Doctor Who: Mission to the Unknown Page 3

  Lowery had heard many stories of the Daleks, but even the legends had never hinted at such raw power from four small weapons. ‘It’s disintegrating,’ he breathed in shock. ‘Just falling apart...’

  More practical, Cory grabbed his arm. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Lowery needed no second urging to follow. He saw Cory moving off in the fading light, and grabbed the rocket framework to follow. As he did so, something stung his hand, Wincing in pain, he pulled it back, and stared, disbelieving, at his palm.

  In the centre of it was a single varga thorn, still quivering. Panicking, Lowery ripped the thorn out and flung it away. Feverishly recalling what he had seen of snake-bites, he started to suck at the small red wound, trying to get the poison out before it could affect him. Then he heard movement, and whipped his hand away from his mouth.

  Cory’s face reappeared. ‘Come on, man, come on!’ he urged. ‘They’ll be after us in a minute!’

  Lowery managed to calm himself and nod. If Cory noticed the sweat and fear, he obviously took it as being reaction to the Daleks. As long as the agent didn’t suspect the truth! Lowery knew that if Cory discovered about the thorn, he would be killed instantly. Cory was not the type of man to take unnecessary chances. Lowery had to keep it hidden, and pray that the thorn hadn’t had time to infect him.

  As he stumbled after Cory, though, he could feel his palm start to itch terribly...

  * * *

  The four Daleks stood beside the twisted, glowing metal that had been the enemy ship. There was now no way off this planet for the aliens. The patrol leader turned to the nearest Dalek. ‘Report destruction of alien craft to control.’

  ‘I obey.’

  The patrol leader switched its vision enhancers on. The infra-red receptors began to register the faint heat-trail of two humans away from the ship. ‘Advise that we will now seek out the crew. Alert all patrols.’

  Following the pathway, all four Daleks began their hunt of Cory and Lowery.

  Trantis glanced up as the representative from Gearon entered the conference room. This was the final member of the alliance, a somewhat faceless creature with an egg-shaped head. Gearon wore a thick visor, since he came from a world almost perpetually in darkness. Without a pause, he moved to stand behind the lectern bearing his name.

  The semicircular table was now filled. Trantis looked about, his facial tendrils quivering as he did in. He could sense the vague thoughts of the other representatives of their vast galactic sectors. Like him, they were eager to begin this grand alliance, and start their conquest of the Galaxy. Beaus, from the Miron systems, was hardest to read: it was a tall creature, half-vegetable, half animal. It looked like an animated tree, possessing two burning eyes. Yet, it too yearned for the battles to come, and the gaining of new territory for its species to seed. Warrien was inscrutable in his cowled hood, his pressure suit containing the atmosphere that he needed to stay alive on this oxygen-rich world. Similarly suited was the representative from the planet Sentreal. His dark face was wreathed in the chlorine fumes that he breathed, and a small radio antenna an his head kept him in constant contact with his fellow beings still on their ship; the inhabitants of their world were a communal mind, and isolating one from contact with others of his species would kill him. Malpha, the last of the members, was tall and colourless. His suit and his skin were white, save for the thick, dark network of veins that created a patchwork of his face.

  The seven lecterns for the representatives were grouped about the semicircular table, and each representative stood behind his or its own lectern. Before them was a large circular table, whose top was a scale model of the Solar System. The sun lay in the centre, pulsing with mock life, and scattered about it in representations of their orbit lay the various planets. Malpha had to admit that the room was certainly very impressive. The lighting focused on this map, and each representative’s eyes were drawn irresistibly towards this new territory that lay in wait for them.

  Beyond the table, the Black Dalek and three subordinates stood. As ever, they were completely inscrutable. They moved slightly as they waited with apparently inexhaustible patience.

  The document that the delegates were signing arrived in front of Malpha. With a swirl of his stylus, he signed it, and passed it down to the closest Dalek. The Dalek moved the paper to position it in front of the Black Dalek, who scanned it.

  ‘It is done,’ it stated. ‘The seven great powers of the outer galaxies are one.’

  The delegates all smiled – at least, those who could did. The others expressed their appreciation in their own styles. Malpha, the final signatory, tapped his lectern, and all eyes turned on him.

  ‘This is indeed a historic moment in the history of the Universe,’ he stated, in somewhat pedantic tones. ‘We seven from the outer galaxies, joining with a power from within the Solar System and with the Daleks. We represent the greatest war force ever assembled! Conquest assured!’ He stepped from his lectern to the table before them all. With a gesture, he indicated a small red ball on its surface. ‘Mars!’ he exclaimed, then swept it from the surface. It clattered off into the darkness. ‘Venus!’ Another swing, and it went flying. ‘Jupiter!’ It followed suit. ‘The lunar colonies!’

  At this moment, the Black Dalek’s arm shot out, resting on the small blue-green ball next in line. ‘They will all fall before our might,’ the Dalek grated. ‘But the first of them will be the Earth!’ Its arm shot forward, and the small globe of the Earth flew from the table and into the blackness beyond.

  It was no good. Lowery rested on a small rock, staring in despair at his hand. It was burning badly now, and he knew that the varga poison had infected him. He was racked with small sobs, half-pain, half-fear, and he was sweating badly. His head ached, his mouth felt dry. Another paroxysm of agony shot through him, and he could feel the alienness within his body growing, striving to take him over. Shaking all over, he stared in horror at the back of his hand. Desperately, he pulled at his sleeve.

  His hand and forearm were covered in thick, white hairs. He was turning into a varga!

  Trying to blot out the sight and the knowledge, he pulled his sleeve down, and closed his eyes. He wanted to scream, to panic, to run, to kill himself – but he knew that he was no longer himself...

  Unaware of the torment in Lowery, Cory slipped back into the clearing. ‘There you are,’ he said, relieved. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

  Struggling heroically, Lowery managed to stumble to his feet. He tried to act as though nothing was wrong. ‘Where. where have you been?’ His voice sounded odd, thicker, but Cory didn’t seem to notice.

  Ignoring the question for a moment, Cory moved over to the rocket and its launch frame. ‘We’ve got to get this capsule off – and fast,’ he said. He began to straighten it up, and detached the recorder for the warning message. ‘There’s a city down there, a Dalek city. I got quite close. Close enough to hear an announcement that came through the loudspeaker system.’

  His hand was a mass of flame now, but Lowery his back the pain. ‘What... what did you hear?’ He could hear a pulsing in his own ears, the sound of some alien ocean pounding at the shores of his consciousness. He could feel himself starting to slide down a long tunnel, a tunnel of blackness and despair.

  Unaware of this, Cory worked on. ‘Our Galaxy is to be invaded,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Destroyed.’

  It was too much. The pilot could no longer hold on to his thoughts. He buried his head in his hands, no longer caring that his white fur and sharp thorns were visible if the agent glanced up. It hurt too much to think, and he let his mind go, feeling the relief of simple obliteration. His mouth moved, and softly, he muttered: ‘Kill... kill...’

  ‘What did you say, Lowery?’ Cory asked, finishing his preparations with the rocket. It was all set to launch now, as soon as he loaded the message. Just another couple of minutes...

  ‘Kill,’ slurred Lowery, and then with more force: ‘Kill!’

  Suddenly aware o
f what had happened, Cory jumped to his feet, his gun in his hand. ‘The varga...’ he breathed.

  Lowery’s pain-racked face finally broke into a contented smile. His features were starting to vanish behind a fine down of white hair, and thorns were sprouting from his skin. ‘Yes... yes, I’ll be one of them soon. Kill... kill!’

  Lowery went for his pistol, but Cory was faster. The gun spat death, and the half-varga stumbled, then collapsed on to the ground. Cory looked down at the still form. It was better this way for Lowery. His mind was already destroyed, and his body merely the host for a repugnant alien parasite. Compared with that, death was pleasant, a friend to be welcomed.

  Enough sentiment! He had a task to finish, and he had to warn the Earth. He triggered the recorder that he still held in his left hand, and began to speak into it in a low, urgent voice. ‘This is Marc Cory, Special Security Service, reporting from the planet Kembel. The Daleks are planning the complete destruction of the Galaxy, beginning with the planet Earth. Together with the powers of the outer galaxies, they are assembling a massive war fleet.’ He continued to speak, detailing the message that he had heard in the city. It was imperative that Earth was warned about the traitor who was set to betray them all, and to bring the forces of the Daleks right into the Solar System. He concluded: ‘Whoever receives this message must relay the information immediately to SSS on Earth. It is vital that defence measures be put into operation at once. Message ends.’ He clicked off the recorder.

  He turned to place the recorder into the rocket, and froze.

  Four Daleks stood, watching him.

  Cory had a single moment to realize that, after all his efforts, he had failed. Then the Daleks fired. His body was bathed in their lethal radiations, and Cory crumpled, falling lifeless to the ground.

  The patrol leader looked down at his body, and then across at the corpse of the half-varga. ‘Our plans for the conquest of Earth are safe. Whatever information he may have discovered has died with him. Return to the city.’

  ‘We obey!’ In unison, the four Daleks spun about, and set off through the jungle that held no terrors for them. In the clearing, all was peaceful again.

  By Cory’s dead hand, the recorder with the vital information in it lay unnoticed.

  Chapter 4

  The Nightmare Begins...

  The Doctor brooded over the controls. His hawk-like face was set in a frown of concentration and worry. For once, his old ship seemed to be behaving. The time rotor moved smoothly up and down, the indicators showed that they were moving through both time and space. He had never really worried about his own progress through the Vortex – his keen love of discovery made every landing an experience to be grasped and enjoyed. This time, however, he could feel only apprehension.

  Suppose the TARDIS landed in some prehistoric world? Or a dead planet, without inhabitants or even air? What if they landed scant decades away from the medical care that Steven needed? The Doctor was not certain that Steven could live through another flight through the Vortex. That wound was badly infected.

  Drumming his fingers impatiently on the console, the Doctor searched for signs that their flight was coming to an end. If only he could be certain that there would be help for his young friend when the ship finally landed! But – where and when would that be?

  This hell-hole planet was even worse by night, when you couldn’t see what was out there but you could hear things moving about. Kert Gantry lay back against the rock in the small clearing. With the section of cliff-face at his back, he felt slightly safer. At least he now didn’t need eyes in the back of his head. He winced with pain as he shifted to try to gain a little more comfort on the stony ground. His left leg was a mass of pain, despite the pills he popped into his mouth from time to time. Gantry knew he shouldn’t be taking so many, but they helped him to tolerate the broken leg. He glanced down at the crude splint, and the torn legging, brown with dried blood. Of all the stupid things to do, to catch his foot in the rocks and fall!

  Gantry wiped the sweat from his grubby face. He was normally a handsome enough man when he could wash and shave, but after three days in this nightmare jungle he looked dreadful, and knew he must smell just as badly. Gantry looked over at his companion with a little envy. Bret Vyon had been with him all that time, and yet still looked fairly presentable. His uniform was still in one piece, its dark colouring providing a measure of camouflage in the night. Vyon needed a shave, but otherwise he was his normal tall, thin, clean self. If you could ignore the shadows under his eyes from the strain, that is.

  ‘Five Zero Alpha to New Washington,’ Vyon snapped urgently, triggering the microphone on the portable sub-space radio he was adjusting as he called. ‘Come in, please. Five Zero Alpha to New Washington. Do you read me? Over?’ His voice threatened to crack, a sign of the strain he was under. His only answer was a roar of static. ‘New Washington, damn you, come in!’ Again, he was greeted by a loud hiss. Slamming the microphone back into its holder, he turned in fury back to Gantry. ‘Nothing,’ he explained, unnecessarily. ‘Not a peep! I swear, when I get back to Earth, I’m going to have the entire staff of Communications Central court-martialled!’

  Gantry laughed without humour. ‘What makes you think you’re going to get back?’ he asked. ‘You know damn well we haven’t got a hope.’

  If Vyon accepted that, he had no intention of admitting it. ‘We’re not finished yet,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Gantry was past self-delusion and hope now. ‘Use your head. They’re out there, looking for us right now. They’re bound to find us, and when they do they’ll simply blast us out of existence.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Vyon agreed angrily. ‘What happens to us is not important. But if they get to us before we can report, the whole Solar System is finished. There’ll be nothing anyone can do to stop them.’

  ‘I know.’ Gantry sighed, and settled back. ‘Try them again.’

  Vyon turned back to the transmitter. ‘This is Five Zero Alpha to New Washington. Come in New Washington...’

  When Lizan had joined the Special Security Service, she had envisioned an exciting career on the boundaries of known space – perhaps working in an embassy on Draconia, or Alpha Centauri, or one of the many worlds that Earth now traded with. Or perhaps in charge of a section of agents on the exploration ships that still sought out new worlds and new races. As her training had progressed, she realized that she would not end up in any such exciting posts, and she lowered her goals considerably. Maybe she’d end up working as a bodyguard for some politician, or as a security guard at Los Angeles Interplanetary. Never in all her worse scenarios had she ever envisaged ending up where she was: section leader in Communications Central.

  She wore a neat, lime-green uniform – as opposed to Security’s black – with a Communications flash on each shoulder. It was easy to stay smart on this duty; there was little enough else to do. She and her second – Roald – simply took the routine calls from the various agents on missions, and then relayed anything interesting to the Director of Communications. At the moment, there were just over a hundred missions in progress, and they were averaging one call to the Centre every hour, since agents didn’t report in daily. Every single call for the last three weeks had been routine and none lasted longer than it took to say ‘All clear.’

  Lizan had realized long ago that the only way to endure such tedium was to distract her mind. She and Roald were in the middle of another of their drawn-out tri-d chess matches. They didn’t bother monitoring their panels, knowing that nothing ever needed their attention. The room that they were in was one of eight that radiated out from the Director’s quarters, and the two walls of the wedge were lined with their communications boards and the Galactic chart. This showed the Galaxy, with Earth, its colonies and its allies marked in a pale, pulsing blue. The other, nearer galaxies of the Local Group were shown also – though ‘near’ was a very relative term; all lay millions of light years distant. Several of those galaxies
showed a bright red light, winking in its ominous ruby fights, and almost as large as the blue portion of the map.

  Dalek space.

  Lizan and Roald, hunched over their complex boards, failed to notice that one of the blue lights right on the edge of the Galaxy was blinking brighter and faster than normal. Instead, Roald moved a piece on the board. ‘Unicorn to level four,’ he announced. ‘Check.’ He was pleased when Lizan frowned; it wasn’t often he could surprise her nowadays with a move like that! ‘Checkmate in three,’ he announced. The light on the map had gone back to its pale form now, as he spun about. The far end of the room was taken up with a huge screen, at the moment dark. ‘So, what’s it to be? I want to see the Venus-Mars game, and you want to see your hero, Mavic Chen.’

  ‘He’s not my hero,’ Lizan retorted. ‘I just happen to admire him, that’s all. He’s one of the few politicians who’s actually done more than he promised to do when he was elected Guardian.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Roald suggested, his hands moving over his keyboard. ‘If we tune into Channel 403, we’ll get the news. That should satisfy both of us – you can see Chen, and I’ll at least get the highlights of the match.’

  Lizan considered this. Technically, they were not supposed to use the screens for private viewing, but no one was likely to catch them at it. Even if they were caught, they’d just be told off mildly. What else were they expected to do to pass the time? ‘And what if they don’t show Mavic Chen?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s not very likely. The Guardian of the Solar System is going away on holiday.’ He had all the information laid into his board, but being the junior here, he couldn’t call it on to the screen. ‘He’ll no doubt say a few well-chosen words. Every well-chosen word will no doubt be transmitted.’

  Lizan wanted to agree, but felt her job demanded a little more attention to the rules. ‘And what about the routine calls?’