Текст книги "Doctor Who- Legacy of the Daleks"

Автор книги: John Peel

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

‘Then I’ll come with you,’ the Doctor decided.

‘So will I,’ Donna surprised herself by adding.

The Doctor glared at her. ‘I don’t think your father would approve. He made it plain that he wants you here in the Tower, where you’ll be safe.’

‘Doctor, it’s a war zone out there, and you aren’t even armed.’ Donna glared back at him, refusing to allow him to intimidate her. ‘And he told me to help you, remember?’

‘I rather think he meant while I was inside the family estate,’ he answered. Then he held up a hand. ‘But, as I told him, you’re a big girl and capable of making your own decisions. If David has no objections, I’d be happy to have you with us.’

He was a very confusing person, taking both sides in an argument like that. But Donna felt oddly warmed that he valued her company. It had been a long time since anyone had.

‘It’s fine with me,’ David decided. ‘Another gun along would be of great help. The fighting’s not reached DA‐17 yet, but it might well do.’

‘Dalek Artefact?’ queried the Doctor, and David nodded grimly.

‘Good,’ Donna said briskly. ‘Have you organised a runabout?’

‘Yes.’ David took a machine rifle from a rack beside the door and tossed it to her. ‘Technically, you’re not supposed to have that, since it’s Peace property. I might even make a mild complaint, provided we get back safely.’

Donna nodded. ‘Understood.’ She checked it, and discovered it had a full clip. It would cost a small fortune to buy one of these on the open or black market. He must be worried if he was simply handing her one. He took another, and turned to the Doctor.

‘Are you using guns these days?’ he asked.

‘You know me better than that,’ the Doctor answered, ramming his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Nasty, noisy things that could get you killed.’

‘Well, I feel better having one if I know the other fellow’s got one, too,’ David replied. ‘Life insurance.’

‘Not for both of you.’ The Doctor sighed. ‘However, you’d probably prefer to go off naked than unarmed, so there’s not much point in protesting, is there?’

‘No,’ David agreed. ‘Right, then – let’s go. And pray we find she’s just had a minor accident or something.’

‘I doubt that,’ the Doctor said, glumly. ‘In my family, all accidents tend to be major. I’ve a very bad feeling about this.’

Donna really didn’t want to hear that. But she slung the rifle over her shoulder and followed, unsure where this latest decision of hers was taking her. Or whether she’d survive it.

But, at the very least, with the Doctor along, she suspected it would be interesting…

6

Death in the Line of Duty

There was no real warning before disaster struck. Tomlin was watching the progress of his men, hearing the sounds of gunfire all around as they made slow but steady progress. The next second, there was a loud burst of sound, and the hillside in front of them suddenly blazed into a wall of fire.

Ears ringing, Tomlin was thrown from the runabout, which spun and overturned. The driver and the radio man were both tossed out, too. Tomlin was completely deaf, and dazed, but he could see two more bursts of flame close by. He staggered slowly to his feet, realising he was bleeding from a gash in his forehead. He dabbed at the wound with his handkerchief, and looked around in confusion. What was happening?

Slowly, his hearing began to return. He could hear, faintly, gunshots and screams. He abruptly realised that one of the screams was coming from close by. The radio operator! Tomlin lurched to where the man lay, his left leg shattered and bleeding badly. One of the man’s eyes was gone, too, and there was blood over his chest. The screams were dying as the man did the same. There was nothing to be done for him, and Tomlin turned away. The driver was clearly dead, his neck snapped. Tomlin saw he’d been astonishingly lucky to have suffered only the minor injuries he had. He made his way to the runabout, and saw that the rear axle was shattered.

But the radio was still operational. As his hearing cleared slowly, he reached for the controls, and picked up the microphone. ‘Tomlin to Haldoran. Emergency.’

‘What’s happening?’ asked the operator on the other end. ‘We heard an explosion.’

‘They’ve got some kind of big guns,’ Tomlin replied, shaken. ‘They fired them three times. I’m lucky to be alive. I haven’t made contact with the rest of my troops yet, though. We’re going to need reinforcements.’

‘Understood,’ the operator replied. ‘I’ll pass along your request.’

‘Request?’ Tomlin repeated angrily. ‘That’s not a request, that’s a military necessity. Put me through to Lord Haldoran immediately!’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ the man answered. ‘Find out your situation and report back. It see when his Lordship will be able to communicate.’

Tomlin stared at the radio in anger. What the devil was going on? How could Haldoran not be available to communicate with his own general? What could possibly be more important than this war? He threw down the microphone in disgust. Well he needed to know what was happening, anyway, so it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.

Drawing his pistol, Tomlin clicked off the safety catch, and then started forward carefully. The trees thinned out as he approached the summit, skirting the smoking crater the artillery had caused. He dropped to his belly for the last few feet, skulking behind a bush and examining the ground beyond.

There were ruins of ancient houses, all gouged with fresh pits. Tomlin could see about thirty of his men – though in most cases he could see only portions of their bodies. There wasn’t one of them left alive. It was like a scene from some medieval painting of the tortures of Hell – a steaming landscape of destruction, littered with bloody body parts.

On the far side of the ruins, he could see London’s men advancing, checking for survivors to slaughter. He couldn’t stay here, that was obvious. He slid back down the hill towards his wrecked runabout, and hurried as fast as his aching body would take him. He didn’t know what had happened to the rest of his troops, but it was unlikely they were in much better shape than this group. His men had taken the brunt of London’s assault, that was obvious. Without reinforcements, they were doomed.

Snatching up the microphone, he snarled, ‘My troops have been decimated. We need support now!’

There was no reply at all.

Tomlin checked that the transmitter was still working. No problem there. They had to be receiving his message. So why weren’t they answering? He glanced nervously at the summit of the hill, knowing he didn’t have long before London’s men arrived. With a curse, he flung down the microphone once more and turned away from his command. He was on his own, and in retreat – something he’d never known in his life before. But this wasn’t the end. It was merely a regrouping, to find fresh advantage.

And some answers.

Limping slightly, he hobbled away from the scene of his only defeat.

‘It’s proceeding exactly as I anticipated,’ Estro announced, examining the map. ‘London was convinced that Tomlin led the main assault. He threw his assault force into action, determined to break through your lines. He even dredged up some howitzers from a museum somewhere. He can’t have much ammunition for them, though, so I think we can discount them in overall strategy.’

Haldoran nodded. ‘It’s time for Barlow and Craddock to strike.’ He turned to the radio operator. ‘Order them forward. And have Downs and Malone move in to contain London’s advance. He’s bound to think he’s winning, and overreach himself. Once we have his troops surrounded, we can annihilate them.’

Estro nodded, smiling. ‘Exactly. He doesn’t stand a chance against you.’

Haldoran smiled at the thought. ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘this is the start of the reign of Mark the First.’ It was a historic moment, and a shame that nobody had thought to record it. Well, he could always remount the scene later for posterity.

‘My Lord,’ the radio operator said, with due deference,’ General Tomlin is requesting reinforcements. What shall I tell him?’

‘Nothing,’ Haldoran replied. ‘He’s giving his life for my cause, that should be sufficient for him, Ignore any messages he sends me.’

‘Understood, my Lord.’ The man turned back to his equipment, and Haldoran dismissed his message from his attention. He had many more important matters to consider.

Barlow received his orders from his radio operator, and ordered his men to begin their advance. He had the eight men with Dalek weapons, and kept them as a separate unit, determined to see their effect on the enemy. Apparently London had fallen for Tomlin’s feint, as Haldoran had expected. The casual gesture of throwing away a general who had always been blindly loyal to Haldoran was not lost on Barlow. He knew that he, too, was just as expendable to his liege lord – but a lot less stupid than Tomlin. He, at least, was aware of the true nature of things. Like anything else, he was a potential sacrifice to Haldoran’s ambitions. They didn’t bother him.

But Estro did. For all his obsequious air, the man was no fool. He was cunning and careful, and very, very dangerous. He was the one to be watching here, and Barlow had one of his best operatives doing precisely that right now…

Estro managed to get out of the war room by pleading the need to go to the toilet. Haldoran had – with casual arrogance – given him permission, and Estro hurried down the corridor from the room. Then he slipped into an alcove he’d carefully noted earlier in his visit and waited. In his right hand he held a small, black, bulbous weapon.

As he’d expected, barely twenty seconds later a man moved cautiously down the same route as he’d used. With a faint smile, Estro waited for him to pass the alcove, and then fired.

The man died with a silent scream on his lips as his every atom collapsed in on itself. His six‐foot‐plus frame compacted down to just over six inches. Estro picked it up carefully, with a chuckle and slipped it into a convenient vase.

‘Clever, Barlow,’ he murmured, with respect. ‘But hardly clever enough.’ If Barlow had been really intelligent, there would be a second man watching him, but Estro didn’t believe there was. These humans were interesting – but very, very limited.

His plans were proceeding nicely.

Barlow’s forces moved forward smoothly. He had more mechanised troops and cavalry than Tomlin, which made progress easy. Also, he was advancing along old, wrecked highways. Even with the potholes in the road and the collapsed buildings to skirt, it was faster than through the woods. The sight of such devastation always disturbed him. He wanted only to build, but, it seemed, the only way to restore was first to tear down. While London was in the way, nothing could be done. He and Haldoran were too busy feuding and working out their own machismo to have any grander plans. Both wanted power merely for the sake of power.

And, curiously, he had been born to power, being the only son of his father. He had inherited his hold on the world, and discovered that it was vaguely dissatisfying. There had to be more than this, even though he didn’t have a clue what it might be. He was a superb soldier, but even victory brought little joy to his life.

Which didn’t mean that he wouldn’t give this attack everything he could. He was scanning the approach as his man drove, and considering his options, constantly revising his estimates. His own runabout was flanked by four others, each of which contained two of his men armed with the Dalek guns. It would be time to employ them soon, and he wanted to see their effects. They could be the weapon that would win this war – or dismal failures.

The radio hiccuped, and the operator beside him bent over it. Then he looked up, moving one earphone off his head. ‘Forward Three reports contact.’

‘Excellent.’ He examined the small, electronic map in his hand. Forward Three was near the Thames at Woolwich, so it must have contacted the rearguard of the force that was annihilating Tomlin’s men in Bexley. ‘Swing us around,’ he ordered the driver. ‘Towards Bexley Heath.’ The man obeyed, and the other four cars moved to keep up with him.

The game was almost ready to begin.

Craddock watched his forces moving in. He’d come up through Croydon and Bromley, and his men had made contact with the outriders of London’s forces. He could hear the rattle of rifle and handgun fire just ahead. London’s troops had been taken completely by surprise, as anticipated. They had been killing the wounded of Tomlin’s troops, expecting no more serious fighting. Many had died before they’d even managed to get their weapons.

Believing in leading from the front, Craddock was in the thick of it now. Crouched behind a long‐shattered wall, he waited for the burst of enemy fire to die down, and then nodded to the troops with him. The whole patrol rose to its feet, and opened fire. London’s men had taken cover in an old bakery, but it was too broken to offer sufficient hiding places. Rifle fire raked through the men. Craddock stopped firing, and there was a sudden silence, only the stench of cordite and blood in the air. There were several of the enemy still moving. Three of his men slipped forward, and there were single shots signalling the death of the wounded.

‘Collect all weapons,’ Craddock ordered, though this was hardly necessary. His men knew that was standard procedure. ‘We move on in two minutes.’ He walked past a fallen soldier – barely out of his teens – pausing only to rip the gun from the boys lifeless, bloodstained fingers, and to check his corpse for spare ammunition. Then he moved on.

This was his life. This was war.

Donna sat in the front of the runabout, hunched over the instrument‐display panel. The sky was darkening, as the storm drew closer, and this made it easier to see the faint traces of the transponder they were attempting to locate. David Campbell sat to her right, driving. The Doctor was hunched over in the back, morosely watching the passing landscape, and thinking his own introspective thoughts. Whatever mood had gripped him, at least he’d stopped prying into her life.

‘It’s really faint,’ she informed David. ‘But I think it’s only about a mile ahead. Something’s definitely happened to it.’

‘Some kind of accident, most likely,’ David said gruffly. She could tell by the pinched muscles in his face that he was worrying about his wife. It was almost a relief to see that some men, at least, could have such feelings. If only she’d ever met one like that… But it was no time to be thinking of herself Susan could be in trouble, and need their help.

The runabout slowed down, as the three of them scanned both sides of the road. It wasn’t in great shape, but surely Susan would have known to take care? Still, she’d been driving by night, and some of these potholes might have been almost invisible.

‘There,’ said the Doctor suddenly, reaching forward to grip her shoulder. ‘To the left.’ He pointed.

It was another five seconds before Donna caught sight of whatever it was his sharper eyes had seen. It was a runabout, all right, and severely damaged. The entire front had caved in when it had ploughed into a tree. Shattered glass lay all about, and one of the doors had torn free and sailed thirty feet further down the road.

There was a figure inside the car, slumped over the wheel.

David brought the vehicle to a halt and leapt out. Somehow, though, the Doctor beat him to it. Both men raced across to the wreckage, as Donna hurried to join them. Then she hung back slightly, realising that this was family business and she was an intruder.

David’s face went ashen as he stared at the body. Donna could see that the whole face had mashed into the shattered windscreen. Shards of glass had sliced away virtually all of Susan’s features, and had rammed through to her brain. Mercifully, she must have died instantly.

The Doctor seemed grim, but not as distraught as Donna would have expected. He bent over the corpse, sniffing slightly, and then looked around carefully.

‘We have to get her back,’ David said, his voice on the verge of breaking totally. How he was holding himself together, Donna couldn’t say.’ We argued just before she left, Doctor, and I was angry with her. I –’

‘– will most likely have lots of time to make it up to her,’ the Doctor replied. ‘This isn’t Susan.’

Both Donna and David were stunned by this announcement. ‘How… How can you be sure?’ David asked, obviously begging for good news.

The Doctor tapped his nose. ‘Human blood,’ he replied.

Oh… And Susan was his granddaughter, and therefore as nonhuman as he. ‘Then who is that?’ Donna asked, confused.

‘Some poor soul who looked a little like her,’ the Doctor said savagely. ‘For that, she was killed, to try to make us think it was Susan.’ He stared off into the distance. ‘No need for a post‐mortem, so whoever planned this might have got away with it if I hadn’t been here. And if Susan hadn’t been Gallifreyan.’ He gestured at the body. ‘She’d have walked away from a death like that, most probably.’

Donna wasn’t sure she liked the idea of people able to live through such horrendous deaths. It sounded too much like something out of Bram Stoker to her. ‘So why do this?’

‘To make it look like Susan died on her way to her mission,’ the Doctor replied. ’But they messed it up. The car’s facing the right way, but the skid marks on the road aren’t. This… “accident” was staged to make you think she never made it to DA‐17.’

‘You mean that she did?’ David said quietly. He had taken a blanket from the boot, and thrown it over the poor woman’s body. Not being able to see it made Donna feel a lot better.

‘Almost certainly,’ the Doctor said. ‘And, logically, she ran into trouble that somebody is trying to cover up. I’d say that’s where we’ll find her, the answers, and whoever committed this disgusting and unnecessary crime.’ Spinning on his heels, he marched back to their runabout. ‘Don’t dawdle,’ he called.

Feeling like a reprimanded schoolchild, Donna hurried after him. David took one last look at the covered corpse, and followed.

Susan was certainly relieved to discover that her ‘death’ was, in fact, nothing more than a ploy. Her captors had wanted to throw the Peace Force off the trail, and had manufactured an accident with her runabout. It had been decided that she would be of more use to them as a hostage than dead, a decision she’d been happy to comply with. Since this was a work area rather than a prison, they’d been forced to lock her away in a shed, with a guard outside the door, while they reported back on her presence.

More fools they.

The shed was only about eight feet across in both directions, and about the same in height. There were a few empty barrels in it, a couple of boxes, and nothing that she could use to help her to escape. Her captors had considered these adequate precautions and locked her in. She almost felt sorry for their lack of imagination.

She’d been forced to wait, though, before taking action. The shed was in plain sight of anyone working on the pit, and if she’d made a break too soon, she’d certainly have been seen, given the number of people active in the area. But the storm that had been gathering finally broke around five o’clock, cloaking the world in darkness, shattered only by stabs of lightning and roars of thunder. Rain hammered down on the roof above her.

Susan felt a small glow of satisfaction from knowing that her guard would be getting absolutely soaked.

This would bring all work to a halt for the time being, at least. And the darkness caused by the storm would hide her from any casual eyes. She moved from the drum she’d been sitting on to the back wall of the shed, One of the nice things about wearing a uniform was that there were always shiny decorations on it. Removing her Peace Officer’s badge, she turned it over to expose the point. Using this, it was the work of only minutes to undo several screws holding panels in the back wall in place. Carefully, she slid the panel aside, and looked out.

The sky was black, rain hammering down on to the dry ground and forming puddles. A jagged burst of lightning illuminated the scene briefly, showing her that there was nobody in sight. Steeling herself, she wormed through the gap.

She was soaked to the skin almost instantly. The rain was falling so hard that it stung. Her hair was plastered to her face, her clothing drenched and clinging. She moved through the darkness, keeping the shed between her and the man on guard, heading towards the shah. She could see no one, and in this storm nobody was likely to notice her.

Ignoring the chill and the mud, Susan made her way to the power cables. She touched the closest, feeling the hum of energy. Her eyes narrowed as she stared through the darkness. Whatever was going on here, power was flowing to something. Following the cable in the darkness brought her to the brink of the pit. Water was pooling at the top, and streaming down the sides. She chanced a look down, but there was nobody looking back. They weren’t anticipating trouble here. The border patrols would intercept intruders, of course, as they had captured her. And brought her conveniently through their lines.

There was a ladder leading down into the pit. She swung on to it, gripping the slippery rungs carefully. Water sloshed over her as she clambered down, and she forced herself to ignore the discomfort. She had to know what was going on here. Her feet slipped more than once, but her strong grip on the rungs kept her from falling. Finally, she was at the bottom of the ladder, standing in about four inches of freezing water. She wiped the rain from her eyes and glanced around.

The pit was about ten feet across, and she’d clambered down almost a hundred. Across from the ladder was a doorway of metal, apparently set into the solid rock wall. The door itself was open, the cables running inside.

How could anyone be this foolish? She moved to the door and checked beside it. Yes, there was a Dalek lock there, its cryptic inscriptions unreadable to her. Somehow, somebody had been able to open the lock. And that made her pause. She could probably have managed it eventually, but who else on this planet could? And, most importantly – why?

Carefully, she peered around the doorway. She’d had visions of men with guns pointed at her face, but there was only the empty passageway, with the power cables snaking inside.

Susan took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out where they led…

Estro glared at the video screen in frustration. He’d installed a vid‐comlink in DA‐17 to enable faster, more efficient reports to be fed through to his quarters; and to make this seem less suspicious, he had provided Haldoran with a few more dotted around his headquarters. Now he’d been forced to excuse himself from the war room again, just as things were getting interesting, to answer this call from his blundering guards.

‘What is it now?’ he growled.

‘We’ve caught a Peace Officer, sir,’ the guard reported. ‘I’ve got her locked up. We set up an “accident” a few miles back with a plausible body in it to throw the Peace Officers off the track for now, but I’m sure they’ll be back. I thought we could use the girl as a hostage.’

Well, for once the morons had used what few grey cells they had. ‘Good work,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But I want the girl sent to me here. I can’t slip away right now –’ he smiled, vaingloriously – ‘we’re in the middle of a war. Double the patrols, and if anyone else turns up, bring them here immediately. If the Peace Officers are interested, we may have to be careful until the power’s flowing properly. Are there any current estimates?’

The guard smirked. ‘I just spoke to Lockwood,’ he replied, pleased to show his initiative. ‘He estimates another three hours.’

‘Fine,’ said Estro approvingly. ‘I’ll try to get to you then. If I can’t, he knows what to do. I want regular reports every half‐hour once breakthrough has been achieved. No excuses!’

‘Understood, sir,’ the guard agreed. He saluted, and then switched off the contact.

Estro rubbed his beard reflectively. Everything was proceeding well. It was a shame he was forced to stay here and help Haldoran while the task force did the more interesting work, but that was the problem with humans: no sense of timing. Still, if he was not there for the actual opening, it would hardly matter. What could possibly go wrong?

The rain was falling heavily, but Barlow had no intention of heading for cover. He waved his men forward, ignoring the soaking they were all getting. A force of some forty of Lord London’s men were in the buildings ahead of them. They didn’t have a clear view of his men, thanks to the storm, so there were only occasional shots being fired. Still, if Estro’s information was correct, his men wouldn’t be so limited. He gestured to the eight men with the Dalek guns.

They moved forward, raising the alien technology. A shot cracked from one shattered window, and one of his men turned and triggered the gun he carried.

An arc of radiation hissed through the rain, spraying across the target area. The enemy soldier screamed, his body glowing in the lethal blast, and he collapsed forward. Barlow stared at the sight in fascination.

It had also affected the other soldiers in the ruins. More shots rang out, none coming near to a target. All eight men returned fire, concentrating their deadly beams at any site that might hide a foe. Howling in agony, man after man died in the terrible fire. Barlow couldn’t look away, watching as the enemy died.

This, this was why the Daleks were remembered with such terror! To be able to deal out death like this – grim, implacable death at the touch of a finger on a trigger – this was power! The Daleks must certainly have been terrifying foes, with weapons like this at their command. It was astonishing that any of the human race had survived their invasion. A feeling of awe gripped him.

And now, he had their weapons. Why, with forty men, all armed with Dalek guns, he could take London! Better, probably the whole country! He stared in rapt fascination as the eight men dealt death to anyone in their path. One part of him felt slightly sorry for the victims, but the greater part revelled in the devastation.

He turned to his aide. ‘Today,’ he murmured softly, the face of war has changed completely. This is the way of the future. Here and now, a new rule begins.’ He was entranced.