Killing Ground Part 4

'Why didn't you?'

'The Doctor insisted. He kept asking questions about my past. He'd worked out something was wrong - and he might have known about the Cybermen, I'm not sure. He just went on about how I should face up to what I'd once run away from.'

'Perhaps he had a point.'

Grant shrugged. 'He made me come here, he said he'd protect me - and then what? We step out of the TARDIS, the Overseers swoop and I end up alone, not knowing what to do. I'd probably have been picked up myself if Henneker hadn't found me.'

Max attempted to divert the course of the conversation into more settled waters. 'You never told me how you come to be travelling with an alien. I suppose he landed on New Earth?'

'Well, actually no,' said Grant. 'It's a long story, but basically, my town was caught in a transdimensional warp and I ended up on a television station three systems away. The Doctor was there.'

'That simple, eh?'

'He was good, and he knows plenty. If we could get to him, I'm sure he could sort out this mess for us.'

'You've been through things like this with him before?'

He nodded ruefully. 'A couple of days ago, we were fighting a living, homicidal computer virus. Now the Doctor brings me to my home planet and this happens. He must think I'm jinxed. I bet he never had such an exciting life before we met!'

Max smiled, seeing that Grant had cheered up a little. She gestured towards the red curtain which part.i.tioned off her work area from the rest of the bunker and said gently, 'Come on. I think we'd best get started.'

The day dragged on.

Jolarr woke, surprised that he had managed to sleep at all. It took a few seconds for reality to rea.s.sert itself, then he remembered where he was - and who with. Hegelia was leaning over the controls of the time ship and tapping in information with well-trained speed.

'You are awake then,' she observed without looking up. 'Just in time.

We are almost on the point of arrival.'

He experienced a wave of alarm at that news. He felt he was expected to make an intelligent comment, but his mouth was fuzzy and his vocal chords would not respond. Instead, he stared at the reflection of his white face and black hair in the window gla.s.s.

Jolarr felt only a gentle b.u.mp as the vessel returned to ground. He watched, not daring to interrupt, as Hegelia completed a series of checks. Then, as she sat back with a satisfied expression, he ventured: 'Are we there?' His voice was higher than normal.

'Of course. You do not think this ship capable of landing in the vortex, do you?'

'No,' he said quickly. 'But... well, this is my first time journey. We're really in 2210?'

She didn't answer, and Jolarr wondered if he had imagined the flicker of a more sympathetic expression which crossed her face. Hegelia pulled back the canopy and he blinked in unexpected sunlight. Sweet, fresh air played around his nostrils and he realized how stale the ship's recycled atmosphere had been.

They climbed out of the c.o.c.kpit and stood on the concrete-hard ground of a barren field. The sky was grey, but the sun forced rays through the clouds and the air was warm. Even before Jolarr had finished stretching his cramped legs, Hegelia pulled a handheld micro-recorder from the folds of her cloak and began to dictate. 'We have landed safely on Agora. The position of the sun indicates that it is late afternoon in the colonized sector. The ground here could not support crops and it seems that the preoccupation for which this settlement is prosaically named has long been abandoned.'

Jolarr heard the briefest of mechanical splutters. When he looked, the ship had disappeared. He knew that it had slipped into interst.i.tial time: an elementary precaution, insisted upon by the Custodians. Time technology was too dangerous to fall into the wrong hands, especially before it was supposed to exist.

'I want you to take this,' said Hegelia, and Jolarr was surprised and proud to be handed the small, white recall unit. Her trust made him feel important, like his presence here was really valued.

He had already seen the distant silhouettes of short buildings on the horizon, and the ArcHivist now set off towards these. He fell into step behind her, which was what she seemed to expect.

Jolarr's misgivings were starting to fade. He was far now from the lonely, soulless world of academia, and he knew that his WebNet interface and HyperReality console could never have reproduced the excitement which was burgeoning within him. He revelled in the feel of the air, the distant sound of birds and other such humdrum delights as if they were totally alien experiences. In a way, they were. Jolarr was no longer observing history from afar, but living it.

Still, a pessimistic voice played over on a loop disc in his head, reminding him that imaginary environments had one advantage over their real-life equivalents.

They were safer.

Max Carter was back at home, back in her own bed, but enjoying no more than brief tastes of oblivion. Her mind was too full of the Project to allow sleep; too worried about whether the latest operations would prove successfull in the long term; missing, too, the comfort of knowing that Martin was in the next room.

When she did manage to drift into something approaching a restful doze, she was haunted by memories of past indignities and hurts. She was lying on her back in the Overseers' surgery, a fighting panel burning purple rectangles into her retinas, paralysed by anaesthetic spray and listening in disbelieving horror as the living being within her was discussed like a saleable commodity. The scanners had detected a genetic deformity, they said; a minor defect, but impossible to correct and enough to label the child imperfect. It would not make good conversion material, nor would it be ideal for breeding stock. And now Max was leaving Population Control, cold despite the baking heat, her arms wrapped about her empty stomach, feeling as though a part of her self had been ripped out and the hollow s.p.a.ce it left inside scrubbed clean with a scouring pad.

She was back in the present, still in bed, wet cotton sheets clinging.

She felt the baby within her stir and, for a blessed moment, she thought it had all been a dream.

Then she remembered the truth and wanted to be sick.

Grant was equally restless; in his case, because Henneker was pacing the bunker, pouring out his worries to the only available ear. Grant tried to ignore him, burying his head in the rags which served as a pillow. Unlike the others, he had no home to go to; no obedient life to pretend to live. He had slept here for three weeks now and his makeshift bed never got more comfortable. Nor had he adjusted to being woken at all hours by the latest breakthrough or the latest argument.

He had dozed for only a few minutes this time, which made him feel more tired, not less. He had spent the morning and most of the afternoon a.s.sisting Max as she had worked to reverse their setback. He had not done much but hold scalpels, make the odd technical comment and mop the patient's brow. His part of the Project had pa.s.sed and all he could really do now was wait and hope.

'I don't know what Carter expects from me,' complained Henneker.

'I thought, when you turned up, that we could make this thing work at last. But now she's telling me we need a back-up plan. A back-up plan!

This close to the deadline?'

'We just need time,' Grant muttered indistinctly.

'There is no time!' Grant lifted a heavy eyelid at the rebel leader's anguished exclamation. In the spa.r.s.e light, Henneker's youthful face was lined and gaunt. It was a contrast to the image of the 'Great Young Hope', which he preferred to project in his attempt to motivate a twice-defeated populace. That was why he had recruited Lakesmith: his name had meaning to many people. Like Max, however, he didn't mind Grant seeing a truer picture, although the teenager wasn't too pleased with the implied responsibility. He didn't think himself well cast in the role of confidant.

'Can't you think of anything?' asked Henneker, almost begging now.

It was a familiar question. 'You've travelled in an alien ship - you must have picked up something!'

'Nothing useful,' he restated impatiently. 'As I said, the best thing I can think of is to free the Doctor - but this Taggart guy said there was no way of doing that, didn't he?'

Henneker looked as if he didn't believe a word that his vaunted contact in the Overseers told him. Even so, he subsided into a sulky silence.

'It's up to Max,' said Grant, as his final comment on the matter. He rolled to present his back to Henneker and tried to settle into a much-needed sleep.

He knew before he did so that he was going to have the dream.

It was almost an hour before Hegelia and Jolarr reached civilization.

Jolarr had become well used to his companion's brisk pace and he trailed only a short distance behind her as they crossed the village limits.

She produced her recorder, although there wasn't much to report. 'The roads are dirt tracks, the buildings rotting wood. I can see no evidence of anything beyond a Level Two technology.'

She strode on, unconcerned by the looks they drew from the occasional quiet resident. The Agorans wore simple tunics woven from natural fibres and Jolarr felt conspicuous in his smart, green, one-piece graduation suit, tied at the waist by a synthe-leather belt. He wondered vaguely why Hegelia had bothered to appropriate antique recording equipment if they were to stand out so much.

Only once did a man dare approach them. He got halfway through his mumbled question before Hegelia informed him that they did not wish to join a rebel movement, thank you very much. He hurried off and they were not disturbed again.

They found a basic marketplace, where more colonists gathered. To Jolarr's surprise, Hegelia paid them no heed. She continued her march onward and Jolarr, confused and footsore, began to resent her secrecy.

'Where are we going?' he asked her finally, hoping that she wouldn't take offence at his impertinence. When Hegelia ignored him, he added, 'Why didn't we talk to the people at the market? Couldn't they have told us something?'

'They can tell me little,' she said. 'I wish to discover the truth of things for myself.'

They had almost crossed the breadth of the village now, and it was clearly Hegelia's intention to explore beyond. Jolarr's mind was packed with questions, but he felt that he had tested his luck enough. He would have to wait until she decided to reveal more.

And then he saw it.

At first, he wasn't sure what it was. The roof of the building came into view over the top of a small hill, and it wasn't until they had left the village and were almost upon it that the hulking metal complex became fully visible. Hegelia stopped at the head of the rise and inspected her find with grim satisfaction.

'Opinion?'

Jolarr answered, even though his stomach was tingling with dread.

'It's at odds with the level of technology in the village. There's no evidence that the Agorans even have machinery for working metal, so we might a.s.sume that the building is of extraterrestrial origin.'

Hegelia was breathing deep with almost s.e.xual pleasure. The efficient and symmetrical construction would suggest the Cybermen as its possible architects.'

'They left it behind here, you mean?'

She turned to Jolarr with an almost pitying look. 'I should warn you, Graduand, that I took the liberty of adjusting the time ship's navigational program. I have brought us several years further into the past than you were briefed to expect.'

For a moment, he couldn't believe it. The words sent a knife of uncertainty plunging into his heart. 'But doesn't that mean -?'

Hegelia's sympathy had run dry. Her voice was strident again. 'The best way to learn about history, young Jolarr, is to observe it. I would have thought that a boy of your intelligence would recognize that basic fact.'

His throat clenched; it was hard to coax words out. 'What about the Custodians? Their rules of non-intervention?'

'Ha! They expect me to enlighten them by studying dusty relics and collecting exaggerated accounts. No, this is where we need to be, Graduand. Agora, 2191. The final year of the Cyber occupation. '

She treated him to a thin half-smile and declared: 'I like to do my research up close.'

3.

Shelter

aggart had returned to duty in the early afternoon, still haunted by thoughts T of Max's brother and, especially, of Lakesmith. He didn't know how his old friend fitted into Henneker's plans, but clearly he did.

Tonight's search could imperil the rebellion; perhaps his own life too, if the truth came. out.

The worry and the lack of sleep were making him nauseous. Madrox didn't help. He had summoned Taggart to a cell and made him witness to a brutal interrogation. The victim was the man in whose care the shattered rebel leader had been placed a decade and a half ago, to live out his days as an example to dissidents. Madrox had bullied him, bribed him and punched him, but his opponent had kept an obstinate silence. When finally he removed his blaster from its holster, Taggart felt like attacking him, disarming him, killing him. But he didn't.

'I'm going to ask one final time: where is Lakesmith?'

The prisoner spat at him. Madrox flicked his gun to the 'stun' setting, only for the sake of prolonging his enjoyment. He squeezed the trigger and an arc of electricity grounded itself through his target's chest. The man was flung back and his skull cracked on the wall, the echoes of the impact reverberating as he slid into a heap. Madrox fired again and the p.r.o.ne body twitched. One more shot, then he decided to finish it. He switched to 'kill' and aimed for the head. The microwave burst was invisible but effective. As boiling blood erupted across the floor, Taggart heaved and was almost sick.

He averted his eyes and leaned against the wall, legs weak, bile rising.

'Why did you do that? He could have told us something.'

Madrox shrugged. 'Plenty of people can tell us things. We can find them tonight. I've made our job a litde easier. We can loosen tongues by spreading word about the fate of collaborators.'

Taggart swallowed.

'By the way,' said Madrox in a cloying tone, 'with the sad death of our friend here, we're one short of our quota. We'll need to pick up someone else.' His thin lips curved into an insincere smile. 'Should we have to question a suitable candidate, that might give them further incentive to co-operate.'

Taggart was dismissed then. He closed the door behind him and raced along the corridor to escape the grisly scene, as if not seeing it would mean that the corpse was no longer there; no longer on his conscience. He knew why Madrox had required his presence. He suspected him and was putting on pressure. A voice inside him urged compliance. Another resisted. He had sold out one rebellion already and things had only got worse. If he could help it, he wouldn't repeat his mistake.