The Well-Mannered War Part 4

The robot dog's head rose as if he was listening for something. 'There is danger,' he said.

The Doctor made a derisive noise. 'You are a nervous old hen. There's nothing here.' He looked momentarily caught out. Then he waved a triumphant finger at Romana. 'There. I admitted I was wrong.'

'By accident.'

'Don't go around criticizing me for not admitting when I'm wrong if you're not prepared to admit you were wrong about me not admitting I was wrong,'

he said.

'Master, Mistress, danger,' repeated K9. 'My sensors detect a minute release of gases a.s.sociated with low-level sub-atmospheric travel.'

'Interesting,' said the Doctor, looking about the horizon.

'But hardly dangerous, is it?'

'Gases a.s.sociated with offensive rockets, Master,' pointed out K9. 'Suggest you and the Mistress take immediate cov-'.

There was a shattering blast from the sky, directly above them, it seemed.

Romana ducked instinctively, and offered no resistance to the Doctor's strong hand when it pushed her protectively to the ground.

She looked up and saw a small black lozenge-shaped craft zooming down through the clouds in a spiral pattern. 'It's an escape capsule, isn't it?' she shouted.

'Too big,' the Doctor replied. 'And moving too smoothly. A one-seater pod, I'd say. Which means it's heading for some sort of settlement.' He shot her an accusing look.

'I admit I was wrong,' she said.

As if to quash all doubt on this, a second capsule appeared. Its descent took it in the opposite direction to that of its predecessor.

K9 spoke. 'Rockets are approaching.'

The words were barely out of his voicebox when a missile streaked across the sky. It was long and white with red fins along its sides and a pointed snout. It was difficult to tell from which angle it had been fired. Its target was the first pod, which was moving confidently if not speedily the other way. The implication was obvious. 'This is a war zone.'

For a moment, as missile and pod came closer, it appeared the attack would be a success. Romana braced herself for the din of impact. Then the missile shot past the capsule, spluttered feebly, and fell, its tail-ports leaving a trail of white vapour. It burnt up as it went, its painted sides blistering and cracking away. K9's warning had been precipitate: there was a distance of, she estimated, ten miles between their position and the danger area. She watched the descent without pa.s.sion, her mind more concentrated on the calculation of its velocity and likely payload than on the spectacle it presented.

The Doctor nudged her. 'Cover your ears,' he called. His fingers were already in his.

Romana obeyed. It seemed unlikely that the explosion was close enough to harm their hearing, but then the Doctor, having experienced more than his share of explosions in a long life, was an expert.

There was a dull whump and a slight vibration. Romana squinted at the impact site. 'Has it gone off properly?' The Doctor did not reply. She pulled his finger from his ear. 'Has it gone off properly?'

It was K9 who replied. 'Affirmative, Mistress. My sensors report that the full quant.i.ty of trinitrotoluene stored in the projectile's nosecone has ignited.'

'Trinitrotoluene?' queried Romana. 'Against a capsule like that?'

The second pod was now almost out of view, its final descent concealed by a bank of craggy rocks to their left. Just before it vanished completely another missile appeared, fired from the other side, and with a slightly different design, but following much the same course as the first. This time it was nowhere near the target. Its brief career consisted entirely of getting halfway across the sky and then plummeting with a similarly unimpressive thud and crash. It was, thought Romana, a bit like watching an amateur pyrotechnic display.

'Somebody's a very, very bad shot', said the Doctor.

'Even if they'd been bang on target trinitrotoluene wouldn't so much scratched those pods,' said Romana. She folded her arms. 'It's puzzling.'

'What is?'

'The disparity in the technologies suggests a type F invasion scenario,' she began.

'That and the design,' put in the Doctor. 'Invaders prefer the lozenge look.

I've never understood why.'

'But the planet itself argues against that thesis, being barren and unprofitable,' Romana concluded.

The Doctor shrugged. 'Perhaps the invaders just have tenebrous tastes.

Haven't you heard of chacun a son gout?' chacun a son gout?'

Romana wrinkled her nose. 'I tried it once and I didn't like it. What's your opinion, K9?'

'Invasion hypothesis most likely. However, my logic circuits refute the Doctor Master's contention that this invasion is aesthetically motivated.'

'Well, of course they do,' grumbled the Doctor. 'It was a joke. One day I'm going to update that idiom bank of yours, K9.' He turned to Romana. 'This place could just be a rung on the ladder of somebody's conquests. They're attacking it because they can, not because of any inherent value.'

She was doubtful. 'Somebody's prepared to defend it.'

'Yes. Interesting, isn't it?' He moved closer and whispered, 'I think we ought to stay and find out what's what, eh?'

Romana said playfully, 'We could always just go back to the TARDIS and clear out.'

'Don't be silly. Where would that get us?'

'Somewhere else.'

But he had set off again, his long shambling strides taking him this time in the direction in which the pod had fled, to their left. 'Come on, then.'

With some enthusiasm - she was beginning to appreciate the allure of a well-twisted mystery - Romana hurried after him, K9 trundling along behind.

Dolne emerged from the pod and moved quickly through the connecting tube and into the airlock. Such was his familiarity with these procedures that he almost forgot to stop and pay homage to the Metralubitan anthem, which was playing on automatic as a welcome. The moment after its final flourish he flipped on the airlock's com-pad and the Strat Room fizzled into view. It looked neater than usual, and Viddeas was absent. 'h.e.l.lo, team,'

he called.

'Welcome back, sir,' he heard them say, not without a note of relief.

'Now, then,' he said happily. 'I managed to get a few things and I hope everyone will be happy. Cadinot, I found that aftershave you were after, and if Hammerschmidt's about, you can tell him I'm afraid they were out of those slippers he wanted in blue, so I got him a pair in red instead...' As he talked, he heard the heavy chunk of metal on metal as, with the decontamination checks complete, the airlock wall started to rise. 'Well, here I am, then. I've a few things to attend to in my room and then I'll pop round. And I've got a special treat for all of you. You cleared the mines in last month's exercise with ninety-eight per cent success. So -' he patted the box '- I had a think and decided cream cakes were in order.' There was a general show of appreciation from the team. 'See you later, then.' Dolne clicked off the link and waited for the airlock wall to rise fully. Its corrugated-iron sides moved with irksome slowness, the pulleys inside squealing with strain. If there should ever be an emergency that required speedy evacuation they'd all be doomed, standing waiting to get into the silo.

He looked down. At his feet next to his suitcase and box of presents was Jafrid's dagger. The facets of the exotic stones in the hilt caught the dull glow of the post's yellow wall lamps and sent out brightly coloured sparkles in reply.

The first thing that struck Dolne as odd when the great panel slid finally up above head level was not Viddeas, whose salute matched the rigidity of his stance and whose outfit gave his dark and supple body a curt outline, despite the fact that it was unusual for his captain to welcome him personally. It was that the command post's air, normally fresh and recycled with added scents, was fetid and laden with displeasing smells.

Viddeas stepped forward and clicked his shiny heels together. 'Sir!'

'At ease,' mumbled Dolne, stepping through into the reception area, grey and nondescript like much else in the command post.

Viddeas said quickly, 'The attack went well, sir.'

Dolne raised an eyebrow. 'Not too too well, I hope.' well, I hope.'

'Our tracker missile, source point 88K,' Viddeas continued, 'made close contact with the enemy pod, sir. And impacted safely at point 88H.'

'We've no patrols out in 88, have we?'

'No, sir,' said Viddeas. 'And, of course, the risk from tracker impact is minimal.'

Dolne concealed his irritation at this restatement of accepted fact. Viddeas scattered his reportage with such little certainties, perhaps as a way of keeping his mind focused. 'Look,' said Dolne, dropping any pretence to formality, 'why is it so stuffy in here?'

'The air-conditioning stopped yesterday morning, sir.'

A fresh line of sweat trickled down Viddeas's cheek. 'Bleisch thinks it's a fused circuit-plate.'

'Yesterday morning? Where is Bleisch?'

'I ordered him into the workings, sir. He's still searching out the fault.'

Dolne groaned. 'I expect you've vented the intake pipes?' An antiquated emergency system allowed them to draw on the breathable, if tainted, atmosphere of Barclow.

'They're all blocked, sir,' replied Viddeas.

Dolne realized he had the power to reprimand Viddeas severely over this affair. But he couldn't bring himself to. He hated confrontation, and it was really a piddling thing. Sort problems out swiftly and let things blow over was his unspoken motto. 'Very well,' he said at last. 'I suppose it isn't your fault.'

An ensign stepped forward to attend to his luggage, his fingers curling into the handles of the big suitcase. Dolne stopped him before he could pick it up. 'Leave the box, but take this to my quarters, would you?' The ensign nodded and took the sword, staggering from the unexpected heaviness.

Viddeas watched him depart. 'What was that, sir?'

'Token from Jafrid. Pretty, isn't it? He tried to kill me with it, and it caught my eye.' He picked up the box of presents and took out a wrapped package from the top of the pile. 'You might as well have this now. I warn you, it's only socks. But then you never tell me what you want.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Viddeas. He tucked the packet under his arm and looked out of reception and along the outer corridor, as if checking they could not be overheard. Then he turned back and said, 'Sir, I have some bad news to report.'

'The recycling hasn't gone down again, has it?' This was Dolne's greatest fear. He well remembered the malfunction in the waste-compactor that had seen them eking out rations for a week and a half until spare parts arrived from Metralubit.

'No, sir. It's one of the active patrols, division Q.'

Dolne searched his memory. There were twenty divisions under his command, weren't there, of three men each? Ten were active at anyone time, although activity consisted of not much more than mooching about the war zone trying to look busy. 'Division Q. That's Kelton, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir.' Viddeas's discomfort showed in the glistening brow that was not entirely the creation of the air-conditioning fault. 'He didn't report in yesterday, sir, and I began to suspect something had gone wrong.'

'Where was Q when he last checked in?'

'In 63T, sir, over by the nearer end of the Great Ridge.'

Dolne had envisaged a leisurely day catching up on field reports in his room and having a look at that dagger, and was not prepared to see it slip away. 'Oh, they're probably just lost, Captain - that or their communicator's blanked out. Atmospherics, you know. Happened before.' He made to step out into the corridor.

'There's a further complication, sir,' said Viddeas, halting him. He lowered his voice and said urgently, 'Kelton's job was to escort that awful artist chap out to the Great Ridge. It's a wonderful view, they say. And the man's come back with some wild story. I had to put him under sedation, sir. I didn't want him alarming the men.'

'He's always been a bit potty,' said Dolne. 'What's he saying?

'That there was a missile strike, sir, while the patrol was sleeping. He was taking a stroll by night, being a light sleeper, and heard a projectile come down. He says he hurried back to the camp and saw Kelton and the rest crushed under a cliff-fall. The rocks out there are notoriously unstable, sir. I checked the files. Admiral Inness lost a couple of men in the vicinity fifty years ago.'