up and put a finn hand on Viddeas's shoulder, then lifted it again immediately. 'Good G.o.d!' Instinctively he stepped away.

'What is it, sir?' asked Viddeas.

Dolne felt the urge to wipe his hand, as if it was contaminated. Touching Viddeas had been like gently tapping an iron bar. 'You're as stiff as a board.' He gestured to the door. 'Go on. I order you. Bed.' Viddeas, still looking dazed, stumbled towards the exit. Dolne followed him and went on, in a whisper, 'I didn't want to have to mention it again, but I have to. You're ponging very badly. And it's getting worse. You'll lose the respect of the staff. And now things are going normally again there's no excuse. Take that bath!'

'Yes, Admiral.' Viddeas, formerly so vigorous and straight-backed, slouched out.

Dolne shook his head after him. 'All the life seems to have gone out of him,'

he mused to himself. Then he snapped his fingers and turned to his team.

'Cadinot. News?'

'Mr K9's shuttle is through the atmosphere safely, sir.'

'Good, good. No more nastiness, I hope?'

'The east sat's responding very well. All cells clear at present, sir.'

'Super.' Dolne suddenly felt profoundly tired. Every time he blinked a deep dark seemed to descend. A nap was needed. 'What a day. I think I'll nip to my quarters for a quick lie-down and wait for this Doctor fellow. He looks quite crazy, doesn't he? What fun. Call me when he arrives.' He slipped out, hoping that n.o.body would think of a reason to call him back. Then a thought struck him, brought into light by the drop of sweat that cascaded down his nose, and he lingered a moment. Oh, I don't suppose there's any sign of Bleisch?'

'Afraid not, sir,' said Cadinot. 'I'll keep calling.'

'Good-oh,' said Dolne, and left, almost happy with the world again.

Romana let her head fall back and stared from the porthole of the shuttle as it pa.s.sed through the upper reaches of Barclow's atmosphere, watching as the grey expanses of the war zone were obscured by encroaching layers of dark blueness. The craft was small but luxurious, and the lounge contained two rows of leather seats, a com-screen and a food machine.

They turned slowly, leaving Barclow behind and nudging into s.p.a.ce, and Romana craned her neck for a view of the starscape.

'Query your sighing, Mistress,' asked K9.

Romana sat up. 'I didn't know I was.' She looked over at where he sat, the straps of his seat's restraint buckled tightly over his mid-section, and caught the thoughts pa.s.sing through her mind. 'I was just thinking about the Doctor. He always has to be so elusive, hinting at things. If he was more direct, we could -' She was interrupted by a loud clatter. Shutters slid down on the lounge's four portholes. 'Why do that, I wonder?'

'Suggest automatic sequence to protect human eyesight from solar rays,'

said K9. 'Shuttle is on programmed flight.'

Romana looked anxiously ahead at the door to the forward cabin. 'There should be a pilot.' Their escort had merely ushered them into the lounge and slammed the entry hatch shut.

'A mere precaution. Computer guidance systems are infallible,' said K9. He added, 'Generally.'

'You would say that.' She turned to him. 'What are you thinking?'

His eyescreen flashed eagerly. 'I am preparing for my new role, Mistress. I have contacted the Metralubitan administrators and ordered the provision of campaign materials.'

'Contacted them how?' asked Romana.

K9 made a series of chirping whistles. 'The Femdroids, as they are known, communicate using pseudo-frequencies.'

'Just like you.' Romana frowned. 'It's a very uncommon system. Fortunate.'

K9 didn't appear to be listening. 'There is much wastefulness and financial mismanagement perpetrated on Metralubit. I shall pledge a more efficient economic strategy based on increasing state interest in industry, without losing sight of the electorate's dislike of swingeing tax increases. Revenue will be raised by levying higher rates on the mega-profitable monopoly supply companies such as the Water Conglomerate and the Oxygen Bureau. This measure is both populist and politically credible.'

Romana covered a yawn. 'You're going to have to change your presentation.'

'Mistress?'

She shrugged. 'Well, in a level-four pseudo-democracy rhetoric must be addressed more succinctly to be sociologically effective.' She stopped herself 'What am I saying?'

'You are saying that my syntax is too rigid and my delivery emotionless and formal. Academic formulae of economics are not readily comprehensible. I shall work to rectify this problem.' As he spoke, K9's tail was wagging.

There was another loud noise, this time a metallic-sounding bang from the side of the lounge. The shuttle shuddered, and both pa.s.sengers were jolted from side to side.

Romana recovered herself. 'What was that?'

'Likely a meteorite,' K9 suggested. 'Small and harmless.'

She unstrapped herself and made her way across the still-vibrating lounge to the door of the cabin. 'I thought computer guidance was infallible.'

'The organic pilot should have corrected the error,' K9 called after her.

Romana knocked on the cabin door. There was no answer, so she grabbed the handle and tugged it open. Inside was a small compartment crammed with highly complex instrumentation and, in the perennial traditions of aircraft design, a set of manual controls and a joystick. The shutters were also down in here, noted Romana, as she advanced, calling, 'h.e.l.lo! Is everything all right? Pilot?' The compartment seemed to be empty.

She heard a faint, high-pitched noise coming from behind the door, and whipped around to see a familiar figure splayed in the corner into which he had been thrown, his legs and arms stuck out at distressing angles, his central bulk twisted in a different direction from his head.

Stokes managed to raise a finger. 'I don't suppose you have any idea of how to fly one of these?'

General Jafrid had decided that, in light of the earlier incident with the saucer, it was best to send the Doctor across the zone in one of the division's armoured ground vehicles. He had also agreed, after some pet.i.tioning, that his escort should be Seskwa. The First Pilot continued to view the Doctor with suspicion, a view the Doctor was finding increasingly irksome as the tank trundled through the wastelands. His disposition was not aided by the design of the tank, which was uncomfortable for a humanoid: he was forced to crouch with his knees tucked up to his chin in order to keep an eye on the glowing forward screen - the only source of light in the vehicle - and maintain a watching brief on Seskwa. The Chelonian had snubbed all his attempts at conversation, and was staring ahead, his watery yellow eyes almost crossed. The tank was automated, and did not require his close attention.

The Doctor decided to have a last try at winning Seskwa over. 'I'd say you were daydreaming, if I didn't know that Chelonians don't daydream.'

Seskwa shot him a dismissive look. 'What do you know about us?'

The Doctor tapped the middle of his own forehead. 'The old tin plate blocks all unnecessary unconscious thoughts. Some have said it's what makes you such rigid characters.'

'We dream,' said Seskwa. 'At our rest times. At any other time it is wasteful.

Humans are a good example of that.'

The Doctor dug in his pockets. 'I've run out of jelly babies.' He pulled out a string bag filled with chocolate money of various denominations. 'Coin?'

Seskwa did not dignify the offer with a reply. 'No? Never mind.' The Doctor unwrapped a silver tenpence. 'I must have given my last jelly baby to Romana. Have to stock up.' As he spoke he fixed a gold coin, the largest of them all, to the end of one of the lengths of string and began to swing it. He glanced at one of the readouts beneath the forward screen. 'Good driving.

We should soon be there.'

Seskwa shuffled, and exhaled a blast of foul-smelling air. The Doctor wasn't sure if that was an insult or just one of those things Chelonians did.

Seskwa was certainly smellier than most. 'I have nothing to say.'

The Doctor chomped on his chocolate. 'Why not just a.s.sume I'm telling the truth? It would save such a lot of bother.' The gold coin continued to spin, the rhythm beguiling, and he waited for Seskwa to respond to the first stage of mesmerism. He made his voice match the spin in its metre. 'I can see why you're angry. It's a dull life for a soldier. All this patrolling, and deploying, and marching about, and never a shot fired. For over a hundred years. You must have wondered what the point of it all was.'

'I am trained not to question orders,' Seskwa said.

'Still, you Chelonians are long-lived chaps.' The Doctor decided it was time to start digging for facts. 'You must have seen a fair bit of active service before you came out here.'

Seskwa reached out a front foot and cuffed the coin from the Doctor's grasp. 'Be silent.'

The Doctor decided to try another tack. 'This place is a textbook example of Chelonian psychology, you know. Your pride won't allow you just to walk away. It's very predictable.' He stopped himself as an awful fear ran through him. 'Predictable?' He felt suddenly unsteady. 'Almost as if...'

'What?' asked Seskwa.

The Doctor brushed away a fly that was buzzing around his face and replied, 'Oh, just an unfounded fear. At least I hope it's unfounded. If it turns out later on to be one of those unfounded fears that become founded later on I'll be worried.'

'What is this trickery in your words?' Seskwa turned to stare at him, and the Doctor caught a glint of real hatred in his eyes.

'Nothing,' he said. 'Keep your eyes on the road.'

All of K9's remote control systems were functional, and Romana had lifted him down to help pilot the shuttle. The real pilot, Stokes had revealed, was back on Barclow locked in a cupboard - an unfortunate necessity, as he had to leave Barclow at all costs. Rashly, he had a.s.sumed that with computer guidance the flight would be easy.

Unfortunately, K9's ego had been further swelled by his role in negotiating a Fasts.p.a.ce jump, liaising with the voice of Metralubit's air traffic control, and bringing them in safely. 'Boosters closed down,' he said as the shuttle, its shutters still down, reached firm ground. 'Rear fins retracted. Equilibrium stabilized. A perfect landing, Mistress.'

Stokes turned to Romana. 'Is there anything he can't do? It makes one feel so conscious of one's own organic, foible-filled condition.'

Before Romana could reply a loud hissing came from outside, and she felt the craft turning on the landing pad. 'What's that?'

'Decompression,' said Stokes. He picked up a grey duffel bag from beneath the pilot's chair and swung it over his shoulder. 'They're very keen on safety checks and so forth. It's a clean, efficient place, Metralubit. A veritable paradise. I can't think of any reason why anybody wouldn't want to live here.'

'So you said.' Remembering the Doctor's earlier instruction, she asked, 'When was it settled?'

Stokes waved his fingers fussily. 'Ooh, thousands of years back. It'd make a fascinating study for some archaeologist. They've had umpteen wars, and some great civilizations before this one. Most of them were wiped out in internecine conflicts. I forget the exact details. But it's a big place, and populous. There must be a good few million in Metron City alone.' The shuttle stopped turning and the shutters were raised. 'There, you see. Oh, it's good to be back.'

Romana blinked, impressed by the view. The shuttle had come to rest in a small bay that was on the side of a large building, and through the entry port she saw, laid out before her as if in a picture postcard, a glittering white city of towers and gla.s.s spires. It was dazzlingly clean, and the citizens who walked or skimmed about looked well fed and purposeful. 'It doesn't look very mismanaged to me,' she told K9.

'These are the richer areas visible from the Parliament Dome, Mistress,' he replied. 'The social inequalities are less noticeable here.' A light under the flight controls winked. 'Incoming message.'

A moment later a small screen next to the winking light flickered on. A woman's face appeared, and although reduced to tiny size it retained an air of great dignity and standing. 'Welcome, Mr K9, Miss Romana,' said the woman in mellifluous tones. 'I am Senior Aide Galatea. Please proceed into reception, where you will find a lift ready to take you to your campaign headquarters. We shall meet there shortly. I look forward to this. Thank you.' The screen flicked off.

Stokes smacked his lips together. 'Ah, the lovely Galatea.'

Romana had taken an instant dislike to the face on the screen. 'She's a Femdroid?'

Stokes started to unlock the cabin's entry hatch. 'Yes. They're just robotic servitors like any others in the city. Knocked together to relieve civil admin of the more humdrum tasks of state.'

'And styled to resemble attractive women,' said Romana. 'Why?'