Doctor Who_ Infinite Requiem Part 8

Chances Are We Are Mad

Pridka Dream Centre, in orbit around Taprid Beyond Common Era of Earth calendar. Beyond Common Era of Earth calendar.

'It all seems very interesting,' said the visitor. 'Very interesting indeed.'

The Director's crest of fins bristled slightly, betraying the fact that he the Director was of mostly masculine gender felt his visitor was being a little icy.

His face flushed a slightly darker blue, and his forehead wrinkled. The tall, dark visitor remained, as before, impa.s.sive.

The Director's personal tourdisc floated up through a helix-shaped gallery of light in the vast technological paradise known as the Dream Centre. The Director, when he thought he detected an undercurrent in the tones of the visitor, turned slightly and tried to read something in that long face, but there was nothing but the former inscrutability to be seen.

This Jirenal was a strange customer, the Director had decided. Asking for a tour of the greatest dream therapy centre ever constructed was not unusual, but the distinct lack of awe shown by the visitor was at odds with his apparent eagerness to see everything. And there was something else nagging at the Director's thoughts, too When the visitor had first arrived, escorted by drones, he had been wearing the simple black suit of a middle-grade worker. The Director had been informed by the drone's report that the stranger had been naked upon his arrival at the quarantine bay, and although the Pridka set little store by the appearance of the flesh in any form, an order had been given by a senior Pridka to have him covered. There were currently members of over seven hundred cultures residing in the centre, fifty-two of which had a history of finding the unclad body offensive.

The features of Jirenal which had struck the Director then had been those which he noticed again now, as they ascended the helix on their touring disc.

A proud, long face, with cheekbones so p.r.o.nounced they seemed to have been cut with a knife and, indeed, to define the angular shape of the face overall.

The skin colour, the Director decided, was that of an exceptionally pale humanoid it looked a rather sickly hue, especially to a healthily bluecheeked Pridka like him (but his many cycles as Director had taught him never to 67 respond with disgust to the physical features of another race; the minds of his visitors tended to concern the Director much more). Exceptionally black hair, glossy with fluid light, fell over the man's black-clad shoulders. The Director noticed also that the hands, although like those of a humanoid, were especially long and flat, with spindly, pale fingers which Jirenal kept pressed together as if in meditation.

'How many minds are there here?' Jirenal asked, as s.p.a.ce and light spiralled past them. His voice was resonant, and rang with an authority that would probably have intimidated a weaker spirit than the Director.

The way that the query was phrased only threw the Director slightly for a moment.

'You mean, our current rota of visitors? At the moment, approximately fifteen thousand. More are expected this week. It is . . . ' The Director blinked slowly. 'It is a popular therapy and, moreover, totally safe.'

'Fifteen thousand minds,' said Jirenal. 'Thank you.'

They floated up still further, past long galleries full of couches, some connected by flux-beams to pulsing globes of thought, others communicating merely with each other. They pa.s.sed recreational lounges, including one where a group of Monoids was playing a complex three-dimensional strategy game. Another was a spherical tank, filled with thrashing reptilian creatures.

'The Rakkhins need to be constantly immersed in an ammonia supersatu-rated solution,' explained the Director, and Jirenal gave an almost impercep-tible nod. 'It maintains the chemical balance of their bodies and, hence, their minds. They breathe ammonia, and are exceptionally keen on compet.i.tive sport. They wanted to organize a tournament for all the visitors, as ah recreation. Unfortunately, no one except the Rills could play against them. I think they have an ongoing contest.'

'Is "recreation" an important part of the therapy?' asked Jirenal with the same icy politeness, as the disc merged with the floor of the Director's office.

'It can be,' said the Director with a brief rippling of his fins. He gathered his white robes around him and gestured to Jirenal to step off the disc into the office a globe-shaped s.p.a.ce of textured light, rather than a room in the technical sense. They settled themselves into levitation couches around the desk, and the Director ordered drinks to be brought by a drone, before resuming his conversation with his visitor.

'We like to encourage free expression in conjunction with all the facilities available here at the centre. Many, many races come to take advantage of what we offer. We are at the edge of a conflux, you know, and so quite a few of them are hyper-travellers, like yourself.'

Jirenal nodded, almost mockingly.

'It would seem inappropriate,' the Director went on, 'for the ethical codes 68 of any one culture to apply here, so nothing is expressly forbidden except, of course, harm to another life-form. We pride ourselves on being a cosmopolitan inst.i.tution.' The Director remembered that humanoids often appreciated a movement of the mouth called a smile they found it friendly, he had been told, and a mark of trust. The Director, like most other Pridka, preferred the etiquette of the cranial fins, but he had been practising his smiles in deference to his many visitors from the human and Morestran cultures. He tried one now. It was reasonably successful.

'And,' Jirenal enquired, leaning forward, his dark, alert eyes watching the Director carefully, 'are they all all telepaths?' telepaths?'

'I would not apply that term to all our visitors, no, not by any means.' A drone arrived with the drinks, and Jirenal took his with exaggerated politeness. 'Those people, sir, who use our facilities are those who have chosen Pridka therapy because, obviously, it employs elements of telepathic communication. We are, after all, the dominant species in this galaxy to have mastered the disciplines of the mind, and we pride ourselves on applying them in a healing context.'

'And making yourself a few credits,' said Jirenal. He sipped from his gla.s.s.

The Director was beginning to find his visitor more and more difficult.

'Telepathic dream therapy has never been a cheap science,' said the Director haughtily, 'in any sense of the word. No, many of our visitors are normal sensers, but who feel, maybe, distressed, or disturbed, or in need of rebuilding confidence. Our therapy can do that for them. It can repair self-esteem. It can help visitors to come to terms with unfortunate incidents in their pasts, and to return to their lives refreshed and invigorated. It helps, naturally, if they are of a telepathic inclination, but it is by no means necessary. In fact, sir'

the Director was on a hobby-horse now, and was becoming very animated, his face flushing aquamarine and his fins bristling with excitement 'it is often here, in the centre, that many visitors develop their latent telepathic abilities.

We are able to offer them a full course of training and counselling to make it a positive, exciting experience.'

'Which it is,' said Jirenal with a nod. He took another sip of his drink and placed the gla.s.s on the levitation beam to his right. 'I am sure of this.'

A pillar of light misted into view in the corner of the Director's office, revealing the call-image of a young Pridka of mostly female gender. Her bald, smooth skull was adorned only with the tiniest crest of fins, and her delicate features were offset by a glittering green robe.

'With your permission, Director.' Her voice was quiet, but confident.

'Yes, Amarill?'

'You are due to address the psycho-opterands' conference in two microcy-cles. You requested this reminder.'

69.'Yes, yes, I did.' The Director made apologetic signs to his visitor. 'Please, feel free to take a further look around the centre. In fact . . . ' The Director turned back towards the image of his a.s.sistant. 'Amarill, how is your schedule for the rest of today?'

'I have only priority seven duties, Director.'

'Excellent! Would you mind looking after my visitor here and showing him anything else he wants to see?'

'I shall do my best, Director.'

'Good, good. I'll tell him to meet you in the grove.' The Director waved a hand, and a 3-D map of the centre flickered into being on his desk. 'I trust that will be satisfactory? I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse me.'

No, he thought as he said it, not sorry at all. Rather relieved.

Jirenal was already on his feet, reaching out a hand to the Director. 'Most kind,' he said, with only the briefest glance at the map.

The Director saw his visitor out.

As he returned to his desk, he could not shake off the idea that there was something very unsettling about those burning black eyes. He blinked once, shaking his head. No, he thought, and chastened himself for such a physically prejudiced opinion. All the same . . . The Director wished he had asked more about where the newcomer was actually from, for one thing, and who had authorized his visitor's pa.s.s. These questions seemed obvious now, and yet, for some reason, there had seemed no need for them while in the presence of Jirenal.

The Director set about collecting his information together. Just a little later, when he was standing in the central lecture area, speaking clearly and confidently to psycho-opterands from a dozen solar systems, he had forgotten all about the mysterious Jirenal.

The Director could not possibly have known that this would be a fatal mistake.

I came through the tunnel of light and time. I came naked, drifting like a lost spirit across the wastelands of the universe. I saw time eaten up behind me and spirit across the wastelands of the universe. I saw time eaten up behind me and my own civilization left far behind, turning into phantom ruins as it retreated my own civilization left far behind, turning into phantom ruins as it retreated into nothingness, into mere thought, then into the absence of thought, as I hurtled backwards to a time when it had never existed. When I we had never into nothingness, into mere thought, then into the absence of thought, as I hurtled backwards to a time when it had never existed. When I we had never existed. existed.

I felt the wrench as time shattered. I felt the screams as our bonds were stretched and cut. The splitting of the One into Three. stretched and cut. The splitting of the One into Three.

Alone, I came first to a battlefield, littered with broken bodies in which blood stiffened the land, in which footprints had been made in rotting flesh, where stiffened the land, in which footprints had been made in rotting flesh, where metal and limbs decayed together under two relentless suns. metal and limbs decayed together under two relentless suns.

70.I was rescued, put into a ship with the dead and the dying. I allowed this to happen to myself because I wanted them to think I was harmless. I was waiting happen to myself because I wanted them to think I was harmless. I was waiting for my powers to return, thinking at every moment that if they discovered my for my powers to return, thinking at every moment that if they discovered my true nature, they would kill me. true nature, they would kill me.

I was carried away from the war to a s.p.a.ce station of the humanoids known as Morestrans, where I was treated kindly. Soon, I felt my powers returning. as Morestrans, where I was treated kindly. Soon, I felt my powers returning.

It was not long before I found myself on a pa.s.senger ship to this place, famed throughout the galaxy. It is a centre for research and healing involving dreams throughout the galaxy. It is a centre for research and healing involving dreams and telepathy. Dreams! Telepathy! These primitive beings think they understand and telepathy. Dreams! Telepathy! These primitive beings think they understand the meaning! the meaning!

We are in orbit around a frontier world, called Taprid. Its indigenous population, the Pridka, control the centre.

There are fifteen thousand minds here. Fifteen thousand souls. Fifteen thousand voices with their thoughts babbling to me. I do not know where to start.

Soon, I shall have regained the strength to become One with myselves. Soon.

They have not banished us. They have underestimated us. They do not know how powerful we are, still. They do not know how we have planned, arranged to how powerful we are, still. They do not know how we have planned, arranged to wait for the optimum point in all three of our closeted existences. wait for the optimum point in all three of our closeted existences.

I am Jirenal.

I shall be JirenalKelzenSHANSTRA Once more.

71.

9.

From out of Nowhere

Light was dawning over Gadrell Major. And Bernice Summerfield was beginning to think it would have been better left in darkness.

The TARDIS had materialized on one of the highest floors of a skysc.r.a.per.

The bare stone indicated a swift evacuation, possibly followed by some efficient looting. Pillars supported the ceiling. Through the shattered wall, Bernice could see the ruins of the city in the orange-grey light. It had obviously once been an impressive sight, and there still remained some of the glittering, simplistic buildings, like pieces of a giant child's puzzle: silver pyramids, gold and white towers, domes and obelisks. But they were few and far between. Mostly stumps of buildings jutted up from gashed streets, and clouds of smoke, like giant pointers to destruction, billowed into the air at intervals.

Benny, shaking her head, ventured as near the edge as she dared, her footsteps sounding old and hollow, like those of a spectre. She saw a large square at the centre of the town paved like a giant chessboard; and what seemed to be the tallest building left, a giant, reflective sphere that sprouted a central column like a skewer.

She stood with her hands in her pockets; she had changed into the more practical attire of a denim coverall with a leather jacket and laced-up boots.

A ghost visitor in a ghost city. But no, it was not dead. There was the sound of gunfire, echoing up towards her from somewhere down in the city and there! At the edge of her vision, something . . . A fresh cloud of smoke was issuing from one of the buildings, over on what she decided to call the western edge of the city.

She saw something else, now along the shattered streets, and through the mud where other streets had been, shiny silver vehicles were patrolling.

There were other, smaller vehicles too, like globes, only from where she was it was difficult to see them in any kind of detail. She decided to pop back into the TARDIS and get her image intensifier, for which there was a small s.p.a.ce in the canvas satchel she wore on her shoulder.

As she turned, the ceiling tore open in front of her.

The remains of plaster and plastic cascaded down between Benny and the TARDIS. Following them, a skinny man in standard-issue overalls. .h.i.t the floor, 73 rolling on to his shoulder as he did so. He was clutching a black bag, and only noticed Bernice as he scrambled to his feet. His eyes were staring, terrified.

'It's all right,' she said, 'I'm not going to hurt you.' At the same time, she knew that there was no proof of this, and to a frightened and dangerous man, she could be seen automatically as an enemy.

At the edge of her hearing, an electrical whining sound grew. It appeared to be coming from somewhere beyond the TARDIS.

Benny saw the man trying to edge away from her. Confused, she looked from him to the hole he had made, and then over at the comforting sight of the TARDIS. The man was clutching the bag tightly as if it were a child. 'It's mine,' he said in a surprisingly lucid voice. 'You find your own.'

'All right.' Benny's heart was thumping, but she reckoned she had found a logical pivot on which to reason. 'I'll find my own.' Scavenging, she thought.

Everyone for themselves, then. What the h.e.l.l have you sent me into, Doctor?

The man nodded furiously. He scrambled along, keeping his distance from her, still hugging the bag, as the whining sound increased. 'Get away from here,' he muttered. 'Like the others. Get away. You should have gone with the evacuations. When the ships came!'

He was edging away, but Benny was desperate for information, and right now he was her only source. 'Why didn't you go?'

'Killed a man,' he said briefly, licking his lips and scuttling for the doors on the far wall of the shattered room. 'Rather take my chances here, mm?'

As Benny watched, he disappeared through the doors to the staircase.

The noise was growing. Benny whirled around, and after fumbling in her satchel, found the small hand-held motion detector which had sometimes come in useful for her. She gripped it tightly and read off the display, which showed distance and direction. The approaching life-form was at a linear distance of forty metres behind the TARDIS, and closing in on her.

Bernice suddenly became aware that her mouth was very dry. The readout now said thirty metres, and the whining sound was echoing off the walls. She began to back up.

Twenty metres. The numbers counted down. Ten.

Linear distance. Linear distance. The thought hit her like a sudden physical slap, and she looked up to the ceiling above the TARDIS, where the man had burst through in such a spectacular manner.

Ten metres. Five. The sound was all around her. Bernice braced herself.

The readout said two, one. And yet nothing emerged from the hole in the ceiling.

Now it was counting back up again. The display on the motion detector was reading one metre distant, two, three. What? Bernice, confused, swung around in a full circle, seeing no signs of any approaching 74.Four metres to her left, the floor fountained up as if punched from beneath, chips of concrete flying in all directions.

A translucent globe, about two metres across, rose up from the hole and blocked her path.

It was made up of two halves separated by a band of black material, and she had an impression of something organic hunched inside it, surrounded by tentacles, or cables? It was difficult to tell. Lights flickered on the black, disclike base of the sphere. From the band around its circ.u.mference, there was something emerging that looked rather like a big gun.

'Sorry,' Benny said, 'whatever I did, I won't do it again. Honest!'

Inside the creature's sphere, the lights glowed brighter. A very organic-sounding hiss emerged from the grille on the central band, and the sphere began gracefully to float through the air towards her.

The Phracton Secondary twitched inside his casing. The Commandant, who had requested this personal meeting, had no reason to doubt that his subordinate was, as intended, squirming in terror. In actual fact, he was writhing in impotent anger.

Through the web of light, furious exchanges bounced between the two Phractons. The Secondary, trying to appear calm and subservient, sent out pulses containing the relevant information he wished to pa.s.s on that all bipeds were enemies of the Phracton Swarm, and that every one left alive represented a mortal threat.

The Commandant transmitted reprimands at the highest level following these dangerous sentiments, denouncing them as counter-productive and in breach of Phracton honour. The purpose of the Gadrell Major mission, he reminded the Secondary, was to achieve their right to the porizium supplies with the minimum bloodshed. Orders to keep the humans at bay had been given before the Commandant himself had arrived on the planet to take charge of operations, by which stage the Secondary had interpreted the orders as a licence to carpet-bomb the city, taking out civilian buildings including the residence of the governor. In that first attack wave (as the Phracton Commandant now knew), the human governor of the dominion, his family and his retinue had all been eliminated. This was not necessary. This was not desirable. The Secondary had already been punished for his error.

If the leaders are eliminated (came the lashing response from the Secondary, who would not be silenced) the enemy is weak. What better way was there to show that they truly meant to re-establish their ancient rights to the territories of Gadrell Major?

The Commandant sent impulses of sharp anger to his subordinate, and took a grim satisfaction in the shards of pain-response that glittered back along 75 the web. It had already been made clear that negotiation was to be used, he reminded the Secondary. Instructions had been sent that the governor should be brought to the command ship to negotiate. Of course, somehow that transmission had been intercepted for security clearance and delayed, allowing just enough time for the executions to be carried out. An unavoidable mistake, the Secondary had called this; a flagrant deception, the Commandant called it now.

The Secondary insinuated, by the contemptuous inflexion of his electrical pulses, that the Commandant lacked the necessary resolve to be in charge of such an important mission.

The Commandant fizzed with anger. He had sent a request for the Secondary's replacement, he told him now. They were awaiting confirmation from Phracton High Command. Of course, under the regulations which the Commandant always followed he could not relieve his Secondary of duty until that confirmation came, but he intended to watch him very carefully from now on.

The connection was closed. The web refolded around the Commandant as his visitor was dispatched to his duties.