Doctor Who_ Mission To The Unknown Part 9

The cave was both dark and wet. A small fire in the centre of the s.p.a.ce burned miserably away, as though it had long given up hopes of illuminating the place. Water dripped in the background. There was smell of dead meat and unwashed bodies that pervaded the place. Three crude beds had been made from rushes from the swamps outside, but only one of these beds was occupied.

Kirksen sat in the centre of the cave, by the fire, smiling happily to himself. Kirksen was the only one of the three convicts who did smile, which always worried Bors and Garge, because Kirksen's smile was not sane. This time, however, Kirksen had a reason to be happy. He had made himself a knife.

It hadn't been easy, but Kirksen had spent a month on the task. He had found a small area in the hills where there was an outcropping of flint though he had not informed his companions of this discovery. From half-recalled lessons of his youth, Kirksen had managed to chip away at the flint, bit by bit.

After several failures, he had finally succeeded in re-inventing the stone knife. Now, using water and a stone, he was making certain that the blade of the knife was sharp. He had wrapped and tied gra.s.ses about the 'handle' to protect his hands, and the knife was finished.

He giggled softly to himself. Then he wiped his thin, unkempt hair from his eyes, and looked towards the one occupied bed. With his back to Kirksen lay Bors, sleeping.

Kirksen hated Bors as he had never hated anyone. Bors was the boss; he kicked Kirksen and Garge constantly into line, obeying his commands and whims. Kirksen was afraid of the crude strength of Bors, but with his knife, he now knew he could deal with the bully. Slowly, he crawled across the floor to the sleeping man, staying low, his knife raised and ready. Finally, he loomed over Bors, and brought the knife gently down until it almost touched Bors' neck.

In an explosion of movement, Bors came awake and grabbed the hand that held the knife. His raw strength started to bend the wrist. Pain shot through Kirksen's whole arm, and a knowledge of failure.

'I meant no harm,' he whined. 'I swear, I meant no harm!'

'I should kill you,' Bors snarled, twisting the arm again, and bringing tears to Kirksen's eyes. The old knife-wound on Bars'

forehead, the relic of an earlier, failed attempt by some other man to kill him, throbbed in the uncertain light of the cave.

'No, Bors, no,' Kirksen whimpered. 'I wouldn't have harmed you. You know I wouldn't.'

Bors glared at him in disgust. 'Only because you're a weak, spineless cretin.' He looked at the flint knife. 'Give me that.' He twisted Kirksen's arm again, so that the man howled in pain.

'No, no it's mine,' Kirksen wailed, like a child losing a favourite toy.

Bors paid no attention, but kept up the pressure on Kirksen's wrist. Finally, Kirksen was forced to release the knife, which clattered to the floor. With his other hand, Bors scooped up the knife. Then he flung the trembling Kirksen from him, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.

Kirksen fell back, perilously close to the fire. Scrambling to his feet, he stood, panting and ma.s.saging his injured wrist. How he hated Bors! How he longed to kill the man! His eyes flickered about, finally coming to rest on a large stone that was used as a table. He glanced over at Bors, who contemptuously had his back to him. He could do it! He could kill Bors, now! Kirksen bent, gripped the rock, and lifted it up. A nice, heavy rock, and all it would take would be a single blow, to crack open Bors'

skull...

There was a sound from the entrance. Kirksen hastily let the rock fall, and put his hands behind his back. Bors spun over, glaring at the cave entrance.

Garge ran in, his heavy stick now being used to support him, instead of as a weapon. He was a thickset thug, with a heavy beard, and was panting hard.

'What are you doing here?' Burs demanded. 'You're supposed to be on guard.'

'Rocket... coming... in,' Garge gasped, trying to get his breath back.

Bars snapped to his feet in one fluid motion. 'Prison ship?'

Shaking his head, Garge finally got his breath back. 'That's what I don't understand. It's a type I've not seen before. And it's nowhere near the landing zone.'

'Where will it touch down?'

'Hard to say, yet. But if it follows its present course, somewhere in the swamp.'

A cracked grin crossed Bors' face, showing his broken teeth.

'This could be what I've waited for all these years,' he laughed.

'A way off this stinking planet!'

Happy to be the bearer of good news, Garge also smiled.

'You think it's in trouble?'

'Why else would it be coming down? Nothing but the prison ships are allowed to land here. It must be in trouble.' He grinned again. 'Let's get out there and add to their troubles, shall we?'

He returned to his bed, and picked up a crude cudgel that lay there. Almost as an afterthought, he also picked up Kirksen's knife. Then he started for the entrance to the cave. Kirksen fell in beside him, hopping up and down, wringing his hands together.

'Bors my knife. Can I have my knife back? I made it, and it's just right, and...'

Disgusted, Bors thrust the knife out to the little creep.

'Here. And this time, don't be afraid to use it.'

Almost s...o...b..ring his grat.i.tude, Kirksen took the knife back reverently, and began to polish it with his worn-out sleeve. 'We going to kill the crew, Bors? We gonna kill them?'

'You think there's another way, maybe?' Bors growled. 'You think we could ask them nice, and they'll give us their ship?' He spat on the floor of the cave. 'You're a fool, Kirksen.'

Kirksen fell behind Bors, and stared at the big man's back, planning where he should stick the knife, when the time came.

'Don't worry,' he whispered, mostly to himself. 'I shan't be afraid to use it next time...'

The planet was every bit as bad as Bret Vyon had told them. The air was cold and dank. It smelled of death, and huge wings beat from time to time in the overcast sky. The Spar Spar had come down in swampy ground, but this had luckily been firm enough at this point for the ship to land and sink only slightly. The Doctor surveyed the desolate landscape rocks, lichens, and pools of smelly, stagnant water. He wafted his handkerchief across his nose again, and hurried back inside. had come down in swampy ground, but this had luckily been firm enough at this point for the ship to land and sink only slightly. The Doctor surveyed the desolate landscape rocks, lichens, and pools of smelly, stagnant water. He wafted his handkerchief across his nose again, and hurried back inside.

Bret and Steven had a good part of the main panel disa.s.sembled by now, and Bret was testing the various boards.

Steven was over at the supply cabinet, and when Bret found a burnt-out component, Steven would search for the replacement as Bret called out the number.

'You're sure you have replacements for all of these parts, umm?' the Doctor asked Bret.

'Quite sure, Doctor. Government regulations are quite specific about carrying the parts, and this is an official ship. It'll be fully stocked.'

'The bureaucratic mind never changes,' Steven observed.

'How long will it take?'

Bret shrugged. 'A full replacement, about four or five hours.

There's not the time for that, so I'm just replacing the major boards, and cutting out the sections the Daleks overrode.

Shouldn't be too long.'

The Doctor snorted. 'Primitive fiddle-faddle and out-of-date machinery!'

'What are you talking about?' Bret asked in astonishment.

'This is the Spar Spar the most sophisticated ship in the history of s.p.a.ce travel!' the most sophisticated ship in the history of s.p.a.ce travel!'

'No doubt!' the Doctor sneered. 'And that's why we're stranded on this h.e.l.l-hole of a planet!'

Steven couldn't take that criticism quietly. He had grown to admire this ship, which was far more sophisticated than the ones he had flown a few centuries earlier. Perhaps when compared with the TARDIS this ship was was primitive, but... 'Oh, come on! primitive, but... 'Oh, come on!

The TARDIS isn't perfect. I mean, you can't even control where it's going.'

'Don't you criticize my TARDIS!' the Doctor yelled. 'For all you know of s.p.a.ce travel ah, you're still wet behind the ears!'

'Enough!' Bret called out. 'We have work to do, Doctor, so please don't distract us with pointless bickering.'

'Bickering!' the Doctor echoed. 'Young man, I never never bicker!' bicker!'

Gathering his cape about him, he stormed out.

Bret glanced over at Steven. 'What's wrong with grandpa?'

'He gets like that from time to time. What's the next part you need?'

The Doctor was suddenly aware that Katarina was missing.

Poor child, she must feel so useless here! She understood nothing of any of this. The Doctor was feeling a twinge of guilt over her predicament. It was never a good idea to take a travelling companion from a pre-technological world. They could never adjust to travel through s.p.a.ce and time. Still, he had not been given much choice in the matter as far as Katarina was concerned. If she had stayed in Troy, she would certainly have died. And she had been helpful with Steven's wound.

He found her in the airlock, staring out into the dark night.

Gently, he put an arm on her shoulder, and drew her under his cloak. 'You really should keep this door closed,' he said, quietly.

'You may catch a chill.'

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and trusting. 'You will look after me,' she said, simply. 'You are a good man if, indeed, you are a man.'

'Yes, well, quite. I do try to be a good man. Ah, that is...' He waved his hand dismissively. 'Don't try flattery on me, child. I a.s.sure you I am quite immune.'

'I do not know where I am,' Katarina said, softly, gazing out into the night again. 'All my life, I have lived in Troy. This is all so strange to me. Yet, I know that I have not long to live.'

'What nonsense is this?' the Doctor demanded gruffly.

'It is not nonsense,' the handmaiden replied. 'When I served Ca.s.sandra, the prophetess, she told me that I should journey soon to my death, and that I should then achieve the Place of Perfection.' She smiled at him. 'This is a strange journey indeed, and must truly be the one that she spoke of. I shall be content when the time of my death arrives.'

Her utter conviction gave even the Doctor pause. Before he could think of a suitable reply, she gestured out into the night.

'There are lights out there,' she said. 'Torches!'

The Doctor glanced out. Far away, he could make out two no, three flickering lights. Obviously, their landing had not gone unnoticed! 'We had better inform Steven and Bret,' he suggested.

When they told their companions, Bret looked up, coldly.

'They're not coming because they're interested in our welfare.'

'How do you know that?' Steven asked.

'It's obvious, my boy, obvious,' the Doctor snapped. 'The men here have been abandoned to their wildest instincts, a warfare to stay alive. The landing of a ship, however badly damaged, offers them a possibility of escape.'

Nodding, Steven asked: 'Then you think there's a possibility we'll be attacked?'

'Possibility?' scoffed Bret. 'It's a certainty.'

'I'm inclined to agree,' the Doctor added. 'Are there any weapons on the ship?'

Bret tapped his holster. 'Just this.'

The Doctor pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. 'I'm afraid that will provide very little protection indeed against a large group of determined men.'

'It's all we've got.'

'Is it? I think not, dear boy. I think not.' The Doctor smiled, and tapped his head. 'We also have my brain, and we almost certainly have them outcla.s.sed there.' He gestured to the computer panels. 'You and Steven finish your work; Katarina and I will see about holding off the natives.'

He led Katarina back to the airlock, and thoughtfully studied the terrain. It was low and swampy, with trees interspersed in clumps. Fortunately for the ship, there were few rocks to have caused them damage on landing. The Doctor rubbed his nose thoughtfully, and then smiled. 'Well, my dear, what do you think?'

Katarina shook her head. 'All I see is swamp, Doctor and those lights getting closer.'

'Swamp, yes, exactly.' Chuckling with glee, he rubbed his hands together and quoted: 'Water, water everywhere... which may be our solution!' He dashed back into the main part of the ship. Uncomprehending, Katarina took one last look outside, and then followed him.

The supervisor Dalek looked up at the Black Dalek from its panels and instruments. 'The exact location of the ship has been calculated.'

'Inform the pursuit fleet,' the Black Dalek ordered.

The supervisor moved to a monitor screen, which sprang to life at its touch. The picture showed the interior of a small Dalek pursuit craft, the single occupant wired into the controls. These ships were the fastest that the Daleks had constructed, and could outfly the Spar Spar with ease. The squadron of eight ships was already approaching Desperus. with ease. The squadron of eight ships was already approaching Desperus.

The fleet commander reported in. 'Estimated time of arrival, seven units.'

'When the Taranium core has been recovered,' the Black Dalek ordered, 'the fugitives are to be exterminated. Is that understood?'

'Acknowledged,' the commander agreed. 'We will recover the core, and then obliterate the fugitives.'

It was heavy going through the swamp. Bors, Garge and Kirksen who was nervously bringing up the rear all carried torches made from the dried swamp reeds. They burnt fitfully, and smokily, casting a pale glow over the water-logged ground.

Every step squelched. The battered moccasins that the men wore were not up to this, and were leaking cold water.

Bors halted, then turned to the others. 'We're getting close now,' he said, gruffly. 'Put out your torches.' He plunged his own into the wet ground. It spluttered and died out. Garge did likewise, but Kirksen clutched his aloft, still nervous. 'Put your torch out,' Bors repeated.

'No,' Kirksen whimpered, staring about all over the sky.

'Please... the screamers... the only thing that scares them away is the light.'