Doctor Who_ Infinite Requiem Part 14

'If you like.' The Doctor shrugged. 'I only got a double gamma for that at the Academy. My opinions are based on what I learned myself, long after leaving the Time Lords to their petty feuds.'

The Sensopath was silent.

'I need to find out more about Shanstra and Jirenal,' the Doctor said after a moment or two. 'But until I do know more, it's dangerous for you to attempt communion with either of them. Which is why we're going to Gadrell Major.'

The Doctor stood up, walked over to the corner by the scanner, and counted down a column of roundels until he reached the one he wanted. He opened it to reveal a cupboard, from which a cascade of electronic components fell on to the floor, followed by a couple of fishing floats and a leather-bound book called Black Orchid Black Orchid. He ignored the clutter, and did not take long to find what he was looking for: a bra.s.s-coloured, circular object like a tiara. The Doctor reached towards his pa.s.senger with it in his hand.

The Sensopath recoiled. 'What is that?'

'It's a very basic thought wave damping device. I wish I'd had this when I met the Vardans. Primitive, but it'll have to do.'

'What do I do with it?'

The Doctor beamed. 'You wear it, of course,' he said, and slipped the circlet on to the Sensopath's forehead.

Kelzen/Sanjay closed its eyes. 'I still do not know why I should trust you, Doctor.'

'Don't worry,' said the Doctor. 'Some of my best friends have said the very same thing.'

The TARDIS flew on through the vortex.

Jirenal was feeling restless. He had decided to attempt a simple experiment.

At the end of one of the glittering halls of the Centre, there was an enormous crystal cliff, behind which he could see shapes moving. His guide, Amarill, had respectfully nodded when he had asked to be shown over to the translucent wall.

114.

They walked past Pridka whose robes were orange, denoting less responsibility than Amarill in her green. The tiny fins on their hairless skulls rippled gently as thoughts pa.s.sed among them. Jirenal had, as yet, found nothing of interest in them, but he was keeping an open mind.

One technique he had perfected, which set him apart from the Pridka, was that of shielding his thoughts. He knew only too well what might happen to him if they were to discover his true nature too soon.

Amarill had an elegant stride, Jirenal had noticed. She had not broken it when, every now and then, she waved her palm over the flat, black square in the crook of her arm to show the visitor some interesting images or statistics.

Jirenal looked into the projector with gentlemanly courtesy each time, and nodded intently whenever she explained something to him.

Amarill, for her part, did not find the visitor disconcerting, as the Director had indicated in his subvocal inflexions to her. On the contrary, she thought he was charming, compared with many of the humans who pa.s.sed this way. He seemed humanoid, if on the tall side, and she thought he was rather elegant and beautiful, with his dark suit, adorned with a clasp at the neck, and his rich, dark hair. His mouth seemed enormous, and very expressive. Whenever he smiled showing dazzling, square teeth the mouth seemed to occupy the whole of the lower half of his face.

Amarill exchanged a friendly, encouraging look with the visitor as they stepped on to the pad in front of the Yzashoks' recreation tank. He had his hands behind his back and was looking up at the shimmering blue face of the tank with interest.

'These visitors exist in an amniotic fluid that responds intimately to their brain patterns,' explained Amarill, and beamed a digitized diagram of Yzashok biology on to the projector. Jirenal nodded, but his attention was focused now on the frosted surface of the tank, behind which the swimming, lizard-like shapes of the creatures could be seen. 'The Yzashoks are a race of philosophers,' Amarill continued, 'who consider the confluence between the harmony of the self and communion with others to be the highest achievement of the mind. Many of them come here in order to seek that very harmony.'

'Very n.o.ble,' remarked Jirenal. He looked over the edge of the still-rising gravpad, as if he had only just noticed that they had climbed high enough for the Pridka minions below to be mere blobs of orange and blue. 'Could we stop here?' he asked. 'Heights do not really agree with me.'

Amarill nodded respectfully, and the pad bobbed to a halt, some sixty metres above the bustling floor of the hall.

Jirenal looked intently at her. 'You are very kind, to show me around like this.'

'It is my job,' she answered.

115.

Jirenal reached out a spindly, flexible hand. 'Nevertheless,' he said, 'I should like to thank you for your kindness.'

Amarill felt the visitor's finger touch her forehead before she realized what he was doing.

The sensation fell, like a shutter. First, a feeling of calm, enveloping all the extrasensory networks of her highly developed brain. She felt a huge, overwhelming sensation of tranquillity, and as her senses combined, she saw felt tasted the sensations expanding, blossoming like huge red flowers in her mind.

And then the flowers began to hum.

The Pridka were a sedate race, unused to tumult or disorder. They did not, in general, occupy themselves with mundane tasks like the collection of debris, as an army of robotic drones silvery spheres with a mult.i.tude of flexible attachments fulfilled this necessity. When the drone on duty in Hall 275 saw a black object tumbling from a gravpad anch.o.r.ed halfway up the Yzashok recreation tank, it moved in to sweep up the offending item. The drone registered the black square as a standard information projector, obviously dropped by the guide on the gravpad. It secured the item away in its storage unit, and moved on.

The kiss is purely of the physical world, It is the first sensation that Amarill dell'kat.i.t vo'Pridka has ever felt purely with the basic senses, unenhanced by telepathy. She draws away from Jirenal in shock. She puts a hand over her mouth, tries to stop her body from shaking uncontrollably as she looks at his wide, glistening mouth, his long, white and alien face.

What has happened? She can feel nothing. It is as if all her receptors have been deadened.

And then the beautiful flowers open up again, not just red this time, but burning with a mult.i.tude of unsuspected colour, like vandalism and riots in her mind. The colours of pa.s.sion, the colours of devotion and subjugation to Jirenal.

'Excellent,' says his voice, inside and outside her mind. 'The Pridka have earned their reputation.'

'What what have you done?'

'A simple game,' says Jirenal, standing before her, a strong, dark shadow, his hands clasped behind his back. 'I entered your mind, and adjusted it. A mere test of my powers.' His head swivels slowly to look at the translucent surface of the tank to the side of their gravpad. It stretches above and below them. 'Imagine if I were to attempt such an experiment ' he glances back at her ' on a larger scale.'

116.

And she watches, helpless, as he presses his forehead up against the surface of the tank and closes his eyes in concentration. He places his palms flat on the tank too.

For a minute, nothing happens. Then, a shrill beeping sound emits from Amarill's wrist unit. She checks the readings, in horror.

'Stop! Please!' She tries to grab Jirenal's arm. His hands, flat against the crystal blue surface, seem immovable. His expression is one of the utmost concentration. 'The temperature!' Amarill cries desperately. 'You must stop!'

The lizard-like occupants of the great communion of minds, irresistibly attracted to the pull of Jirenal's, are swimming towards him. They are cl.u.s.tering on the other side of the tank like filings attracted to a magnet.

Amarill is pale with horror. Her fins are rippling uselessly, sending out blank messages to her fellow Pridka. No feeling. It is like going blind.

In the tank, the fluid crisps to ice, trapping every one of the Yzashoks like flies in amber. They are silent and still.

Jirenal lets out a long, satisfied breath. He lowers his head, and his hands, and then looks up to smile at Amarill.

117.

15.

The Dead in Mind

'So,' said the Doctor, striding through the TARDIS corridors, 'you have reached the stage of civilization where you can expand your minds without the need for drugs. You are the most advanced telepaths I've ever met. And yet you still haven't learnt to be more than children with expensive playthings.'

That is a harsh judgement, Doctor.

The voice, in his head, was definitely that of a woman now. It was the sort of voice that a human being might have found suggestive of a long, hot soak, with a gla.s.s of of champagne on a table beside the bath-tub. The Doctor, of course, did not respond to such allure in the same way.

'You grew,' the Doctor said, 'developed as a race . . . ' He paused at a four-way junction where the roundels seemed slightly larger and tinged with more grey. He was thinking 'And became so responsive to telepathic suggestion that you could use it, much as a human would use physical strength, to affect elements in the physical world. You built cities by the power of thought alone.'

It is more than thought, Doctor. Such an inadequate term. In your terminology it is felt as a kind of it is felt as a kind of A pause. A pause. music. music.

'Hmm,' said the Doctor. He took out a coin from his pocket, tossed it, caught it on the back of his hand with a resounding smack and looked at it. He shrugged, and turned back the way he had come.

You cannot understand what it is like. You are not a Sensopath. To be almost totally cut off from the harmony of communication with my kind it is worse totally cut off from the harmony of communication with my kind it is worse than being deprived of sight and hearing. than being deprived of sight and hearing.

'I realize that.'

The Doctor paused before a section of the wall, tapped on it with his umbrella. It swung open with a creaking sound. Steps led down inside, down into the blue-grey churchlike coolness of the tertiary console room once more.

At the edge of the city of Banksburgh, the rubble was piled high. Twisted metal, like strange plants with leaves of rust. Ton upon ton of stone, forming giant hills of debris. Abandoned canisters and crates.

A wind blew, like the last wind of all time, causing great upheavals of dust that shrouded the wasteland as if in fog. The city could dimly be seen, below in the valley, the pinnacle of the library still jutting above it all.

119.

Out of the gloom came bright beams of green, sweeping across the debris, and behind them, with a purposeful gait, came the predatory figure of Shanstra. She looked around the destruction, and was pleased.

Behind her, following at the hem of her cloak like a faithful hound, was Suzi Palsson, her face tired and drawn, yet unnaturally bright with attention and devotion. She stood several paces behind her mistress as Shanstra, hands on hips, nodded and smiled grimly.

'Good. If this is what they are capable of on their own, then with my power among them there will be even greater sport.' She gestured with a long arm.

'Come.'

They scrambled down a vast slope, a scree formed from the remains of the city suburbs. About halfway down, the remnants of a house poked up like a dead face, its windows yawning emptily across the scree. Rammed up against the wall, covered with a film of dust, was the sh.e.l.l of a Phracton unit, and there was a brittle, half-collapsed human skeleton in the dust beside it.

'Remnants of war,' said Shanstra in fascination. 'These fragments of life and death.'

Rippling blue light washed over the Gothic architecture, but the Doctor went straight for the stone console. 'I'm calibrating the signal from its original source,' he said to the room in general, knowing that the Sensopath would hear the thoughts that accompanied his words. 'With any luck, we ought to materialize very close to where the TARDIS left Bernice.'

Ah. Your . . . companion. I believe she has an interesting mind?

'And she wants it to stay that way!' the Doctor snarled suddenly, glowering up at the vaulted ceiling for want of anywhere better. 'Didn't your mother tell you not to go poking about in people's heads?' He had finished his calibra-tions, and now he lifted his hands from the console like a triumphant concert pianist. One switch had to be thrown, and they would be locked back on to the correct path.

I contained myself within the child. I believed I had done the right thing.

'Yes,' said the Doctor moodily. 'We'll see.'

He stabbed at the final switch, and the TARDIS lurched.

Bernice was let into the medlab after a few moments' discussion with the guards on duty outside. The conversation was reasonable, and largely detailed the insalubrious duties the two would face being given by Captain Cheynor if they refused access to his special guest.

Livewire was sleeping peacefully, with two electropads attached to her temples. Above her, a number of screens monitored her vital signs. Trinket sat beside her, in fresh clothes but still tense, with shadows of tiredness on his 120 young face. He looked up gratefully as Bernice strode over to join him. She thought he seemed to have got about two years older in the past two hours.

'The medics said,' Trinket ventured, 'that there's nothing actually wrong with her. She did lapse into coma for a while, but now it's just ordinary sleep.'

Benny nodded, sitting down. 'I'd imagine the use of all that mental energy took its toll on her body.'

'You really know what's happening, don't you?' Trinket said accusingly.

'No more than you. Trinket ' She paused, exasperatedly. ' Look, I can't go on calling you that. What's your real name?'

He made a dismissive sound, turned away from her to look at the floor. 'I don't use it. If you're my friend, you won't use it either.'

Bernice smiled. 'You remind me of someone I used to know. A friend of mine, and the Doctor's. She used to prefer a name of her own. But she took her real name back, eventually.'

'What happened to her?' Trinket still would not make eye contact, his fringe falling over his eyes.

'Ah, well, she's part of the past. Listen you're still the only one to have seen at first hand what this Shanstra can do, right?' Trinket nodded resignedly. 'And as for her,' Bernice said, looking at the pale, sleeping girl, 'I wonder if she can remember any of it.' Benny let out a long breath. 'You never know, with these things. There's been a few times when I've woken up, head bouncing off the ceiling, not knowing what species species I was. Had to do the check-list. Two arms, two legs, warm blood hey, I must be a mammal.' She clicked her tongue to herself. '"What am I?" makes a more original impression than "Where am I?" I was. Had to do the check-list. Two arms, two legs, warm blood hey, I must be a mammal.' She clicked her tongue to herself. '"What am I?" makes a more original impression than "Where am I?"

don't you feel?'

Trinket looked up. He had not really been listening. 'You don't think she's been messed about, do you? I mean, permanently?'

Bernice placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Look, let's just wait 'til she comes round. We don't know what she's been through, do we?' She crouched down beside him. 'Are you two very close?'

Trinket drew breath, slumped back in his chair. 'We worked out after a while that we were gonna have to work together, to survive. So we did. But she she was always on the edge. Going on about how we'd get a gun, then more guns, and get armed, to kill the Phracs.' He shook his head. 'All these great schemes she had. Our leader.'

'What did you mean, you have have to work together?' to work together?'

Trinket glared at her for a second, as if she were responsible for all his problems. 'Livewire knows I'm not stupid, so she needs me. But she's never forgiven me for being born. And killing our mother.'

Bernice recoiled from the bluntness, as if from a blow. 'For . . . ' She swallowed hard.

121.

'I was a difficult birth,' explained Trinket, disparagingly.

'Ah. I see. And big half-sister blames it on you.'

'They had to choose. Between me and her. There was no one around to make the decision, so the doctors took it for me. They saved me.' He shrugged.

'Suppose I should be grateful. But I've had to live with the knowledge . . . that Livewire secretly wants me dead.'

'She wouldn't,' Bernice said too quickly. 'Trinket, she wouldn't.'

'No,' he said. 'She's all talk. Sure, she had her crossbow and she tried to use it. But she wouldn't have killed the Phracs herself, if she'd been under her own control. She hates them, for what they've done to our city. To our world.

She hates them, and that hate became real. You saw it. You saw it!'

'Yes. I saw it.'