The Sands Of Time Part 17

The scream tore through the camp like a knife through tent canvas. Tegan was wide awake and out of bed by the time it finished. She pulled on her cloak and ran out of her tent.

The Doctor collided with her as she left the tent. He stared at her for a moment, and for a split second Tegan could see the relief in his eyes. Then he turned and started running in the opposite direction.

'Margaret?' Tegan asked.

'Margaret,' he agreed.

Kenilworth and Atkins were leaving their tents as the Doctor and Tegan ran past.

'What the devil's going on?' Kenilworth called as he struggled into his jacket.

The Doctor did not answer, but kept running. Tegan followed as fast as she could.

Margaret's tent was silent. The flap was pulled back, and the Doctor paused outside for a second, like a doubting disciple. The he dived inside.

Tegan arrived a few second after he had gone in, and made to follow. But the Doctor was backing out of the tent. He turned sharply as he b.u.mped into Tegan, and opened his mouth. Then he shut it again, and shook his head.

Behind the Doctor, Tegan could see the figure sprawled across the bed, white night-gown stained at the shoulders as if charred. Margaret's head lolled back over the far side of the bed, and Tegan was thankful that the eyes were hidden. She knew they would be open and blank, the pupils dilated in the gloom.

Before either of them could comment, Atkins and Kenilworth arrived, out of breath and hurriedly dressed. Atkins for once was less than immaculate.

But before any of them could speak, there was a shout from across the camp, and the sound of a shotgun.

The main focus of attention was the supply tent. Evans and Macready were backing slowly away from it. Macready had a shotgun raised and aimed to cover their retreat. Approaching them out of the darkness were three enormous shapes. They lumbered forwards, rolling from one leg to the other as if pulling their huge bulk forward by their own momentum.

Tegan, the Doctor, Atkins and Kenilworth arrived just as Macready discharged the second barrel of his gun. Tegan skidded to a halt and grabbed at the Doctor for support - both to prevent her falling as the sand gave under her feet, and for rea.s.surance. Atkins stood open-mouthed, and Kenilworth swore.

The three figures were clearly visible in the moonlight. The shadows moved and stretched across their frames as they continued their slow but inexorable progress towards the group. The size of the bandaged bodies and the way the arms hung out from the ma.s.sive shoulders made their legs seems slightly out of proportion as the huge mummies stepped through the desert night.

Macready's shot caught the leading mummy in the right shoulder. It slowed a little, the right side of its body pushed back by the impact, shreds of bandage flying from the tiny entry points of the lead pellets. But then it eased itself back into its rolling gait and continued without apparent discomfort towards them.

Macready broke open the gun and fumbled in his pocket for fresh cartridges.

'I wouldn't bother if I were you,' the Doctor said. 'They're Osiran service robots, a few bullets and a bit of buckshot won't worry them.'

'And what would you suggest?' Kenilworth asked.

'I'd suggest we run.'

'Admirable advice,' Evans said, turning on his heel.

The mummies continued their slow progress. One of them smashed its way through the edge of a tent standing in its path. Another kicked through a small mound of sand in front of it, the mound exploded into tiny particles and drifted away on the breeze. Behind them, the sound of splintering wood carried through the desert air. Silhouetted against the canvas of the supply tent, working by the light of the oil lamp which cast its shadows onto the tent wall, a huge shape ripped the top from one of the packing cases.

Two smaller, thinner figures stood close by, watching.

The Doctor and his friends turned to follow Evans' example. Just as the entrance to the tent nearest the leading mummy flapped open, and Nebka pushed his sleepy way into its path.

'Look out, man,' shouted Macready.

'Run,' Kenilworth and the Doctor both called together.

But Nebka was frozen to the spot, staring in horror and amazement at the mummy as it bore down on him. At last he shook himself free of the fear, and started to turn. But too late.

The mummy swiped, almost casually, at the Egyptian. Its arm caught him across the throat, sending him flying back at the tent he had just left. Nebka hit the doorway, his body colliding with the tent's main support and bringing it cras.h.i.+ng down. A hand and forearm emerged from the ma.s.s of collapsed canvas. The hand clutched at the sand, grabbing and clenching, trying to gain a purchase on the s.h.i.+fting ground. Then it spasmed, stiffened, and the grains of sand fell from between the outstretched fingers and the hand flopped back on to the desert floor.

Kenilworth was already running forwards. Atkins tried to grab him, but missed. He started to follow, but the Doctor held him back and shook his head.

'Get the dynamite,' he said. 'I'll get Kenilworth.'

Atkins looked at the Doctor for a second, then he nodded and ran.

'Help him, Tegan.'

Tegan followed, Macready at her heel. Evans was already almost out of sight.

Kenilworth drew up short of the mummies. He could see that it was too late to help Nebka, but he was committed. Having challenged the mummies by running back at them, he was d.a.m.ned if he would turn and run away again.

A piece of broken wood from Nebka's tent post had landed almost at Kenilworth's feet. He picked it up, a pole about two inches in diameter and three feet long with a jagged and sharp end. He took up position like an enthusiastic cricketer out for a slog and waited for the first mummy to reach him.

Before it was within reach, though, he felt himself lifted from behind and dragged away. 'What the -' he spluttered, as the Doctor deposited him in the sand.

'Not a very sensible approach, your lords.h.i.+p,' the Doctor said. 'You had even less chance of inflicting any serious damage than Macready's shotgun.'

'Maybe,' Kenilworth said grudgingly. 'But I'd have had a d.a.m.n good try.'

'I admire your spirit. But I think we should keep out of their way.'

'We can't let them just ransack the place,' Kenilworth protested as he dragged himself to his feet, looked carefully at the length of wood he was holding and then dropped in to the ground.

The Doctor was backing away again, the mummies still lurching towards them. 'They're not. They're after something specific. Something in with the relics.'

'We've still got to stop them,' Kenilworth spluttered.

'Oh, I agree. That's why I've sent Atkins for the dynamite.' The Doctor's teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he smiled. Over his shoulder, Kenilworth saw the mummies slow to a halt. For a moment, their bodies swung to and fro as if they were surveying the land in front of them. Then they stood motionless. From the distance came the sound of another crate being ripped open.

Between them, Tegan and Atkins managed to carry the box of dynamite towards the supply tent. Tegan expected any moment to meet the Doctor and Kenilworth running back the other way. But they were almost where they had left them. The mummies stood a short way off, making no effort to move.

'They're stopping us from getting to the supplies and preventing whatever's happening there,' Kenilworth told them. 'The Doctor tried circling round, but they seemed to sense that, and one of them moved to cut him off.'

'So what did you do, Doctor?' Atkins asked.

'I decided discretion was the better part of valour,' the Doctor said. 'Now where's that dynamite?'

Atkins pulled the lid off the heavy wooden box to reveal several sticks of dynamite, fuses dangling like rats' tails from the ends. He produced a box of lucifers from his jacket pocket.

'Excellent,' the Doctor said, rubbing his hands together. 'Now which of you can manage a decent full toss, do you reckon?'

The first stick landed short of its target. The dynamite exploded noisily, throwing sand and pieces of Nebka's tent flying into the air. The mummy standing five yards from the blast did not so much as flinch.

But in the supply tent, Simons heard the report. He sent a mental signal to the servicer with him to continue searching through the packing crates. So far they had found the statue of Anubis, but none of the other relics had yet been recovered.

Simons picked up the small stone statue, its surface as cold as his hand, and went to investigate the noise. The image he was getting from the servicers outside was less than helpful, degraded and interrupted by the weakness of the power.

He emerged from the tent in time to see a figure step forward into the moonlight and throw something towards the servicers. Simons sent the nearest mummy forward to counter attack.

It walked right into the explosion.

The dynamite went off just as the mummy stepped over it. The blast ripped its left arm from the body and shredded the bandages which protected the robot's frame. The cloth still clinging to the robot's legs ignited, and after a second the whole body was ablaze.

The mummy kept going, following its orders, a lumbering torch of guttering fire. The metal frame charred in the heat, but it held together as the creature stumbled onwards.

But without the protection of its wrappings, the next explosion ripped the servicer apart. It punctured the tiny pyramid relay in the small of its back, and sent shards of heated metal into the air like shrapnel from a grenade.

The humans dived for cover. The other servicers stood immobile and silent.

Simons weighed up the options, hefting the Anubis statue in his dead palm.

One relic would suffice. He recalled the servicers, and made his way back to where Ra.s.sul and the Egyptians were waiting beyond the next sand dune.

Evans sat at the table in his daughter's tent, leafing slowly through her day book. He was not reading it, just turning the pages. In his hand he held the photograph that had marked her place.

Atkins stood into the tent behind him, watching. 'I thought I'd find you here, sir,' he said after a while. He tried to ignore the body sprawled across the bed. 'She loved me,' Evans said without looking up. 'So dedicated. So devoted.'

'Indeed.' Atkins clasped his hands tighter behind his back. 'His lords.h.i.+p wonders if you would join us at the supply tent to go over the inventory again. He would welcome your expert opinion.'

'Look.' Evans held out the photograph from the book. 'She even kept my picture with her.'

Simons' young enthusiasm smiled back at Atkins from the cracked card.

'Indeed sir. I -' He broke off. He knew what he wanted to say, but not how to phrase it. 'She will be a great loss to us all, sir.' It felt inadequate.

But Evans nodded as he stood up. 'A great loss. Yes. Yes.'

Atkins held back the canvas flap for Evans as he pushed past. Then Atkins looked at the figure across the bed. He could feel an unaccustomed pressure behind his eyes, was aware of a tension in his stomach. He blinked quickly, and followed Evans out of the tent.

Phaester Osiris Isis left the navigation to the pilot. He sat within the projection dome, his mind entirely focused on keeping the craft on course, following the psi-trail left by the capsule.

With her mind, Isis reached out into the darkness, probing and searching for the thoughts of Osiris. At the very extreme edge of her consciousness she could sense a slight tremor. There was a chance, just a faint hope, that Osiris was not yet dead. But if they did not get close enough for him to break the mind lock and project out of the capsule soon, he would be lost.

Even as she struggled to lock on to the mind of her husband-brother, Isis felt it slip through her thoughts. Osiris was gone. And with nowhere to project to, he must be dead. No way to project his physical body into another place; no receptacle for his brilliant mind - he would imbue no psi-child now.

She brought her mind back to reality, to the interior of the pyramid. The pilot was standing in front of her. He had left the projection dome. And yet the craft was still travelling straight and true along the psi-trail. It took a phenomenal amount of energy to cope even with a slight mental lapse.

Actually to leave the dome was impossible, no mind could summon the reserves of power necessary for that.

But as she stared into the glowing eyes of the pilot, Isis was aware of a deeper intelligence than she had perceived when they boarded the craft.

'Greetings, mother,' the pilot said. His voice was melodic, almost musical.

She recognized it at once, and almost wept for joy. The words of the Osiran who had been the pilot resonated within the craft, seeming almost to be born out of the air itself: 'I am Horus, son of Osiris.'

Chapter Eight.