‘No,’ said Ivzid, ‘I am not back at the shuttle.’
‘What? My orders –’
‘Are irrelevant!’ Ivzid felt a flush of pietistic indignation pass hotly through his body. His voice sounded as he had always wished it to sound, strong and young, bold and heroic. ‘As you are irrelevant, Hezzka of Talifar. I have no –’
‘Ivzid, will you be silent for one minute!’ Hezzka raged. ‘Listen. The parasites have tricked us.’
‘Like the large fish, you catch on slowly, Hezzka.’
‘Ivzid, the Secunda has taken your footgun and opened the almonry. They have our livres and are making, I am sure, to escape in the shuttle. You must go there and stop them!’
Ivzid felt satisfied that his gravest doubts had been proved right. ‘See. You should have listened. I’ll tell you something else for your trouble, Hezzka. The ship we were promised, it is nothing but a hollow shell.’
‘What? But we saw it –’
‘It was shown to us, which is not the same thing. It is as empty as your dry old headcase.’
‘Listen, you young fool –’
‘No. Goodbye, you old fool.’ Ivzid turned his communicator link off, and congratulated himself upon his brilliance. Not only was he a fine warrior, his ripostes and barbs were also worthy of record. Surely he would be known as Ivzid the wit as much as Ivzid the hero.
By Faf, he was the very incarnation of renaissance Chelonian.
It was stupid, but away from Forrester Cwej felt incomplete. They’d been together almost every moment since coming aboard the TARDIS, and striking out on his own gave him a powerful sense of wrongness. She’d got nearly everything wrong about this place, she was as much to blame as the Doctor for the trouble they were in, and still she wouldn’t give ground. Her response to getting things wrong was to carry on getting them wrong. The trouble was, decided Cwej as he followed the twilit tubes, she was his only link to his old life. Bernice and the Doctor were great fun, but they couldn’t share things in the same way. One of the other good things about Forrester was that, even unarmed, she radiated a ready aggression that made him, probably unwisely, feel safe.
After the lights came up, his route through the tubes became less random, his way guided by a chatter of computer activity that was carried up by the echoes. After a quarter of an hour’s stumbling through the network, Cwej came upon the now familiar sight of a metal door built into a spherical metal wall at the end of one of the tubes. The door was open, and the noises came from inside. Smartening himself up a bit, he stepped through into the computer centre. It was a surprisingly small spherical area, its walls lined with flashing and ticking instruments, and lit by eggbox-shaped fittings set around the inward-curving walls. He had barely an instant to register these surroundings before a hand was clamped over his mouth, and an expertly-aimed knee jabbed into his lower back, forcing him to his knees. He tried to shake off his attacker, but she now had his head in a lock that he dared not attempt to break.
‘You’re an enforcer,’ said his attacker. She applied pressure to his neck and he felt his consciousness rushing away. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ he managed to reply.
She relaxed her grip and he fell forward, his nose slamming on the cold metal floor. ‘There’s no need to get angry,’ he said, rolling over. ‘I’m happy to talk.’ Christie stood over him, hands on hips, with a contemptuous expression quite at odds with her previous demeanour. Her hair and make-up were different, he noticed.
‘I could kill you with one hand,’ she said casually. ‘Oh, and please don’t say you weren’t fooled for one instant.’
He winced as he attempted to rise. ‘You’ve done something horrible to my neck. Er, I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said that me and my friends are only here by accident?’
‘Very lame for a lie, and so probably true.’ She shook her head, and returned her attentions to a screen on the wall that was flashing up schematic diagrams of Zamper ship designs. ‘Nearly done.’
‘You seem very proud.’
‘I am. I couldn’t have timed it better, really.’ The unit beeped a couple of times, and she removed an inch-wide disk from its drive. ‘Right, that’s me done. I’ll be off.’
Cwej realized that he ought to put up at least a token attempt at resistance, although his left arm dangled uselessly at his side. He stood in front of her, two feet taller but feeling utterly inept by comparison. ‘You’re going to use the Chelonian shuttle to get away?’
‘There’s no other way off. Apart from your ship, I suppose. You do have a ship?’ She came closer and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’re really cute, in a stupid way. Who trained you?’
‘Nobody you’d know. Who trained you?’
‘Self-taught.’ She looked at the disk, held between her thumb and index finger. ‘Worth billions, that. I’m never going to have to work again. I could buy myself out of East Galaxy, even.’
‘You’re going to sell it?’
‘No, I’m going to put it on the mantelpiece.’ For a moment, as she contemplated her future, her face took on the vacant quality that had attracted Cwej initially. ‘The yards on Ryga will pay seventy billion for these designs.’
Cwej coughed. ‘Er, so what are you going to do with me?’
‘I’m sure I can think of something.’ She took him by the hand and out into the tube. ‘It’ll be nice to have some company on the way back.’
‘What about Taal?’
She spread her arms. ‘Not my concern.’ She nudged him between the shoulder blades. ‘And don’t think of running, baby. One hand, remember.’
Cwej’s head was still thick with blood, his legs were weak. The world about him felt strangely altered, like a dream. For the moment he was content to be led by this woman. Whoever she was.
Dimly, his thoughts tumbling about his head, he registered that Forrester had finally got something right.
‘I’d say that boy’s got a discipline problem,’ said Bernice, as much to break the silence in which Ivzid’s final retort seemed to reverberate than for any other reason.
Hezzka growled. ‘He is young, and none too bright. The trouble is that he has been cooped up in the fleet’s ships all his years. It makes me shake to think, by Nim, that he commands our first divisi–’ He broke off abruptly and a sort of anxiety came into his eyes.
‘Ah,’ said Bernice. ‘You’re talking to me as an equal.’
‘You saved my life,’ Hezzka said at length. ‘I do not understand why.’
‘I’m a compassionate sort of parasite. I don’t suppose there’s an Androcles-archetype in your culture?’
‘A what?’
‘Never mind.’ She tapped her chin, going over Ivzid’s revelation. ‘You were being passed faulty goods, then. Naughty. The question is, what are we going to do now?’
Hezzka moved forward an inch at a time, straining his remaining limbs in his attempts to increase his pace. After a few painful moments, in which Bernice observed small movements in his facial muscles that seemed to signify frustration with himself, he was almost back to his former fearsome presence. ‘If I was thinking as an officer should think, parasite, my immediate desire would be to destroy this planet and all upon it.’
‘But you’re not? And by the way, I’m Bernice.’
‘That is your rank?’
‘It’s my name. Chosen by my parents.’
Hezzka nodded. ‘Parents. Ah yes, parasites require two to breed.’ His face took on a faraway look. ‘My mother named me after one of our finest saints.’
Bernice was surprised by this admission and decided to build on it. ‘I was named after a character in a very old Earth film.’
Hezzka feigned disinterest and shuffled to face the exit. ‘I wish only to leave this place. But I cannot return without Ivzid. My loyalty is to him. He is young and foolish, but many have been both and become neither.’ He moved off stoically. ‘My personal sensor array tells me that Ivzid is below the Complex. I will follow and retrieve him.�
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‘Hang on,’ Bernice called, skipping over chunks of rubble to catch up. ‘Your shuttle. If the Secunda takes off in it, you’re –’
‘Impossible,’ snapped Hezzka. ‘A parasite could not operate the shuttle. More to the point, it is protected by an anti-theft system that is beyond even my own understanding.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Bernice was torn by indecision. She thought of the TARDIS, unharmed but miles away, and the Doctor back at Smith’s hut, and Cwej and Forrester somewhere else again. A powerful instinct urged her to follow Hezzka as his crippled form dragged itself off down the tubeway.
Why?
She examined her thoughts. The most logical option was to get out and find the Doctor, as planned. It wasn’t in her nature to follow hunches, or even to have hunches. But now, as she stood in the doorway, the caverns seemed almost to be calling her. Strangely she took comfort in the downwardness of the Complex, the thought of the warm and moist caverns below, a place of safety, a place she needed to reach. When she thought of staying on the surface an equal but opposite force nagged her to abandon the idea.
So, without knowing why, she followed Hezzka down.
The path taken by Ivzid led him to a pool of some sticky substance. He skirted around it, lifting his sides to avoid a fall, and came to the end of the route. The roof and the floor of the caverns almost touched, with stalactites and stalagmites barring the exit; the formation closely resembled the grinning mouth of one of the lesser beasts of Chelonia. Ivzid recalled the legend of Kalza, the young hero swallowed by a sea-marauder, of how he had lived on for thirty cycles in the beast’s stomach, and floated himself out on a raft made of splintered trees in his captor’s bowel. In his hatchlinghood Ivzid had taken great comfort from the stories enumerated in the Book of Time. Shunning the sports of other hatchlings – not for him the mindless games of Sub-continental whispers or leap-parasite – he had spent many hours alone in his cabin, going over the stories again and again, losing his heart to the simplicity and beauty of the prose, and wishing himself a part of the tales. He longed to run through verdant lands, to breathe non-recycled atmospheres, to taste fresh food, to hunt like heroes of yore across hill and dale, to drive out infestations and graze on fresh pastureland. The air aboard the fleetships was flat and sterile, and the artificial gravity field instilled an extra layer of deadness. Whenever General Hafril passed through the inspection centre, looking to select the most suitable hatchlings to begin training, Ivzid looked at him with wonderment, as impressed by the deference shown to him by other adults as by the man himself. One day, he had vowed, such respect would greet his own presence.
Putting aside his memories, Ivzid used his great strength to snap away the bars on the exit, and slipped through into the cavern beyond. Here, too, Zamps had passed, flowing out in what must have been a tide from the construction yard. Ivzid recalled his studies of biology, and his conjecture was that the slime-beasts had entered their swarming season, and were sloping away from their workplace in order to reproduce. A logical supposition.
Of course, being a hero, he was able to conquer his dislike of the beasts. He would discover their powers, for sure, and turn them to work of his own. An entire new fleet would be built here, and would sweep out into space, laying waste to any squabbling parasite craft that might dare to interfere. And after Chelonia had been restored to its true destiny, and the maternal standard fluttered once again over the restored palace, the great vengeance would begin. Firstly, the empire’s former limits would be re-taken, then –
Ivzid froze suddenly. Something was moving nearby, he was certain. His sensors told him not, but his own senses remained positive. Something – not alone; a mass of things, moving. Wriggling. Squirming wetly. Clammy, cold and sticky, a great herd of Zamps, no, not Zamps –
Arionites.
Ivzid’s mouth juddered. His sensors reminded him that he was quite alone, there was no living creature in his vicinity. He told himself that he was imagining things, that the creaks and squeaks and whistles and burbles that he heard were just the result of a far-off wind blowing around the tunnels.
'No such thing as Arionites,’ he said out loud. ‘No such thing as… Arionites…’
The sensation passed. Ivzid moved on. His fear still mumbled at the back of his mind, but he conquered it and was driven downward by the trail.
It had never occurred to Mr Jottipher in his twenty-two years as a dutiful and obedient employee of the Management to question the intentions or the orders of his superior. Although his devotion to the Secunda was of a considerably shorter time, his trusting character was unchanged. Although the lift wasn’t working, he had not expected any difficulty in getting up to the surface, confident that she would have planned for this. Indeed she had, and with a flourish she trained the Chelonian weapon on the wall of the reception sphere beside the lift door. When the smoke cleared, Mr Jottipher saw that behind the wall was a narrow shaft, square in shape, which led upwards. ‘Maintenance ducting used by the servitors,’ the Secunda said. ‘We must climb to the surface.’
‘Climb?’ Mr Jottipher looked down at the heavy strongbox clasped to his chest.
‘You will go first.’ She waved him forward.
Mr Jottipher examined the shaft. The ducting formed ladder-like rungs on either side, but the slit of darkening purple sky seemed to be miles above him. He looked back at the Secunda. ‘There is no alternative?’
‘None. It’s not that far up, really.’
He clasped the strongbox under one arm and started to climb. He found as he continued upwards that the box formed an effective wedge against the opposite side of the shaft, and he was able to stop and rest several times, until the voice of the Secunda echoed from below, ordering him to hurry up before the light faded completely. Mr Jottipher could scarcely believe what he was doing. He recalled without humour the wish he had made the morning before for a more practical status.
Half an hour later he emerged onto the flat grey launch-pad. He collapsed next to the strongbox, and as his trimly-bearded cheek scraped the concrete he saw Zamper’s big purple sun setting over the western rocks. A couple of hundred metres behind him sat the awkwardly-shaped Chelonian shuttle, its massive black bulk casting a long twisted twilight shadow over the launchpad. His heart pumping, Mr Jottipher stood, drawing deep lungfuls of the cold air. For the first time, he allowed himself to consider that he might outlive the day.
Christie had taught herself well. The upward journey through the tubeways took only minutes, during which Cwej’s embarrassment at being taken as a hostage increased. Several times he considered making a run for it, but his left arm was completely useless, swinging like a dead weight at his side, and the way Christie stayed close left him in no doubt that her boasts were not exaggerations.
They entered the reception sphere, and Christie swore when she saw the blasted-open service ducting. She left Cwej’s side and ran to investigate. He followed. ‘What’s the –'
A sizzling pink bolt dropped from above.
‘Madam!’ Mr Jottipher’s head whipped round at the unearthly shriek made by the footgun as the Secunda pulled the trigger, aiming back down the service duct. She rolled back from the open hatch and viewed the weapon gripped in her hand with evident distaste.
‘Someone’s coming after us,’ she said. ‘It looked like that Christie girl.’
Mr Jottipher swallowed. ‘You – er, have you, er, killed her?’ He edged closer to the hatch. ‘Shall I have a look, er, to see if she’s all right?’
‘The Management picked well when he picked you, Jottipher.’ She slipped her hand around his shoulder, and her eyelids fluttered. ‘We’re escaping. We don’t want anybody coming with us, do we?’
He looked sadly down at the duct, the blast still ringing in his ears. ‘I suppose not. It all seems a bit cruel, though. Are we really going to leave them all here?’
‘You have an objection?’
He considered. Something deep inside him, he supposed his c
onscience, was whispering faintly that this was an immoral business and he ought to take a stand. He couldn’t understand why life had abruptly become so fraught. It was his experience that simply to follow the most authorative path shielded one from difficulties. Why were things so complicated? He was no black-hearted pirate.
‘Of course not, no objection,’ he heard himself reply.
The after-echo of the blast travelled around the upper tubeways. As Forrester ran in its direction, Taal panting behind her, she realized that today was shaping up so much better than yesterday. The clattering percussion of the explosion was inspirational. Thank goodness, people were trying to kill each other at last.
She loped up the ramp to the reception sphere, slightly put out that the door was open; unconsciously she’d been looking forward to kicking it back. Inside the dimly-lit sphere Cwej was bent over the supine form of Christie.
‘You don’t waste any time,’ Forrester said acidly.
Cwej shrugged. ‘You were right. She’s taken the ship designs.’ He pointed to the hole blasted in the wall next to the lift. ‘Somebody’s up there. One of the Chelonians, I reckon. Where’s Bernice?’
‘Gone after the Doctor. We’ll meet up at the TARDIS.’ She walked over and kicked him lightly with the toe of her boot. ‘Don’t run off like that again. It’s a damn stupid thing to do, it’s against every code in the book. I ought to have left you.’
He refused to meet her eye. ‘We’re not governed by the book any more. And it’s all right now.’
Forrester’s rebuke was interrupted by Taal, who panted his way into the sphere and, at the sight of Christie, uttered a wistful cry and hurried to her side. Forrester shook her head, and wondered what she could have achieved in her life if she’d been pretty. A classical saying of the late twentieth-century, much quoted in her old neighbourhood, popped into her head. Only the plain have to work at anything.
Taal patted the unconscious girl’s hand. ‘Poor little dear. If anything’s happened, I’ll not forgive myself.’
Cwej unzipped a pocket in the girl’s tunic and showed him the small disk. ‘I’m afraid we were both taken in. She’s a pirate.’
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