Killing Ground Part 1

KILLING GROUND.

by Steve Lyons.

Prologue.

he unwieldy vessel strained and wrenched itself, with noticeable T effort, from the planet's clutches. Cheers were raised and bands struck up across the globe as satellite cameras beamed its triumph to eight hundred million spectators. s.p.a.ce travel, they were saying, was no longer for the elite. The multinational conglomerates had made dreams affordable. The Century Program would establish outposts on a dozen worlds, alleviating Earth's overcrowding and providing its footholds amongst the stars.

They were saying that the Colonial Age had begun.

'It's a logical idea, I'll grant them.' The Doctor rubbed his chin and frowned at the scanner screen. 'The rich aren't interested in building new societies without the luxuries to which they're accustomed. If incentives exist for others to do it, then Earth's expansion can proceed.

In a few decades, there should be enough comfortably settled worlds for relocation to be attractive.'

'Which is when the price goes back up,' surmised Grant. He was squinting through dusty spectacle lenses at the image of the New Hope: New Hope: all reflective golds and chunky add-ons which ultimately served no function at all. Aesthetically, it was quite exciting. It was complex and important-looking and it pointed to the future. all reflective golds and chunky add-ons which ultimately served no function at all. Aesthetically, it was quite exciting. It was complex and important-looking and it pointed to the future.

They were in the TARDIS, ninety-one years into Grant's past, four hundred thousand miles above the surface of Mars. 'That s.h.i.+p,' said the Doctor, 'is destined for the Centraxis system. Its pa.s.sengers will establish the most remote of the prototype colonies.'

Grant sighed. 'And they will name that planet Agora.'

He shrugged as the Doctor turned to glare at him. 'It was pretty obvious. My personal history.'

'You might know less about that than you think.'

Grant looked up sharply. The Doctor was regarding him through hooded eyes. 'What do you mean?'

'Have you ever opened a tin of dog food in front of an Alsatian?'

'I'm sorry?'

The Doctor began to work at the console. Grant was relieved to be freed from his scrutiny. He didn't like the way his new travelling partner was talking. He was reminded how little he knew about the man.

'The Great Intelligence,' said the Doctor suddenly. 'Autons, Axons, Zygons. You've never heard of any of them, have you?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'The governments of Earth have. They're covering up enough invasion attempts to make their official history read like a work of fiction. And where do you suppose all those defeated and embittered would-be conquerors are now? Just waiting for Mankind to come out of its tin!'

Grant's attention flickered back to the screen, across which the New New Hope Hope meandered. He suddenly felt afraid for the people it held, but he told himself that such fear was irrational. 'We know they get to Agora though, don't we?' meandered. He suddenly felt afraid for the people it held, but he told himself that such fear was irrational. 'We know they get to Agora though, don't we?'

'Their security precautions amount to crossed fingers and a prayer that no one will have to explain their deaths. But yes, they're lucky.'

'But?'

The Doctor's gaze returned to him, an eyebrow raised. 'You seem pretty sure there's a but.'

The New Hope New Hope left the TARDIS's scanning range. On board, its occupants were adjusting to the reality of their planned exodus. left the TARDIS's scanning range. On board, its occupants were adjusting to the reality of their planned exodus.

Mingled with a measure of homesickness was excitement at the adventure upon which they were embarking. The Administrative Council was discussing what Colony World #A7 should be like. There was strong support for a return to the basics; for leaving the blueprints and materials of technology firmly locked in their chambers.

Back on Earth, the parties were in full swing. They were saying that the launch had been a success; that, within the decade, a new world would be established, with all the commensurate opportunities for tourism and emigration. It would be a wonderful place, they said. The air would be breathable without the aid of filters. Birth restrictions and s.p.a.ce allocations would no longer be necessary. Beneath a bright new star, humans could live in peace and happiness.

So they were saying.

The rain sliced down with stinging ferocity and the saturated ground slipped and churned at Taggart's feet. The rebels were trying their best to regroup; to fight back against the creatures which had herded them from the complex. They were following them still now, out into the open, and the rebels took fresh positions and fired. The renewed barrage was as ineffectual as the last. Taggart's sight was obscured by choking smoke, his hearing deadened by explosions of blaster fire.

The Cybermen kept coming.

Their weapons clattered in fatal response and the bodies of good friends fell and writhed in agony. Taggart didn't bother to aim. He just kept firing as if that might protect him. Blue sparks crackled across the attackers' metallic bodies, but they remained unscathed. Too soon, the charge in his gun was exhausted. He dropped it and tried to pull back away from the war zone. In the noise and the chaos, he collided with somebody. He thrashed about to keep his balance, but cold mud filled his mouth and nostrils. He was down and the home front was retreating past him. He closed his eyes and whimpered as metal boots tramped closer. And Ben Taggart cursed the fates for birthing him into the unceasing h.e.l.lish war that had ripped Agora apart.

The expected killing blow never came. It was at least a minute before he opened his eyes; another before he dared raise his head. The one-sided struggle had pa.s.sed beyond him, its partic.i.p.ants believing him dead. He could see the backs of four Cybermen through the haze, and the blasts and screams had diminished in volume. There was nothing he could do now to help his comrades. He could only try to cling on to his own life.

Taggart struggled to raise his aching body, his gaze fixed on the Cybermen by a terrible compulsion and the fear that they may turn and see him. He backed away slowly... and his shoulders touched metal. He screamed and whipped around to confront his destiny. His throat constricted and a second cry was stifled. An expressionless silver face loomed over him. He stared at its slit mouth and the teardrop shapes which pulled at blank eyes. It almost looked as if it might be sad to kill him. But not quite.

The Cyberman lunged and Taggart flinched, breath taken by panic.

Suddenly, he was looking at the back of its head and registering the pitiful, rattling whine which rose from its chest unit. The Cyberman pitched facedown into the mud, its arms encircling Taggart's leg in a belated attempt to support itself. He shook it free with revulsion. It convulsed, then was still.

'So they can be killed. That's nice to know.'

Taggart started at the voice, relaxing as he saw that it was Lakesmith's. 'What's happened to it?' he asked numbly, staring down at the fallen monster.

'The guns must have had a c.u.mulative effect. We've got a chance.

We'd better take it.'

Arthur Lakesmith was the rebellion's instigator: a giant, bearded man with an overpowering presence. It was hard to imagine him falling in defeat, even before the Cybermen. They had followed him, all of them, with that thought in mind. But things had gone wrong. The resistance was being routed.

'What are you doing here?' asked Taggart.

'Going back into the complex.'

He was aghast. 'Population Control?'

'I need you.'

'You what?'

'Ray's dead. I need back-up. You're the only candidate.'

'I can't go in there!'

'It's our best chance. The Cybermen have deactivated the explosives, but they can't have expected me to get past their troops with more.'

For the first time, Taggart saw what Lakesmith was holding: a bulky agglomeration of machine spares, a flask of engine fuel at its heart. He had seen many similar in the past weeks. It was a crude and jury-rigged, but workable, bomb. 'If we can take out the control centre and maybe their s.h.i.+p, we can turn this battle our way,' Lakesmith said.

Taggart shook his head furiously. 'There's no chance, don't you see?

There are probably more of those things still in there!'

'So we take them out too,' said Lakesmith, eyes afire. 'They've destroyed our planet. Now we're going to destroy them!'

'I can't do this. They'll kill us!'

'They'll do that anyway!'

'We could survive. They don't take everyone. Why don't we just let them put things back to normal?' Even to Taggart, his bleatings sounded hollow.

Lakesmith reached out with a swarthy hand and gripped the cotton front of Taggart's tunic. He swung him about and pinned him against the metal wall of Population Control. His granite jaw was set in determination. 'I'm sorry,' he snarled, 'but I can't indulge your cowardice. You're coming in, whether you like it or not.'

He held Taggart still for a moment longer, then released his grip and stepped away. The black clouds intensified their deluge and Taggart almost welcomed the cold, drenching punishment. Lakesmith had one hand on his gun. Taggart hated to think that he might actually use it.

Against his stomach's wishes, he turned and made his way along the wall. He reached the jagged hole through which they had emerged. He took one last look at his old friend, who was following as resolute as ever. Then he pulled free of the grasping mud and entered the building, every nerve he had protesting.

'Take this,' said Lakesmith, when they were in the darkness of the vandalized complex. He pushed the bomb into Taggart's hands and hefted the Overseer-issue gun with his own.

'Don't you have any more of those?' Taggart asked. 'What about that Cyberman?'

'Doesn't have one. Doesn't need one. They can kill with their headpieces. The guns just give them range and power.' Lakesmith set off with unnerving confidence down a bare corridor. Taggart followed, clinging to the bomb as if it could offer him some protection.

They walked in silence, uncomfortable in sodden clothes. They pa.s.sed through laboratories and by too many cramped cells, all serving to remind them why this was so important. Too many people had died here. With upsetting regularity, they encountered the corpses of luckless rebels, strewn in the corridors. The bodies seemed intact, but only from without. The internal organs had been boiled in their juices.

As Taggart was beginning to think he would be trapped in this labyrinth for ever, they reached a corner and Lakesmith pulled back.

'Cybermen!' he hissed. They flattened themselves against the wall and Taggart Jaeld his breath. He heard no sound, which was vaguely disconcerting. He was sure that the Cybermen could not approach without footfalls ringing out on the metal floor. But still, he wished for some clue to their location.

He got one. A fist punched through the wall between them and an arm clamped itself across Lakesmith's chest. Taggart screamed as a Cyberman rent the thin metal and forced its way into the pa.s.sage. He ran, but his trembling legs would not support him for long and he fell, the bomb's sharp edges impacting painfully with his ribs. The air above him fizzled and he smelt burnt ozone. He had tumbled beneath a fatal blast. He rolled onto his back and stared up miserably at the harbinger of his inevitable death.

The Cyberman still held Lakesmith, but the rebel leader was far stronger than it could have antic.i.p.ated. He squirmed and thrashed, threw his captor off-balance and managed to discharge his gun into its chest. He squealed as, unharmed, it rea.s.serted its dominance, propelling him into the wall and seizing his gun hand. Taggart watched, with fear and disgust, as the Cyberman tightened its grip and the bones in Lakesmith's lower arm began to pop.

'Get going, Ben!' Lakesmith yelled through pain - gritted teeth.

Taggart rose, his body working on adrenalin, his mind strangely disconnected. He faltered, eyes glued to Lakesmith.

'Get out of here!' the older man screamed, words gurgling and indistinct through the blood that rushed into his mouth. the older man screamed, words gurgling and indistinct through the blood that rushed into his mouth.

Taggart ran, and as he pounded down the corridor, a rattling scream followed him, then the sickening crump of Lakesmith's body hitting the floor. He tried to forget the sounds, to press on without thinking. He hoped he could still find his way to the control centre.

He skidded into an Overseers' rest area (no point in sneaking around now) and made for the door at the opposite end. He was halfway there when a Cyberman stepped in to block it. He checked his momentum, reversed his path and saw, to his horror, that another was behind him.

Taggart froze as the giants closed in from each side. In desperation, his hand moved to the bomb. They hesitated.

That's right, he wanted to say. You take another step and I'll blow you sky high. Just let me go free and we'll all survive this. But he was starting to hyperventilate and speech was beyond him.

'You will drop the explosive device or be destroyed.' The voice was deep and soulless, the threat sounding like immutable fact. Taggart had no reason to doubt that it was.

He could set off the bomb. He could take out at least these two, and a substantial section of the complex a s well. He might even disable their s.h.i.+p if luck was with him. He might give the rebellion the boost it needed. His name would be legendary. He would die a hero. But that was the problem.

He might make a difference. He might well not. Only one thing was certain. He would die, without even knowing if he had helped.

He looked from one Cyberman to the other. Somehow, they were al the more intimidating for their stillness. They were statues, ready to reanimate if he made the wrong move. Could he trust them to spare his life if he obeyed?

Slowly, carefully, Ben Taggart stooped and placed the bomb on the floor in front of him. Then he straightened, raised his hands with fingers crossed and closed his eyes.

He listened to the steadying rhythm of his heart and awaited its cessation.

1.

Blood and Wire

hief Overseer Madrox slipped on the leather glove with studded Cknuc kles and caressed his prisoner's face. He ran his hand across the Doctor's cheek and wiped away a stray fleck of blood. 'You will tell me what I wish to know,' he said, with as much menace as his nasal monotone could convey.

The Doctor looked at him, neck straining upwards in the restraints.

His tear ducts brimmed as he fought to hold his swollen right eye open through a livid purple bruise. His fair hair was plastered down with sweat and a scab had formed over a cut on his forehead. His expression was defiant. 'I came here alone,' he answered evenly, with neither pain nor impatience.

Madrox hit him. The backhanded swipe drew blood and snapped his victim's head aside with a vicious whiplash. He showed no signs of discomfort. 'I know that isn't true!'

The Doctor mocked him with a sardonic grin. 'How do you know?

Because the Cybermen said so?'

'They told me everything about you, Doctor.'

'Well, you can't believe all you hear.'