Doctor Who: Dreams of Empire: 50th Anniversary Edition

by Richards, Justin

  The beacon was a relatively small device, most of its bulk taken up with the propulsion and guidance systems. In its entirety, it stood only to Logall’s shoulder as he tapped the course co-ordinates into the control panel. It was a gunmetal-grey, bullet-nosed projectile, smooth and functional. There was no thought for aesthetics or for extraneous capabilities. It was a small guided rocket with a subsonic pulse emitter built into its nose cone.

  ‘Check those numbers for me,’ Logall said to the engineer as he stepped back.

  The engineer read off the co-ordinates and compared them with those on a notepad. ‘Check,’ he said when he was done. ‘That should send it on an elliptical course away from the approaching ship and back towards Haddron.’

  ‘Let’s hope someone picks it up,’ Logall said grimly as he closed the inspection hatch.

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘Nothing much. We’re in trouble, send help. It’s just a preset signal.’ Logall stepped away from the beacon. ‘Right, let’s get it into launch position.’

  Around the top of the loading bay was an observation gallery. It was encased in heavy plastiglass shuttering, an airlock in effect. From the gallery, Logall and the engineer watched the stars shimmer slightly as the barrier was closed and the sudden rush of air from the bay misted the view as it dispersed into space. The beacon rocket was fitted into a tripod launcher, angled through the opening.

  As they watched, a tiny jet of flame licked out of the base of the projectile. In a moment it was a splashing torrent of fire as the beacon lifted out of its moorings and rose slowly. It gathered speed quickly, hurling itself through the wide doorway of the loading bay. For a short while it was a shooting star, smearing its way across the firmament. Then it was just another point of light against the inky backdrop of space. Finally, it was lost to the naked eye.

  ‘Do you think it will make it, sir?’

  Logall did not turn. He continued to watch the blackness where the light had last glimmered and faded. ‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘Of course it will.’

  ‘My Lord.’ Trayx inclined his head as he entered the room.

  Kesar turned towards him. The blank holes that were his eyes seemed to focus on Trayx across the room. ‘There is no need to be so formal when we are alone, my friend,’ his voice grated.

  Trayx sat down opposite Kesar. The chessboard was, as ever, between them. ‘We are never alone,’ he said. ‘Someone always watches the watchers. But we need to talk.’

  ‘You have time for a game?’

  Trayx shook his head.

  Kesar laughed, the filtered sound sending a vibrant echo around the stone-clad room. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You would probably win. I can understand why Cruger refuses to face you across the board.’

  ‘Better that he had realised the odds on the field of battle,’ Trayx retorted.

  Kesar’s mask caught the light as it angled slightly. Perhaps, behind the mask, he was smiling. ‘Far better,’ the electronic voice said quietly. ‘But what is done is done. That game has been played and lost.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ Trayx picked up a chess piece, felt the slightly rough surface of the black rook under his finger. It was shaped like a massive fortress jutting out from a base of craggy rock. He frowned, and looked back at the board. The other pieces too were oddly familiar. This was not the set that Kesar had been playing with earlier.

  ‘You like it?’ Kesar asked. ‘Cruger has been working on making the set for me since we arrived here. It is almost complete now, just the white king remains unfinished.’

  Trayx put down the rook and leaned forward to examine the other pieces. ‘What is it made from?’ The pawns on both sides, he could now see, were Haddron soldiers.

  ‘A form of compacted carbonite, I believe. He had several pieces of the stone sent from the mines on Uvonola.’

  ‘They’re very good.’ Trayx was surprised. ‘He does this by hand?’

  ‘Therapy perhaps.’ Kesar picked up the black king and passed it to Trayx. ‘He has put you on the black side, me on the white.’ The scraping laugh echoed round the room again. ‘An interesting conceit.’

  ‘Very.’ Trayx stared at the miniature figure of himself. He had expected a caricature, an ogre figure. But in fact it was not inaccurate. He returned the king to the board, noticing without surprise that Helana was his queen. A quick scan of the other figures satisfied his curiosity. Mathesohn and Frehlich were his bishops, the rooks on both sides as he had seen were modelled on Santespri. The other figures on each side were predictable, with the possible exception of the white queen, who seemed to be modelled on Kesar’s dead mother. Only the white king was missing – presumably that would be Kesar.

  ‘It remains to be seen whether his model of Kesar will depict the figure before or after this.’ Kesar tapped the cheek of his mask with the tips of his fingers. ‘I will let you know. It could change, perhaps, our interpretation of Cruger’s game.’

  Trayx nodded. Then a thought struck him. ‘Where is Cruger?’ He gestured to the board. ‘I don’t see a figure of him.’

  ‘A good question. He says he would not deign to suggest he plays a major role in the game.’

  ‘Does he?’ Trayx shook his head. ‘More likely he believes himself to be the main player in a different game.’

  ‘And how is our game progressing?’ Kesar asked quietly.

  Trayx leaned back in the chair. ‘I don’t know. But there are developments that I need to apprise you of.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We have detected a ship on a course to Santespri. Nothing is due, and certainly not a cruiser.’

  ‘You are sure she is headed for us?’

  ‘It looks that way. All external communications channels are jammed, we can’t get anything out.’

  Kesar was silent for a moment. ‘Thus it begins,’ he said at last, the words little more than an electronic buzz. ‘So, no single assassin for me, but rather a whole host descending on our small encampment.’

  ‘I’ve ordered a distress beacon be launched.’

  ‘That won’t get past a cruiser. Not if it is already close enough to be detectable.’

  Trayx nodded. ‘Probably not. But there is another reason for launching it.’

  ‘Confirmation?’ Kesar laughed again, but the sound was somehow flatter, less genuine this time. ‘You are beginning to think like a politician, at last.’

  ‘I don’t take that as a compliment,’ Trayx said. ‘But yes, if the cruiser intercepts and destroys the beacon that will be proof enough. Until then I cannot justify a release of weapons to your men.’

  ‘But with that proof, we can all stand together against the common foe,’ Kesar said. ‘And with that proof, we can ensure that all our differences are laid aside as we face the new threat together.’

  ‘Perhaps not all of us.’ Trayx stood up. ‘There is one other thing. This Doctor.’

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘I trust him. I think he can help us.’

  ‘I agree. And you were always a good judge of these things. Is that it?’

  ‘Not quite. One of his companions, the girl, was attacked earlier. She is lucky to be alive, but she says she would recognise her assailant. Perhaps we can root out the rotten fruit from among your retinue?’

  ‘Or yours, Trayx.’ Kesar nodded slowly. ‘Very well, bring her to lunch. And afterwards, I shall brief my men. When you have the confirmation we need, we can speak again.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Trayx crossed to the door, and rapped on it. A moment later it was opened from outside by the duty guard. Trayx turned back to Kesar before he left. He gave a short bow, then saluted. ‘My Lord.’

  As the door closed behind him, he could hear his friend’s synthetic laughter. Perhaps it was indeed funny, but the proper protocols had to be seen to be observed.

  Meals were a rare time when Kesar’s staff met together. They all knew that the patrols had been increased, and even if they had not they could tell by the fact that there were fewer of them free from du
ties for the meal than was normal.

  Lunch started quietly: they were all subdued, expecting Kesar to make some sort of announcement. But for the moment, he said nothing. He sat silently at the head of the long table in the Banqueting Hall. A tube inserted into a socket beside his mouth grille, carrying puréed food inside the mask.

  Lieutenant Sponslor had been one of the last to arrive. He took his place halfway down the side of the table, his back to the fireplace. He was not hungry, but it was frowned on not to appear for a meal, even if you ate little. This was the main forum for discussion and the exchange of news among Kesar’s retinue. From across the table, the new girl – Haden – smiled at him as he began a tentative attack on the food.

  ‘Not hungry?’ she asked.

  He was not in a mood for talking, so he pretended he had not heard her. Over her shoulder he could see the shadowy form of one of the silent metal figures within its alcove. He imagined the huge armoured form striding towards him across the field of battle, and for a moment he could hear the clank of gears and hiss of servos through the imaginary smoke. And he shuddered.

  As Sponslor’s eyes focused again on reality, he realised that Haden was no longer looking at him. In fact, everyone was looking towards the main doorway. And the room was silent.

  It was unusual for the meal to be interrupted. There was an unstated agreement that Kesar and his people would be left in peace during the meal. So the appearance of the two figures in the doorway was unusual to say the least. And while his fellows were merely surprised and disapproving in their silent observation, Sponslor was suddenly chilled to the bone as he saw that one of the figures was the dead woman.

  *

  The image on the monitor tracked along the length of the table. Expressions slid by as the Doctor and Trayx watched closely for any unusual reaction. Behind them, Jamie and Mithrael craned to see the screen.

  ‘I still say we should have gone with her,’ Jamie remarked.

  The others ignored him, apart from the Doctor, who commented quietly, ‘She’ll be quite safe with Prion. And now I’ve sorted out the surveillance system, we can see everything that happens from here.’ He leaned forward and tapped the screen, slowing and stopping the camera’s movement with his other hand as he did so. ‘There,’ he said. ‘That one.’

  The focus adjusted slightly now that the camera’s position was still. Two people were framed either side of the table, looking towards the camera – towards where Victoria and Prion would be standing. One was a young woman with short dark hair. Her expression was puzzled, curious. Opposite her sat a man. He was older, his face worn and lined. A scar ran down one of his cheeks, and he too seemed curious. But just for a moment, as the camera had closed on him, he had looked terrified.

  Despite his surprise, Sponslor recovered quickly. His mind was racing as he worked through the possibilities. He must have been mistaken. She had not been dead, merely unconscious – probably fainted as much as asphyxiated. If he had not been interrupted by the other stranger, he could have finished the job. He should have finished the job. But he had been too intent on getting away unseen. Too satisfied with himself that he had finished his assignment, completed his mission.

  The woman was walking slowly towards the table, looking along it, looking for a face. For his face. Sponslor knew that she could pick him out. He had a distinctive face. It was just a matter of time. He looked to the man with her, recognising Trayx’s assistant Prion, and knowing he could expect no quarter there. He looked the other way, back along the table.

  Everyone else was looking back towards him, seemed to be looking at him. Accusing. As if they already knew. Kesar’s mask was impassive and inscrutable as ever. He had removed the feeding tube and closed the vent it slotted into. Now he was slowly rising to his feet. Beside him, Cruger too seemed to be staring at Sponslor as if demanding an explanation from him. As he glanced from Cruger to Kesar, Sponslor knew what his only course of action must be.

  He pushed back his chair, stumbling to his feet. The chair overbalanced and crashed to the floor behind him as Sponslor turned.

  In apparent slow motion, the girl was raising her hand to point at him. Prion was already striding towards him, his mouth open as he shouted, ‘Stop him.’

  From across the table, Haden lunged forward, grabbing at Sponslor’s sleeve. But she was at full stretch and it was an easy matter to pull free as he turned to run.

  Behind him, Sponslor could hear the heavy, fast footfalls of Prion in close pursuit. All along the table chairs were pushing back as people rose, turning to see what was happening. He kept running, heard the shouts from all around, saw Cruger’s face close to his own as he pushed past the general.

  Then he stopped dead.

  In front of him stood Kesar. His mask leaned close to Sponslor as he skidded to a halt, reached out to steady himself. He grabbed at Kesar’s shoulder to prevent himself from falling.

  Kesar knocked his arm aside. ‘Don’t dare raise your hand to me.’ There was a depth to the electronic voice that Sponslor had never heard before. A venom. He had served with Kesar since Bragadrok, knew him well enough to sense the anger behind the mask.

  ‘My Lord,’ Sponslor spluttered, out of breath and afraid, ‘on my honour –’

  Kesar’s voice was quieter now, but the undercurrent of anger was still there. ‘What do you know of honour?’

  Sponslor sensed Prion close behind him. He knew he could never get past him, knew his only hope now was to push past Kesar and try to outrun Prion till he could find somewhere to hide. He drew a deep breath, and leapt forward, pushing Kesar aside.

  But Kesar held on to him. Sponslor could hear the motors in the armour that encased Kesar’s arm as they strained to hold him. He felt Kesar’s grip tighten, and found himself flying backwards as his commander hurled him to the floor. The breath was knocked out of him as he landed, and he lay for a moment staring up at the ceiling of the Banqueting Hall.

  Then Prion’s emotionless face filled his field of vision and he felt himself hauled to his feet. Prion kept lifting him. He had Sponslor by the shoulders, lifted him clear of the floor. Sponslor could feel the incredible strength of Prion’s grip even as that grip was broken and Prion hurled him across the room. He slid for several feet, his cheek scraping painfully along the cold floor. He struggled to gain control, to roll over on to his back, to stand up. He grabbed for support, pulled himself upright and tried to focus through his tears of exertion and pain.

  And Sponslor found he was holding on to Cruger. The general’s face was twisted in anger and disgust. ‘Think very carefully how you will account for your actions,’ Cruger said. ‘We shall want to know every detail of what you have done and why. Understand?’

  Sponslor understood. He knew that his interrogators would be unrelenting in their eagerness to find out the truth. Especially if Cruger was one of them. He felt Prion’s iron grip on his shoulders again, and allowed himself to be turned and led from the room.

  His only comfort was that the woman took a step backwards as he passed her. But from her expression, he guessed it was not from fear, but rather a combination of disgust and pity.

  The Communications Room had a view of the landing area on the East Tower where Trayx’s ship had settled. The room was in a lower area of the section of the fortress that joined the tower, so the view was little more than an ability to watch ships as they touched down or took off. Apart from the window and the door, the room was as stark as any other in the fortress. The communications and tracking equipment looked as if it had just been unpacked and pushed into a corner. Two of the garrison were on duty in the room, constantly checking and recalibrating the incoming information.

  On the wall next to the window, a large flat-screen monitor showed a distant view of a starscape. A flashing annotation gave the agreed code name for the incoming ship and marked the tiny dot of light as it traversed the screen. They had designated it ‘Rogue One’, and the estimated time until it arrived was appended to the name
on the screen. A thin dotted line projected its course to the edge of the screen – to the point of light labelled SANTESPRI.

  Trayx could see the silhouette of his ship crouching over the battlements above them as the operator tracked the signal from the distress beacon. It was fed through a speaker set into the control panel so that the room was filled with the steady beep of the information packet. If the signal was received, that beep would be broken down into the wave forms that harmonised to produce it. Those waves contained the precoded substance of the distress message.

  The door opened and Prion quietly stepped into the room. His face was impassive as he reported to Trayx, ‘Lieutenant Sponslor is in confinement, sir. His quarters have been checked, but to no substantive result. The lock on his door had, however, been tampered with.’

  ‘So he could have left his room after being confined for the night?’

  ‘Yes. There is no direct evidence to support the supposition, but he could have left his room and killed Remas.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper and drew Trayx aside, away from the operators. ‘The surveillance recordings show him asleep in his room at the time of the murder. But we know from the incident with the Doctor’s friend in the Banqueting Hall that such data is at best inconclusive.’

  Trayx nodded. ‘I agree. I think we have our murderer. But I should be happier with a proper confession. And a motive.’

  ‘Sponslor is admitting nothing. He is saying nothing.’

  ‘And we don’t know what he was doing in the Banqueting Hall?’

  Prion shook his head.

  One of the operators was pointing to the main screen. ‘Sir,’ he called across, ‘sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘You have something.’

  ‘Rogue One is altering course, sir. They’re turning away.’

  ‘What is their new heading?’ Prion asked. As the operator read off the figures, he nodded slowly. ‘They have detected the beacon,’ he said quietly, ‘and are moving to intercept.’