Doctor Who_ The Tomb Of Valdemar Part 12

All right, the lights would come on and there would be a lot of beeping, but without the psychic control of the Old Ones, the palace would just idle, turning over like an engine in neutral.

Restoring power is not without its risks, the Doctor admits, but once he has the Key to Time fully rea.s.sembled, he could always come back and close it down again. For once, he would have to leave a job temporarily unfinished. But the stability of the entire universe was at stake. He couldn't be expected to be in two places at once.

The Doctor nods to himself. Very well. Get the power on, find Romana and get on with the mission. There seems to be no other way.

That's not to say he has to make it easy for Neville...

The chanting has reached its inevitable shouting climax.

Neville is on his knees, sweat pouring out of his robes, screaming for his master. 'Valdemar! VALDEMAR!'

The drapes by the entrance rustle in the cold wind. The Doctor hasn't bothered to stay for the end.

He waits for Neville in the control room of the Old Ones. He has draped himself over one of the baroque instrument panels, scarf dangling. He appears completely calm, just waiting. He pops a jelly baby into his mouth.

A sound, in the doorway. The Doctor grins. 'Knock, knock,'

he says. 'h.e.l.lo Paul.'

Neville's eyes glitter from his exertions. 'You wanted to see me?'

'Yes, I did want to see you.' The Doctor leaps up. 'Yes, I did.

How was the black ma.s.s? Very strenuous, I should imagine.

If you want to go around raising demons and the like, I'd make sure you have a vigorous warm-up beforehand.'

'I take it you wanted to see me for something more important than this nonsense.'

'How about I get the power back on for you?'

Neville hides his surprise. 'You can do it?'

'Of course I can do it! The question is, do you really want it done?'

'What does that mean?'

'Restoring the power won't get you what you want. You should know that.'

Neville is staring up at the controls. He is bunching his fists.

The Doctor grabs those fists. He stares into Neville's face.

'Nothing for nothing, Paul. This is a negotiation.'

Neville pulls away. 'I would do anything. Anything.'

'Now that's not a very good opening gambit, is it?' The Doctor is casual again. 'I mean, the essence of negotiation is that we slowly reach an agreement, bargaining our way to...'

'Shut up. What do you want?'

The Doctor considers. 'Return myself and Romana to the tomb. Release Pelham from wherever you're keeping her.'

'Is that all?' Neville laughs, genuinely amused. 'You give me the universe and that is all you want? I am not an idiot, Doctor. What is down there?'

'Just my s.h.i.+p. I promise not to interfere with whatever you want to do.'

Neville considers.

Why is the Doctor feeling hot all of a sudden? Why can't he get that line out of his mind: 'Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistophilis'? Faustus Faustus, Act One, Scene Three. Don't think about it.

'You don't believe I will be able to use the power, do you?'

'That's not for me to say.'

'You think I don't know what I'm doing?'

'Do you want this bargain or not? Because I'm tired of listening to you.'

Neville smiles, his perfect teeth s.h.i.+ning. 'Doctor. How can I refuse?'

The Doctor hears a rus.h.i.+ng sound in his ears. Why is his conscience acting up? It isn't fair, why should such a choice be left to him? He forces himself to think of the Key; the consequences of failure should he not collect all six segments. He thinks of the end of the universe.

It is as if he is no longer in control of his actions. It's not possession or anything like that; he has come to this conclusion logically. Rather, it is as if someone has fed this intention into his mind; cut off any pathways to alternative actions; guiding him inexorably towards that which he knows he has to do. As if he has been hoodwinked.

What he is doing is right; he can't put his finger on any flaws, any way out of the necessity to restore the power.

'Doctor, do it,' says a panting Neville. 'Do it now.'

Feeling like the victim of some arcane confidence trick, the structure of which he is unable to comprehend, the Doctor snaps his fingers and the power comes on.

Something happens. All around the palace lights and sounds, operating from instruments previously hidden or ignored, suddenly emerge like a new morning. In the piazza, the lazy cultists are astounded by the sudden s.h.i.+fting of their architecture. Nothing stays still, even the floor is moving as if working its way through some carefully rehea.r.s.ed ballet.

Hermia, Stanislaus and the others clutch at the trundling furniture, certain that all their suspicions are well-founded.

The palace is full of devils.

Romana sees her room begin to grow, the wood of the wardrobe expanding and darkening, as if previously only sketched in. Her bed, in fact everything, becomes more defined, though she had never realised it lacked that definition.

Huvan claps his hands and laughs. The music in his head, that sweet noise that has lodged itself in there ever since his arrival, swells and layers. He feels in tune with the palace.

His poetry rises from its squalid piles, the scribbled sheets hanging frozen in front of him. Huvan yells like an ape. He did this. He has made it happen.

He has never been so happy.

In the control room, Neville is lost in his rapture. He is weeping as he stares at the returning life. Somewhere deep inside the palace, great cogs are turning. Neville touches this, feels that, watches the swells and transformations of the magic of the Old Ones. 'It's alive!' he roars. 'IT'S ALIVE!'

As for the Doctor, he just looks, his usually animated face stern and unmoving. He is perhaps the only still object within this palace, a centre, a void.

He watches Neville's rapture with but one thought in his mind. What have I done? What have I done?

Deep down beneath the skin of Ashkellia, a great spin is beginning. Particles, invisible microscopic particles, are charging up ready for their planet-spanning marathon.

Machinery a million years old and more prepares itself to begin work again, after all this time.

Inside the pyramid, the tomb of Valdemar comes to life.

The great gateway to the tomb, huge as a tower block, lights up. Bolts and locks slide into place. A pattern appears, apparently growing from the metal. The image is that of a five-pointed star.

The door shakes. It rattles, and blows of indescribable force hammer into it. Something is pounding, a force that has lain dormant for a million years. Dormant no longer.

Chapter Seven.

At last, the changing ceases. The palace seems brighter, more focused than before. All feel the difference, as if they had just awakened from a strange, elusive dream.

The Doctor sits and waits for Neville to go back on his word.

Once the theurgist has got over his excitement, he calls for Kampp. The unimpressed, impa.s.sive butler takes the Doctor by the arm.

'You wanted to see Pelham, Doctor,' says Neville. 'Off you go.'

The Doctor nods. 'And Romana? I don't suppose you're going to let her go, either?'

Neville scratches his beard, eager for this to be over. 'She has her uses. It seems my young ward, Huvan, has taken rather a liking to her.'

'This way, please,' says Kampp silkily, pulling the Doctor's arm just a little too firmly.

'Look, I've got work to do,' says Ponch, 'and I think I've guessed what this is all about. Is there a Valdemar there or not? Why don't you just tell me?'

The woman scowls. 'You can't stop me mid-flow. You're destroying all the c.u.mulative tension. I get enough stick as it is. If it's not my plots that are too complicated, it's my characters. Now they'll have an excuse to attack my style as well. Trying to be clever but no content, that's what they'll say. h.e.l.l, we live in a G.o.dless age. Can't you give a girl a chance?'

'Girl?'

'Shut up.'

Footsteps in the snow behind them. Ponch whirls around, ready for an attack. It is Ofrin. He yells. 'You gonna help me with these hides or do I have to knock your brains out?'

Particles of ice crystallise in his great beard.

'All right, all right, I'm coming.'

Ofrin blinks and spots Pelham. 'You? Where did you get to... last night?'

'Good morning.' She turns, obviously in some great arthritic pain. Ponch is surprised to notice she has turned paler since they sat down.

'Great ending by the way,' Ofrin says softly to the woman.

'Lots of fighting and that's what we all want, innit? Ponch!' he bellows again.

'All right, all right, I'm coming. So, the ending's about fighting?'

'Perhaps.' The woman looks at the snow. 'Perhaps it changes depending on who hears it.'

'Eh?'

'I think you should stay for the end. I don't think I've got long left. If I don't tell it now, I may never tell it again.'

'Ponch, don't you dare.'

Ponch turns to the bearded giant. He has never stood up to Ofrin in his life. 'I'll be there soon. I've got to hear this.'

Ofrin starts to growl. Ponch has already said enough to get himself killed. He will have to fight.

'Leave us, Ofrin. Ponch will be along shortly.' The woman is staring at the giant, kindly but unblinkingly.

'But I... the work...' Ofrin stutters.

'This is is work.' work.'

As Ponch watches, he sees Ofrin flap at his own face as if bothered by a snow-fly. The big man's eyes, almost hidden in his hair, screw up as if grappling with some insoluble problem. 'It won't take too long,' says Pelham.

Ofrin nods. As if he has forgotten something, he turns and clomps back to the growing settlement, muttering angrily.

Ponch is impressed.

'Right,' says Pelham, settling on to the tundra bank again.

'No more interruptions.'

'I'm sorry, Doctor. Mind you, you've only got yourself to blame.'

He looks around at his new surroundings, new but so, so familiar. The bare metal room, the locked door. Only the padded, restraining chairs separate this from the hundreds of other cells he has been locked into. And Miranda Pelham, tired and bruised, strapped next to him.

'I thought something was up,' she says, 'despite my rather limited view of the world at the moment. What happened?

How did you get the power back on?'

The Doctor is not listening; he is thinking through all the possible permutations of escape.

'Doctor?' she insists, breaking his concentration.

'Do you have to ask so many questions? You're worse than Romana.'