Doctor Who_ Legacy Part 10

He'd also noted that Reece clearly knew Neal Corry from the video station.

Another friend from afar. Still, once the restatement celebrations were over, he knew Reece would be back in circulation.

A squeak from Centauri alerted him to the fact that the shuttle was arriving - the roar could be heard this far into the caverns - and together they hurried along.

Having got used to the smooth, almost imperceptible movement of the TARDIS, Bernice sat rigid beside Sskeet as they juddered into the cavern, the steady roar of the shuttle echoing even inside the craft. As they slowed to a stop, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. As she turned to look behind her she saw Kort staring wildly through one of the windows, an excited glimmer in his eyes.

'Ground floor. Peladon and a.s.sorted treasures,' she quipped as the Doctor used his umbrella to point out a couple of tall guards waiting for them. Kort was nodding. Savaar marched over, also indicating out of the window with a clamp. I see that, as I suspected, the Federation representative is late.'

'Look,' said Bernice. 'Here comes someone . . . or thing...' She caught a waspish look from the Doctor. So, she thought, it was all right for him to dislike Ice Warriors because they were reptilian, but she wasn't allowed to be put off by a green lollipop wearing a yellow smock. Typical of the man.

Savaar, meanwhile, was hissing satisfactorily. 'Ah. At last. Amba.s.sador Alpha Centauri arrives. I wonder who that is with him.'

One of the miners, judging by his hair.'

'You are familiar with Pel . . . fas.h.i.+ons, then, Doctor?' inquired Savaar, putting his helmeted head at a slight angle.

The Doctor ignored the sarcasm and simply replied, 'No. You just have to know their customs. Most Pels wear their hair long and slicked back, the traditional mauve stripe therefore highlighted. The miners, however, dye theirs black with white flecks and wear it wide and bushy. It keeps the roak dust out of the eyes and ears.'

Bernice leaned over the back of her chair. excuse me for asking, but if this is such a feudal state, why is a miner greeting what must, in effect, be like visiting royalty?' The Doctor swung round, jabbing his umbrella at her. And you, Professor Summerfield, ought to know better than to rely on textbook descriptions and evaluations.'

Kort snorted in derision. Instead of arguing, why don't we get out of this shuttle and go and say h.e.l.lo?' All eyes turned to look at him. 'Well, it seems the polite thing to do.'

As Sskeet operated the door controls, Bernice muttered something about the word 'polite' not being in Kort's normal dictionary, to which the Doctor mumbled back something about leopards changing their spots when it suits them. Unable to work out whether he meant Kort, the Martians or herself, Bernice picked up her orange woolly sweater and followed the Doctor out into the cool Peladon cavern.

King Tarrol sat on his throne. Around him, courtiers and requisitioned guards were decorating the room with brightly coloured banners and pendants. Near the door Neal Corry was telling a smartly dressed Pakha holocam operator where exactly to aim the lenses. All that could be done to make the restatement vows as important, resplendent and fun as possible was being done, but something was gnawing at the king's heart. Something Atissa had said a few days before. Something about Aggedor feeling mocked and seeking retribution. Tarrol was not a superst.i.tious man deep down, yet something made him wonder whether what he and Geban usually dismissed as hok.u.m from Atissa's over-active imagination might have a grain of truth in it. Could he, Tarrol, be the first royal victim of Aggedor's many prophesies and curses? Did he have the right to so easily dismiss his ancestry? He had two days before the vows to make up his mind. Would he accept Nic Reece's proposals or would Atissa's fanaticism win him over? Either way, his restatement speech would reflect his ideals and drive for Peladon's future development under his reign.

Surely no king or queen in history had to make such difficult decisions.

It's b.l.o.o.d.y dark down here! Where's the frobbin' flashlight?' Fehler stumbled forward swearing and cursing his way towards the supplies box.

Behind him Professor Sharrod was wrapping up their abseiling gear.

'For heaven's sake, Fehler, do stop whining. Your eyes will get adjusted to the dark in no time at all. Just do what I did - as we entered the darkness, close one eye. Your brain then adjusts quicker and you can see instantly in the dark.'

Fehler muttered something incoherent about mohrrube, but Professor Sharrod was now engaged in ceremoniously unclipping his flashlight from his beltpack. He liked to make every move a dramatic one, flouris.h.i.+ng his tools of the trade with outrageous flair, as if thirty thousand people were watching him. Fehler tutted to himself as his own flashlight illuminated the cave system in front of them. He'd been the professor's a.s.sistant ever since they'd met at university, drawn by the middle-aged don's complete devotion to archaeology and single-minded determination not to let political or personal sniping affect his decisions about where or what he worked upon. Fehler was totally devoted to Sharrod, but of course would never let it show.

'Fehler! Fehler! Get back here, m'boy! Look at this!' With a sigh, Fehler turned back and saw the professor crouching by a pile of pebbles.

'What is it, Professor? Fossilized Pakha droppings?'

'Don't be ungracious, Fehler. It's their planet we're on, remember?'

'They're not likely to hear me down here, are they?' Fehler shook his head and crouched down.

Under . . . here. . .' The professor was tugging at the pebbles. Fehler frowned. They didn't look heavy enough to cause that much exertion.

It's as if . . . they're magnetic . . . attracted to whatever they're burying!' the professor wheezed. Fehler added his younger strength to the struggle and moments later the pebbles were all pulled away.

Revealed was a small circular object. Although grimy and battered, Fehler could see a bra.s.s - or was it golden? . . . colouration. Dowdy gems adorned what Fehler could only a.s.sume was the front.

It's a circlet or crown of some sort.'

Sharrod was nodding enthusiastically. 'You know what it is, of course! You know what we've found!' Fehler suddenly felt a chill go through his body. As if someone had walked over his grave . . . He shuddered and looked at Professor Sharrod. For a second he could have sworn that the professor's face was illuminated from below, as if the circlet had been brand new and s.h.i.+ny, not old, battered and covered in Pakha's carbon dust. Sharrod looked up and Fehler stepped back in alarm at the professor's intensity. His eyes seemed to be . . . 'possessed' was the only thought that entered Fehler's brain.

'Professor Sharrod, I think we should tell someone about this.'

Sharrod turned back to the circlet, sharply. 'No! No, this is mine. . .' He breathed in slowly. After thousands of years, we . . . I. . . have found what others had sought. The rumours, the legends and the mysteries are solved.

I have the Pakha Ancient Diadem. Never again will anyone mock me. No one will scorn my theories or discoveries. . .'

Fehler tugged at the professor's sleeve. 'No one ever did, Professor . . .'

Oh, yes, they did. Everyone mocked me. Sharrod the Fruitcake, isn't that what you students called me? You all thought I didn't know, didn't see the smirks! But I did, Fehler! You're just as guilty!' Fehler was getting worried.

Sharrod's normally mild, almost submissive and absent-minded demeanour had vanished. Fehler didn't care for the aggressive, paranoiac professor now facing him.

'Professor, let's take your discovery back up top. Let Vega Lexus examine it - ' Sharrod lunged towards Fehler, an unnaturally strong palm slapping into the student's chest, sending him sprawling on his back. 'That . . . that shrew thing!' Sharrod was spitting as he spoke, his face twisted in unreasoning fury. 'That alien creature! I wouldn't give it the time of day!' He lunged forward and scooped up the Diadem, wrapping it in the folds of his safari jacket. He unravelled the coiled abseiling plastic rope from his tool pack.

Up!' he snapped. Like an artificial snake, the hooked end of the rope flicked forward and then darted up into the darkness. After a few seconds, while Sharrod just stared at the bundle under his jacket, an electronic beeping told him the rope had tethered itself to the next available ledge.

Clipping the bottom of the rope into his belthooks, Sharrod grabbed it and, without a glance at the dazed Fehler, shouted, 'Pull!' He started to rise as the plastic rope tugged him upwards.

Fehler stared at the professor's form departing into almost pitch darkness.

He thought he could see the Professor illuminated faintly by his flashlight.

As he stepped forward, his foot kicked something. He shone his light on it - it was the professor's torch. He looked up again and then realized: the professor's illumination was from the Diadem as it glowed with renewed energy.

Bill Cook lay back and smiled. Lazily he reached out and wrapped an arm around his sleeping partner. Her soft but regular breathing amused him - such fire and drive when awake, such stillness and innocence when asleep. He stroked her pony-tailed brown hair, rubbing a couple of strands between his fingers. He wondered what her mission was - she hadn't been one for pillow talk - straight into action, no playful coyishness or flirtation.

She was trained military: even a civilian servicer like him could tell that. She was obviously used to deep-s.p.a.ce missions on her own she travelled lightly, anything she needed was attached securely to her body suit. Her conversation whenever he brought her food always neatly steered away from any details about what she was actually up to. Apart from her name being Ace, he'd actually learned very little about her. He shrugged mentally. Did it really matter? He heard a click outside his door and turned his head slightly.

Before he could register anything else, he was aware of a sudden blur of movement across his field of vision as the door slid open. Framed in the doorway, bright corridor lights silhouetting the figure, was Captain Riddler.

He knew it was her by the sudden exclamation of 'Cruk!' she gave. It took him a second to say, 'Lights' and another second to see the cause of Riddler's consternation.

Ace was totally naked, but evidently that didn't concern her. She had her blaster jammed tight into Riddler's cheek, her left hand patting Riddler's waist, obviously looking for a weapon.

Cook waited until she'd finished the frisk before he spoke.

er . . . Ace, meet Captain Riddler.' He tried to smile. He failed to convince either of them he meant it. Ace . . . meet Captain Riddler. . .' he tailed off helplessly.

Without taking her eyes off Riddler and keeping her blaster levelled, Ace walked back towards the side of the bed she'd slept on. With professional ease she scooped up her discarded body suit, tossed her blaster into her left hand and began pulling it on. The blaster never wavered, even as it was returned to her right hand as she completed her dressing. As she finished Ace lowered the gun, sliding it into the holster on her thigh. She shook her head as if clearing it of cobwebs and without a glance back at Cook marched through the door. At the last second she looked back and stared at Riddler.

'Sorry, Captain.'

Riddler stared back, then spoke. 'For sticking a gun in my cheek or for being in my cabin?'

'Take your pick. Probably both.' Ace turned and walked away, aware that Riddler's gaze was following her. She looked back momentarily. 'Yeah.

Definitely both: She watched Riddler go into the room, and the door slid closed. A second later and she heard Cook scream in pain. Ace smiled slightly. She knew exactly what Riddler must have kicked to get that level of pain out of a man.

Ace managed to get back to her cargo hold via the same rarely used back routes and service areas that Cook had used to get her to his - and as it turned out, Riddler's - room. She kept in the shadows just in case one of the night-s.h.i.+ft crew saw her. But that was unlikely. She was too good at her job for that.

Ten minutes later she was curled up in a foetal ball. Asleep but, as always, subconsciously aware, ready for action. Hugged tightly in her hands, as a child hugs a teddy bear, was her blaster. The one she'd been examining in the TARDIS computer room.

Hyn't'n always prided himself on his work. In fact he was so proud, he would go in the tavernas at night, lean on the bar and surrept.i.tiously tell the barman and anyone else in earshot exactly what top-secret job he was doing. Ironically, it was only because most Pakhars thought he was a consummate liar that he managed to successfully carry on his business.

Someone feeling generous could claim that Hyn't'n was a master of the double bluff. Someone being practical could far more accurately claim that however good Hyn't'n was at his job, he was a great security risk and one day someone would have to shut him up.

Sadler looked down at Hyn't'n. I never liked snits and pimps. Especially big-mouthed ones who sit in bars and tell everyone what their employers are looking for!' Hyn't'n glanced behind her. Cooper and Townsend were sitting on a table, wryly watching Sadler. Lambert was ignoring them all; he was staring out of Hyn't'n's hutch window. The little Pakhar desperately wanted to swallow but Sadler's tight grip prevented him from even breathing properly. He tried to squeak but all that happened was his whiskers twitched more frantically.

'Nothing to say, Sadler. What a shame.' Cooper started to stand up and immediately b.u.mped her head on the low ceiling. 'Cruk! Stupid little rodents. Stupid little houses!' She sat again, rubbing her crown. Townsend smiled slightly, but Hyn't'n was not sure whether this was at Cooper's discomfort, her abuse of Pakhars in general or Hyn't'n's own situation.

'So,' Sadler continued, squeezing just a bit tighter. 'Just how much did you blab in your drunken binge last night?' Hyn't'n's reply was a strangled squeak of panic.

Sadler seemed to relax her grip slightly. But only slightly. 'Sorry, didn't quite hear that?' 'Nothing . . . I said nothing. . .' Hyn't'n stammered. I wouldn't say anything that would jeopardize our deal! Believe me!' It had all gone horribly wrong, the Pakhar decided. He had a reputation, he knew, with offworlders. Although many Federation citizens believed Pakha to be the perfect tourist spot, a great deal of crime, petty and large, took place in the Rho system, and Pakha was as good a laundering spot for people and smuggled goods as ever. The more people believed in its integrity, the easier it was to hide its squalor.

These four Tellurian mercenaries had contacted Hyn't'n five days before, after their shuttle (apparently the third they'd used since leaving j.a.petus) had arrived at s.p.a.ce Dock Seven. They had wanted maps, information and currency to get them to the Wavis Ravine. Hyn't'n of course knew how to help them, just as he always knew how to help such groups. His fame obviously spread far and wide by word of mouth; he never needed to advertise -everyone just came to him. And never had anything gone wrong.

Until now. Somehow, the mercenaries suspected they were being followed.

For some reason, they blamed Hyn't'n. He couldn't understand why. Unless the man from the Arrow had betrayed him. But he'd seemed so reliable . . .

'Please . . . let me go. . .' he choked.

All right,' said Townsend. 'We're finished here. Let's get to the caves before our shadow finds us. With any luck we'll be off Pakha before she even arrives.'

For a second Hyn't'n relaxed - they were going to leave. Then he knew, with the same realization that anything doomed suddenly becomes supernaturally aware of, that he was in danger. The last thing Hyn't'n had time to think of was that he wasn't going to get to the bar tonight.

Sadler smiled at the satisfying crunch mixed with a sound like fabric tearing. Then she relaxed her grip and reached over, pulling the dead Pakhar off her other hand. Her fingers were soaked in blood and gore where they had dug right into Hyn't'n's throat. Wiping the blood off on the corpse she followed the other three out, stopping briefly to open a small cupboard. She picked up a small tin and as she left the hutch she tugged it open. Inside was the credit slip they'd paid Hyn't'n with. 'No point in letting money go to waste,' she thought as she pocketed the slip. Casually she tossed the tin into a nearby bush and caught up with Townsend, Lambert and Cooper.

I enjoyed that,' she said to no one in particular.

No one replied.

Some time later, Ace stood over the dead Pakhar. On her computer, a transcript of the mission details the Doctor had beamed across to the TARDIS from the Federation Headquarters on Io before he and Benny had left.

Ace wasn't disappointed to be missing the events on Peladon. She guessed that the Doctor knew she wouldn't fit in too well. Being polite and courteous to kings and queens when people were dying wasn't really her.

Benny was far better at that. She smiled slightly. Bet she was missing out on some young stud, though. Lucky Benny.

She nudged Hyn't'n's body with her foot and then knelt down. Waving the flies from the creature's shredded throat, she touched his fur. Cold but not rigid. For a brief second, a memory flashed through her mind. A memory of school. Of being Hamster Monitor in Miss Marshall's cla.s.s. Of coming in at eight one morning to find both hamsters dead. Of touching them. Cold but not rigid. Dead about three hours, Miss Marshall had guessed. Any longer and the bodies would have been immobile. Ace had suspected that Boyle creep of sneaking into the school at night and suffocating them - it was the sort of thing he'd do just to get at her. To get at 'Dotty'.

Now it had happened again. Someone had beaten her to this hamster. And killed it. Her contact, the person to show her where Damajina had been working when she made her discoveries about the Ancient Diadem; the piece of hardware the Doctor had told her about. The Doctor had warned her that there might be other parties searching for it and obviously they were prepared to kill to keep their trail cold. Ace wasn't averse to killing in self-defense, but this wanton murder of the rodent-like Pakhar who she'd never seen before upset her more than she thought possible.

She crossed the room, slightly bowed due to the low ceiling level, and went into a back room. A straw bed was in a corner, a few personal odds and ends and a large brush. On the straw bed was a simple sheet, lightweight to cope with Pakha's warm climate. She scooped up the sheet and went back to Hyn't'n's body and carefully covered him.

She looked back at her information pad which Cook had given her. The only other place to try was the taverna where she was told she would probably find Hyn't'n if he'd not been at his hutch. Swinging her backpack onto her shoulder, she left the hutch for the first and last time.

In the bushes nearby, a set of whiskers twitched. Beady eyes followed her retreating form and when she was out of sight, a black-furred Pakhar scampered towards Hyn't'n's home.

The Doctor ran his hand across a pillar, feeling the familiar rippled stonework and admiring the cream and lilac paintwork. The familiar duo-tone design of the Citadel had not changed in the pa.s.sing years. Atop every pillar was a flambeau, the proud but savage face of Aggedor carved into every one. 'Home from home: Bernice nodded. 'Nice holiday cottage you've got here, Doctor. Needs a spot of brightening up and the spooky sculptures could do with going, but yeah - it's got potential.'

'Don't let any of the Pels hear you say that, Benny. Aggedor is a sacred beast on the planet. And more so in the Royal Citadel than anywhere else.

Nice chap, I remember, very partial to Venusian lullabies.' The Doctor began to warble slightly out of key under his breath: 'Klokeda, partha, mennin klatch, Ablark, araan, aroon. Klokeeda shunna teerenatch, Aroon, araan, aroon, araan . . .'

'Yes, thank you Frank Sinatra, that'll do,' whispered Bernice. 'The locals are giving you funny looks.'

The Doctor looked back over his shoulder. Kort was chatting amiably to Geban and the Time Lord was impressed. The arrogant child had briefly been replaced by the experienced diplomat. Admittedly the Doctor overheard phrases straight out of the Galactic Federation How To Be A Diplomat handbook, but delivered with a panache and enthusiasm that made the Doctor smile. And Geban was obviously good enough at his job not to say anything either.

Someone cleared their throat noisily beside him. By the pitch he knew without looking that Alpha Centauri was there.

'My dear old friend, how are you?' the Doctor ventured. Centauri simply stared back and after a few seconds the huge leathery green eyelid flapped down and up.

Centauri's pupil had dilated significantly and the green hue of his flesh had darkened considerably. The Amba.s.sador bobbed a couple of times, as if looking this strange figure up and down. The last time that the Doctor had visited Peladon, Centauri recalled that the man had been nearly thirty centimetres taller. He'd had a wash of snow-white hair and worn expensive velvet suits and a cloak or two. Facing him now was a short, slightly younger man with a deeply lined face, sad eyes and a dowdy, crumpled cream suit on. Whereas the other Doctor had been a picture of sartorial elegance, this Doctor looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards.

I confess . . . Doctor,' he squeaked hesitantly, 'you don't look quite the same as you did all those years ago.'

Benny had joined them by now. She could appreciate Centauri's problem.

Although she hadn't ever seen the Doctor regenerate, she had glimpsed the odd sight of his former selves during tense moments inside the TARDIS for various reasons, and she found it disconcerting that one person could have seven bodies, all of which created different personalities, and yet always be the same. She was no theologian but had once said to herself that while the outside changed, it had to be the Doctor's soul that crossed from body to body. That unique something that made the Doctor so totally different to everyone else she'd ever met. 'That's nothing, Amba.s.sador,'

she interrupted. 'From what I can gather the faces and personalities he's had since you last saw him confuse everyone he's ever known.'

'Nevertheless,' shrilled Centauri, 'bearing in mind the... um . . . difficulties you faced here last time, plus the fact that in the fifty years between your previous two visits you had barely aged a year, I can only accept that you are who you say you are.'

'Thank you, Centauri,' smiled the Doctor. I am genuinely pleased to be here with you again. I am only sorry that friends such as Queen Thalira and Gebek are not here to share this reunion.'

'Their deaths were most unfortunate and inopportune, it must be said. I felt I had to stay on and help the new king, Tarrol, with his responsibilities. He clearly required someone of experience and diplomacy to help him.'

Of course.'

There was a pause as Centauri's green returned to its more traditional olive colouring. He bobbed again and waved three of his arms at the Doctor and Bernice. And I, too, am glad to have such a valued old friend back amongst us. And with such charming company as well: Benny smiled.

'Thank you, Amba.s.sador. I'm grateful to see that Federation interests on Peladon are being so well looked after.'

Centauri glowed slightly plum at that, which Bernice took to be mild embarra.s.sment, and bobbed away towards Geban.

Oh very smooth, Professor Summerfield,' murmured the Doctor. 'Why not add some strawberry jam and be really sickly?'

'It'll avoid awkward questions later,' she retorted and slipped her arm around his. 'So, start the guided tour. I can't wait to meet the king! I mean, sentient computers, Silurians, punk rockers and zombies I've seen, but real honest-to-G.o.d alien royalty? Now there's a first.'

Laughing quietly, the two time travellers followed the Federation party into the caverns.

Three hours later and the Doctor heard a tap on the door of the quarters a.s.signed to him by Centauri. He got off the well-cus.h.i.+oned chair he'd been dozing in and pulled the door open.