Doctor Who_ Planet Of Fire Part 1

DOCTOR WHO.

PLANET OF FIRE.

by Peter Grimwade.

1.

Mayday.

The full fury of the storm hit the s.h.i.+p as it rounded the headland. Huge waves commandeered the trireme while gale-force winds strained against the efforts of the oarsmen to reach the land. Driving rain obscured the sh.o.r.e as Captain Antigonas tried to gauge the distance to the island harbour. They had s.h.i.+pped a lot of water and the vessel would need to be lightened if they were to reach dry land.

The order was given to jettison the cargo.

The rich merchant Dimitrios instantly forgot his terror and nausea as he saw his treasures brought up from the hold. The marble statue was the heaviest single item so that would be the first to go. Six sailors grabbed hold of the carved figure, shrouded in sail cloth and splinted with strips of wood, whereupon an enraged Dimitrios rushed forward to protect the precious crate, with as much devotion as if the sculptured boy was his own son.

As the fat Rhodian fought with the crewmen, an enormous wave all but turned the boat on its end. The mariners grabbed whatever handholds they could while the cargo rolled to the lowered side of the deck. Unevenly ballasted, the s.h.i.+p was slow in righting itself and the sea poured in.

The Captain ordered the slaves to be released, for now it was every man for himself. As the halt-drowned oarsmen struggled up from the flooded galleys, An tigonas offered a desperate prayer to Poseidon that he would live to see his homeland again. The next wave rolled right across the boat, yet still Dimitrios clung to his marble statue.

The Captain marvelled that a man should care more for a work of art than his own life. He peered closer at the stone image. Rough handling had torn part of the canvas away, revealing the head and shoulders of a young manquite miraculously lifelike (and more likely to survive the clay than his mortal s.h.i.+pmates).

By now several mariners were struggling in the water, some clinging to barrels, others striking out for the sh.o.r.e.

But Dimitrios continued to embrace the marble boy, as if it were a lover. Then, as the s.h.i.+p rolled sideways, man and gilded kouros slid from the deck and plummeted to the ocean bed.

The storm hit the s.h.i.+p as it came into the gravitational pull of Sarn.

It was many years since any Trion vessel had landed on the planet, but the homing beacon was still in perfect working order as Captain Grulen programmed the flight computer for a fully automated re-entry through the atmosphere.

Grulen was looking forward to seeing Sarn. Several generations of his mother's family, so it was said, had lived there until the volcanos started getting over-active and the settlers came scuttling back to Trion from their colonial paradise, to complain endlessly about the climate and general short-comings of life on the home planet. (Not that Captain Grulen would be so unwise as to boast of any family connection with the Old Colonials.) It must have been a surge of volcanic activity that caused the sudden magnetic storm. Whatever the reason, the navigational instruments took on a life of their own and the computer, deprived of accurate data, allowed their s.h.i.+p to enter the atmosphere of Sarn at the wrong att.i.tude.

Within minutes, the s.h.i.+p was shaking violentlyand the outer skin of the hull had heated almost beyond tolerance.

The co-pilot tried to warn Trion Control, but with so much interference, radio contact was impossible and he could do no more than release the emergency data beacons.

Captain Grulen switched to manual operation and the s.h.i.+p swung slowly back into the right alignment for entry, but even with the retro-engines on full power, he knew they could never achieve a safe landing speed. He ordered the security quarters to be opened, for it was only right that the prisoners should take their chances with the crew.

There was no panic amongst Captain Grulen's special pa.s.sengers. Faced with the daily prospect of execution, they had prepared themselves for death. One of the older men turned to the child beside him, sleeping peacefully in his mother's arms. He smiled and took his wife's hand in his. If this was the end, they would face it together and with dignity. His only concern was for someone far away on the Earth. What was to become, he wondered sadly, of Vislor Turlough?

2.

Message Received.

It was ridiculous, thought Turlough, that he should be so depressed. After all, the girl had been argumentative, tactless, interfering, brainless and with a voice that could strip paint. Perhaps it was just having no one to fight with, but he missed Tegan dreadfully!

So did the Doctor. He had grown accustomed to the humour, the courage and the sheer optimism of his Australian companion. They had parted friends, but she had been repulsed by the violence of his conflict with the Daleks, as if the horror brought by Davros's evil creations was somehow his own fault. He thought how easy it would be to stand back from the horrors of the Universe like the other Time Lords. Maybe he should do just that. After all, what good had his interference ever achieved? Even with Daleks! He turned to Turlough. 'I sometimes think those mutated misfits will terrorise the Universe for the rest of time.'

Turlough crawled from under the TARDIS console where he had been checking the stabilisers. 'Doctor, you're becoming obsessed.'

'Exactly,' repeated the Doctor. 'Obsessed and depressed.'

Turlough frowned. He had never seen the Doctor look so sad before. He decided to cheer him up. 'What we both need is a holiday,' he announced.

The Doctors spirits sank even lower at the idea.

'It could be fun.'

'Fun!' shouted the Doctor, who viewed the prospect of a vacation as only marginally less calamitous than the eruption of Krakatoa. 'There was precious little fun when I went on holiday to Brighton. Unutterable chaos ensued.'

But Brighton was not at all what Turlough had in mind.

Brighton, he imagined, would be just like Weston-super-Mare, where he had gone one wet half-term from Brendon School with his friend Ibbotson. He remembered how they had sat in Mr Ibbotson's Volvo, stared out at the windswept promenade, drunk tea from a thermos and eaten Mrs Ibbotson's weeping lettuce sandwiches.

Ibbotson, of course, had been sick on the way back to school. If they were going to have a holiday on Earth which was, after all, the Doctor's favourite planet.i.t would.

Turlough decided, be on some paradise island. 'Do you the world of good,' he declared, scanning the TARDIS data bank for a likely destination.

'All right, Turlough,' replied the Doctor defiantly. 'I'll show you what holidays are like!' He began to set some co-ordinates. 'Only don't say I didn't warn you.'

As if on cue, a violent scream came from the inner TARDIS. Though of no human pitch or timbre, it was undoubtedly the sound of some creature in terrible pain.

The Doctor and Turlough rushed down the corridor from the control room. The dreadful wailing grew louder as they approached the door of Kamelion's room. The Doctor had quite forgotten about the robot from Xeriphas, the former ally of the Master, who could a.s.sume more disguises than the evil Time Lord himself. It was some time now since Kamelion had declared himself the Doctor's obedient servant and taken up residence in the TARDIS. But the obsequious automaton had none of the cheerful loyalty of K9 and the Doctor always felt uncomfortable in the presence of this tin-pot Jeeves.

The Doctor pulled open the door to reveal Kamelion lying spreadeagled on the floor, his silver limbs tense against some unseen a.s.sault on his nervous system. There was a s.h.i.+ning aura around his metal body as if he was about to use his metamorphic powers to transform into a living creature. His speech transducer continued its agonised screaming. 'Help me...! Pain!'

For a moment the Doctor and Turlough just watched the tortured robot, unsure how to help. Then Turlough spotted the umbilical cord sneaking from the machine's torso to a junction box on the wall. Kamelion had connected himself to the TARDIS computer. Perhaps some feedback from the vast data system of the TARDIS had caused this derangement in the robot's own brain.

Turlough leaned forward to break the link.

'No!' shouted the Doctor. 'We need the computer to stop the spasming. Go and programme an alpha rhythm.'

'Help, Doctor!' pleaded Kamelion.

'It's all right, Kamelion. Help's on the way,' comforted the Doctor as Turlough raced back down the corridor to the accompaniment of further cries from the robot's quarters.

The demented caterwauling gradually gave way to the soothing oscillation of an alpha rhythm as Turlough, back in the control room, followed the Doctor's instructions.

Kamelion began to relax. He started to mutter deliriously.

'Point of contact... point of contact will be made...!'

The Doctor leaned forward, trying to make some sense of the rattling that came from the robot's throat.

'I am... obey... contact... me...'

'Contact who?' said the Doctor. 'What's happening?'

Turlough was about to leave the control room and rejoin the Doctor and Kamelion when the signal came through on the communications unitan urgent repeating modulation. 'Doctor, we're picking up a distress...' He stopped in mid-sentence, recognising something ominously familiar about the sounds from the console. He was sure he had heard it beforeon a Trion s.h.i.+p.

Turlough's heart began to pound; the Custodians must have come searching for him. He listened again. It was a Trion s.h.i.+p alright... Perhaps in genuine distress? No, more likely a trick, he decided as he tried to detune the signal, for, if the Doctor heard it, he would be bound to track it down, playing right into the hands of his persecutors.

But the call sign repeated and repeated, obviously a broad-bandwidth transmission. Turlough glanced nervously at the open door of the control room. The Doctor could so easily walk in... Why wouldn't the signal stop! He grabbed the entire receiver module in both hands and forcibly dragged it from its housing.

The unit was silent; and so was Turlough, as he anxiously wondered where the transmission had come from.

The object of Professor Foster's curiosity lay in the box of pottery fragments that the divers had just brought up from the muddy sea bed. He had not immediately noticed the dumpy cylinder with its mushroom-shaped head, electing to sift through several large pieces of terracotta vase. These had been the first finds of the day from the ancient Greek merchant s.h.i.+p that lay five fathoms below the expedition boat moored in the hay.

Howard Foster was not in a hurry. The store room of the tiny island museum, like the boat itself, was already full of wine jars, jewellery, cooking pots, coins and pieces of sculpted marble waiting to be transported to Athens.

Soon he himself would have to return to America and write up the report of his work for the university. All the more reason to enjoy, while he still could, the sun on his back and the dappling of the morning light off the amazingly blue sea. It gave him the chance to recover from the irritations of a more than usually fractious family breakfast at the hotel.

He lifted the curious artifact out of the box. It was made of some hard, bright alloy unknown to the professor. 'Hey, Karl, come and have a look at this!'

His a.s.sistant turned from where he was labelling some shards on the other side of the deck. Joining the professor, he took the cylinder in his hand. 'Sure isn't Greek'. He traced, with his finger, the outline of two triangles, one half-laid over the other, that was engraved just below the bulbous head. 'Some sort of logo?'

Howard shook his head. 'Remember the Russian satellite that broke up last year?'

'You think this is from outer s.p.a.ce?'

Howard shrugged his shoulders. 'Give it to the police when we go ash.o.r.e.' Already he was losing interest.

Whatever its provenance, the object was of no archaeological value. He could already see the launch from the harbour coming towards them; it was time to take the latest finds ash.o.r.e.

Howard felt a sudden stab of annoyance. Beside a pile of oxygen cylinders in the centre of the approaching boat, and holding an animated conversation with one of the crew, was a young girl. What did Peri want now? He groaned quietly. It was not that he didn't like his stepdaughtershe was amusing, attractive, intelligent even. But try as he might to be friendly and pleasant, they always ended up arguing.

'Hi!' As the launch nudged up against the expedition boat. Peri jumped over the rail, a friendly grin on her sunburned face.

'What are you doing here?' It was not exactly a fatherly welcome. 'I thought you were off sightseeing with your mother?' As if he couldn't guess! Divide and rule had always been the policy of Miss Perpugilliam Brown, and doubtless, while her mother was out of the way, she wanted to sell him yet another hairbrained scheme.

'Mom's taken up with that Mrs Van Gysegham from the hotel.' Peri smiled innocently. 'And I'm not spending the day exploring a prehistoric cemetery with some octogenarian from Miami Beach.' She knelt on the deck and started sifting through the fragments in one of the boxes as carelessly as if it had been a pile of records in Bloomingdale's music department. 'That woman talks of nothing but the state of her large intestine. You did say come out anytime.'

Howard stifled his irritation at such a cavalier treatment of his as yet uncla.s.sified discoveries.

'Hey, what's this?' Peri lifted up the cylinder.

'I don't know.'

'That's never... platinum? platinum? ' Peri scratched at the metal casing with her thumbnail. She turned the flat-ended tube round in her hands with far more excitement than she had shown over the broken pots. Ancient Greek remains she could see any day, but here was something alien and unknown! ' Peri scratched at the metal casing with her thumbnail. She turned the flat-ended tube round in her hands with far more excitement than she had shown over the broken pots. Ancient Greek remains she could see any day, but here was something alien and unknown!

Kamelion had entirely recovered. 'I apologise for that hysterical display. Doctor,' he announced. 'For a moment there was... confusion.'

'Are you all right now?'

'Of course.' The metal creature articulated normally, with the bland, almost insolent, indifference of a speak-your-weight machine. 'Allow me to recompose myself, then I will try to explain the reaction I experienced.' Needless to say, Kamelion had no intention of doing any such thing, but being an automaton felt no twinge of conscience at the lie. He could not possibly discuss the crisis with the Doctor of all people! He must wait, listening for the signal... But what signal? He felt confused. Any Any signal! His memory circuits reiterated the distant summons... ' signal! His memory circuits reiterated the distant summons... ' Contact Contact must be made must be made...'

The Doctor returned to the control room trying to puzzle out what could have caused the robot's extraordinary seizure. 'Spasming's stopped and Kamelion's fully conscious,' he explained to Turlough. 'But I wish I knew...'

The Doctor picked up the communications module that was still lying on the console. Several of the connector lugs had been bent in its rough removal from the housing.

'Turlough! What have you done?'

Turlough had been so desperate to silence the Trion SOS that he hadn't thought how to explain the damage when the Doctor found out. 'It was picking up some random emission,' he remarked casually, trying to think of a convincing reason for his vandalism. 'I thought it might be causing interference with Kamelion's circuits,' he added with a sudden flash of inspiration.

To Turlough's surprise and relief, the Doctor took his suggestion quite seriously. In fact he had frequently doubted the wisdom of allowing the automaton to transfuse so freely with the TARDIS intelligence systems.

But the Doctor had still to discover the full extent of Kamelion's interference. 'Why have you reset the co-ordinates?' he demanded, rather sharply, of his companion.

'I haven't,' protested Turlough.

'Well, someone has.'

' Kamelion!'

'He must have computerised the signal you heard.'

In which case, thought Turlough, the TARDIS is programmed for a one-way trip to disaster. If the Custodians were still in the transmission area... 'At this rate Kamelion will have us chasing every random emission in the galaxy,' he bl.u.s.tered.

'Not quite,' replied the Doctor. 'Those co-ordinates are set for here on Earth.' He referred the configuration to the TARDIS data bank, then turned with a smile to his companion. 'You wanted a holiday, Turlough. We're now heading for your paradise island!'

The Doctor activated the rotor control. The central column began its slow rise and fall. Turlough felt doomed.

The blue box appeared amongst the shrub and rock of the deserted headland. as if to police some outpost of the Empire. But the arrival of the TARDIS on the distant point went unnoticed amongst the archaeologists on the boat in the bay, who were busy loading their precious treasures onto the harbour launch.

'Looks like Elton John,' said Peri, staring at the marble features of a young boy, who lay in one of the crates.