The Tomb of Valdemar Page 18

  The Doctor feels a stab of pity, as he wonders how much further down the road of new perception Romana will have travelled by now. Why did he have to have been saddled with a companion so incapable... ? No, it is his fault, there’s no getting away from it.

  With the vaccine de-clouding his mind, he can see the palace for that which it is – an overblown, fairground haunted house, complete with cartoon ghosts and ghoulies.

  As the soldiers marvel at the way the geography seems to shift and shimmer according to their desires, he sees the clunky floor moving, the rusty clanging of gears, the flora in crumbling pots hiding the cracks. It is a carnival ride at night, the machinery working to sustain a superficial illusion.

  Only one of Hopkins’s men is seemingly immune to the effects of the higher dimensions, and that’s because he has his eyes firmly on the Doctor’s back. ‘Five paces ahead if you don’t mind, suh,’ says Mr Redfearn evenly. ‘No more, no less.’

  The Doctor is impatient. He is in the wrong place. He must find a way to get to the tomb before critical mass is achieved.

  These men will start to become affected very soon, undoubtedly enabling him to slip out of their grasp. The question is, can he wait that long?

  Wait, he thinks to himself. He has to confirm that which he thinks he already knows. He indicates that they should descend to the piazza level. Hopkins nods; even the madman is susceptible to logic at times.

  Neville and Hopkins make a fitting pair, the Doctor thinks.

  Both zealots, both utterly consumed by their own self-righteousness. Both so utterly, completely convinced that they are right. He remembers a long-ago philosophy course, Romana would know more, and an aphorism that seems apposite – ‘Strive not to know thyself too well.’

  There must always be more to learn, for the mind solidifies, the cerebral arteries harden if they are not busy, always striving.

  The search widens and his worry increases. He leads the small unit down on to levels he remembers. He tries to walk at a relaxed pace, as if strolling through Hyde Park. However, slowly, imperceptibly, he increases that pace. He has to find his companion.

  ‘Not too fast now, Doctor,’ says Mr Redfearn, right behind him.

  At last, he finds the double doors leading to the main piazza. Not quite so empty here. Something has happened.

  There is the same echoing space, the same trickling fountains and steamy air, the same steps and nooks and crannies. But there is also more.

  ‘Check them,’ says Hopkins grimly. ‘Check if one of them is Neville.’

  Pelham gasps. She has been silent on this trek but now her voice is released, revealing some kind of pent-up trauma that she has been long brooding upon. Her face turns a ghastly sheen of white, and the Doctor skips neatly to her side to catch her if she faints.

  ‘My God,’ she whispers. ‘What did they do to each other?’

  Awkwardly, the Doctor finds himself holding her up. Well, no choice really, better than her smashing her head on the marble steps. The soldiers prod and poke the bodies.

  The children – twisted, deformed and full of bullets. And others in amongst them. Neville’s guards, their wounds and the effects of the higher dimensions reshaping their faces and bodies into new, unrecognisable forms. But no Neville or Romana.

  Pelham clutches the Doctor, unreasonably tightly. ‘I keep dreaming. I’m awake but I can’t shake it off. I keep seeing something, a scene,’ she starts to babble out of nowhere. The Doctor feels her fear shaking him. ‘A hilltop. It’s night. A single tree that stands over a block of stone. Somehow, I know that this block is my tomb. I’m dead. Cold and dead inside but I’m looking in on it and I can see myself looking up... I’m dead but I know I can still see. I can still see...’

  The Doctor keeps a grip on her. Is this some incipient madness or are the vaccine’s effects limited? He realises that the higher dimensions affect individuals in different ways and are impossible to predict.

  ‘Put the image out of your mind,’ he soothes her. ‘It is nothing but a dream, your own mind rationalising new potentials. Think only of these numbers; repeat this formula I am giving you...’ He then proceeds to reel off a string of equations and numbers, Time Lord exercises for clearing the mind. He forces her to obey. Her shaking subsides.

  The iron clads are silent as they proceed with their checks.

  The Doctor watches them, his own face set in stone.

  ‘What happened to them?’ demands Hopkins. He lifts the helmet’s visor. Already, his hairless face trickles with feverish sweat. He blinks, lacking the eyebrows with which to divert that sweat.

  ‘I tried to tell them,’ the Doctor replies, ‘and I’ve been trying to tell you. The higher dimensions have been released and the palace was evolving their physical forms to embrace the new perceptions. Unless we get done with this, you will all be similarly affected.’

  ‘Is Neville among the dead?’ asks Hopkins, ignoring the Doctor.

  ‘No, Citizen,’ Carlin replies, double-checking the last of the corpses.

  ‘Spread out. Keep looking.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ asks the Doctor, quietly.

  Hopkins lowers his visor once more. ‘I’m not interested in your opinion.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are. I really think you are.’

  ‘All right then. What?’

  The Doctor, under the unerring gaze of Mr Redfearn, seats Pelham on the steps. ‘I think Neville did leave a little trap for you. The guards were placed to ambush you. We’re right next to the docking bay. Only the others got to them first.’

  Hopkins sneers. ‘These are the cloaks of the cult high guard. How could these... children have done this? The guards could have cut them to pieces.’

  ‘I don’t think they were children any more.’

  Hopkins stares at him and, for a moment, the Doctor feels pity for the deranged little man. He has encountered countless closed minds in his time, met people and creatures for whom black just had to be white, and the result is always the same. They seal themselves into traps of their own devising, and wither away. Not accepting the palace, refusing to understand the truth, will be the death of Hopkins.

  ‘Check the docking bay,’ orders the Doctor. ‘See if the bathyscape is still there.’

  Carlin moves instinctively to obey. Hopkins raises an arm and stops him dead. ‘How dare you... ?’

  ‘Check it!’ bellows the Doctor, feeling his patience finally exhaust itself.

  ‘I am sick and tired of you,’ says Hopkins slowly. ‘Just who do you think you are? You’ve just been wasting my time.’ He turns away, past the worried-looking Carlin to the calm and anticipatory Mr Redfearn, who is leaning idly against a column, picking his teeth. ‘Mr Redfearn, the time has come to terminate this little alliance.’

  Mr Redfearn shrugs and straightens himself up. His eyes never leave the Doctor as he adjusts his clothing. ‘My pleasure, Mr Hopkins.’ The gloved hands flick back the jacket, revealing the pistols within. His fingers twiddle. ‘Any last words, Doctor?’ he asks.

  The Doctor considers. ‘One word,’ he replies after some careful thought.

  ‘Hmm?’ Mr Redfearn is smiling, almost interested. His eyes glitter, like those of a cobra.

  ‘Dark,’ says the Doctor, and the palace obeys, sending the piazza into utter and complete blackness.

  ‘Light! Light!’ Hopkins screeches at the top of his voice. There is a flash, and milliseconds later, the sound of the report –

  Redfearn firing, reacting more quickly than he would have believed possible.

  There is the sound of running and scuffling and Hopkins is pushed off balance by some mighty force. He topples and finds that the ground has disappeared. Instead, there is nothing but water; one of the pools is all there is to break his fall. He hits it with a mighty clap and then the liquid is all over him.

  He sits up, spitting out the foul, scented water. A light flashes on, right in his eyes, and he sees the pistol, the thumb cocking it and Mr Redfearn laughi
ng right behind it.

  ‘It’s me! It’s me!’ Hopkins screams and the light flicks off.

  He buries his head in the water once more, panic-stricken.

  Getting his heart under control, he hauls himself up. His men are shouting and dashing around in the dark. He hears iron and spur clashing in the inky blackness. ‘Get some torches on!’ he bellows, coughing out the last of the pool. His armour leaks like a waterfall. Someone, Carlin, finally barks orders that bring the men under control. Torchlights snake through the blackness.

  This is it, Hopkins thinks. This is it! It was all going so smoothly and professionally until Pelham and her madman turned up. Since then, the whole operation has been one long catalogue of errors. He is certain Neville can see this and is laughing at him. Laughing!

  Well, no more. The Doctor is going to die for this. Die.

  ‘Are you all right, Citizen Hopkins?’ asks a concerned Carlin, right by his side, making him jump, making him slip back into the pool once more.

  He spits water, as eager hands help him up. ‘Get away from me!’ he snarls, slapping Carlin. Finally, the torrent of water stops flowing out of his armour. His boots, however, remain full. He jabs a finger where he thinks Carlin’s face should be.

  ‘I want the Doctor and I want him dead, you understand me?’

  ‘Citizen.’

  ‘Now get the men organised. No more mistakes. Give me that torch.’

  Carlin does so. The men are bunched round him, ready for action. Hopkins shines the light, one at a time into their faces. Is he checking to see if any of them are laughing? He will not admit that to himself. One man, two, three, four...

  wait a minute.

  ‘Something the matter, Citizen?’ asks Carlin, as the torch stops moving.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hopkins mutters. There are more than eight men here, many more. Who’s that behind Carlin? ‘You,’

  he snaps. ‘Show me your face.’

  The soldier walks into the small spotlight. Where’s his damn helmet? It looks more... more like a hood.

  Even before the creature reveals its face to Robert Hopkins, as the lights flicker back on, he knows who this must be, and who all the others are that have risen from the floor to encircle his tiny unit.

  That man Redfearn was as quick as he had feared. Almost.

  The Doctor’s hair still burned from the furrow driven through it by the bullet. He would have to get his hat repaired... well, get Romana to do it, if he ever found her again.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asks Pelham, out of breath and clearly confused about the events of the last few minutes.

  ‘And how did you do that?’

  He tries to shut out her voice. His diversion hasn’t gained them that much time. They’re back where they were before, and there was the access conduit up to the control room.

  Pelham sees it and stops. ‘No, Doctor. Not again,’ she leans against the corridor wall, her breathing hoarse with sobs.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he insists, hauling her off her feet and up on to the creaky metal ladder bolted into the conduit’s side. He pushes her, egging her on.

  There isn’t much time, so he explains on the climb. As much to reassure himself as anything else. ‘I should have realised it much earlier.’

  ‘What’s that then, Doctor?’ Pelham’s weary voice comes booming down the ladder.

  ‘The Old Ones wouldn’t have bothered with such a tiresome way of transporting themselves into the particle accelerator as your bathyscape. Of course they wouldn’t. They were far too lazy for that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they would have set up some kind of transmat-beam.

  And the control room does seem the rather obvious place to operate it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Now you mention it, not that obvious...’

  ‘Keep climbing. Time’s running out.’

  She is out, back where they drank that foul potion. The Doctor practically leaps out of the hole in the floor and bounds to where he knows the beam is, where it has to be.

  That console, there!

  ‘The palace operates through mind reciprocity. It attempts to cater for its host’s neural wishes. Now, if you don’t know it will do this, it will respond to your unconscious, emotional wishes. I worked it out and decided to affect it consciously.

  Just in time as it turned out. Now, quiet please, as I try to unlock the transmat’s telepathic operational cyphers.’

  Pelham puts her hands on her hips. ‘And do you know all this, or are you just guessing?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, an educated guess perhaps. Now, quiet please.’

  He is just about to start when something flutters in front of him. He snatches it out of the air. It is a small rectangular piece of card. One side decorated; the other, the ace of hearts.

  There is a click from behind. A sound he finds uncomfortably familiar. The cocking of two pistols. ‘Very clever, suh. Ah congratulate y’all.’

  The Doctor forces a huge smile on to his face as he turns to face the gunslinger. ‘Mr Redfearn, how nice to see you again.

  I’m so sorry you missed me.’

  Mr Redfearn raises a discreet eyebrow. ‘An unfortunate occurrence ah intend to rectify right now, Doctor.’

  ‘No last words?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  Pelham almost makes a move; the Doctor senses it and waves her back. Mr Redfearn is cool, completely unruffled.

  His aim is disturbingly unwavering.

  ‘How about a fighting chance, to make it more interesting for you?’

  ‘No tricks, Doctor. I couldn’t miss a second time. How would I live it down?’

  ‘Ah, but you see, I think I’m faster than you.’ The Doctor stares back and nods.

  ‘Doctor...’ hisses Pelham.

  At last, Mr Redfearn laughs out loud. Good-natured, a nice man. The Doctor laughs too. ‘No,’ says the gunman, with a finality.

  ‘I don’t mean a gun. I... I’ll just use this.’ Slowly, very slowly the Doctor unwinds the scarf from around his neck.

  ‘That scrap of wool? I am not an idiot, suh, do not treat me as such.’

  ‘Oh, I mean it. I’ll wager I’m faster with this scarf than you are with that gun.’

  Mr Redfearn snorts, once. He uses one pistol to raise the hat over his face.

  ‘Well, of course, if you’re afraid I’ll beat you...’ says the Doctor.

  ‘I will not be goaded, suh.’ However, with the merest flicker of emotion, Mr Redfearn slowly replaces his pistols into their holsters. ‘Very well, you have your wager. To even the odds a little, ah will even fire using mah left hand. However, ah must warn you suh, the truth is, ah am just as fast with the left paw as ah am with the right. Draw when ready.’

  The Doctor takes the scarf and loops it slowly round itself.

  He is not thinking about the stupidity of his action, or that Pelham is putting her hands over her eyes, or even of Mr Redfearn’s sly grin. He suspects something, the Doctor realises. He thinks it’s a trick.

  They stare, each waiting for the other to move. The sly grin never lapses.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, this is ridiculous,’ says Pelham and the Doctor sees Mr Redfearn, with a predator’s reactions, whip the pistol from its holster. He makes his move.

  Chapter Twelve

  If Romana had been in one of her contemplative moods, it is more than likely she would have diagnosed her psychological condition as that of transference. Transference being the displacement of negative emotional energies generated by a highly stressful external stimulus, or stimuli (let’s say, for the sake of argument – two zombies pounding at the bedroom door of a highly disturbed adolescent with unprecedented psychic abilities, possessed of an unnatural fixation upon her) from that source to another (let’s say, again for the sake of argument: the Doctor, who had dropped her into this mess).

  Unfortunately for Romana, she is not in one of her contemplative moods. Undeniably however, the transference is definitely there
as she mentally curses the being who got her into this mess. She thinks about the various punishments she has devised for his benefit. Yes, once she gets out of this room...

  The banging is increasing and it seems as if the door is getting warmer. She tries an experimental touch. Oh yes, definitely getting warmer. Somehow the butler and his new playmate are burning their way in.

  ‘Huvan,’ she addresses the youth lying slack-jawed on the bed, ‘if you can think of a way out of here, I really would be incredibly grateful.’

  It is as if he can no longer see her. He had lain back on the bed as soon as she returned, as if her presence was enough to send him into a nice relaxed sleep. Romana realises the boy has gone into some kind of trance. She hesitates to conclude that the palace is using him as some kind of battery, a spark to kick off its own power reserves.

  A rather unpleasant burning smell starts to drift in from the doorway. The metal seems to be warping in its frame.

  Whatever they are doing to it, it’s proving very effective.

  ‘Huvan!’ she shouts. He does nothing but lie there, eyelids fluttering. She thinks briefly about the damage Neville has done to Huvan’s mind, and how emotionally ill-prepared he is for this new role he has been forced to play.

  The door cracks and Romana forgets her pity. A clasping black glove, Kampp’s, is pushing its way through the red-hot gap. The leather chars and crisps, but if the butler feels any pain, he certainly keeps it very quiet.

  ‘Come along, Romana,’ says Kampp, reasonably in a voice that, well, to be honest, she can only describe as a cold gloat.

  There is something unfamiliar about its tonal qualities, as if something without any understanding of how a voice works is attempting to sound human. ‘There, there... promising thee much lovely new worlds... all sunshine and music inside...’

  The insincerity is so apparent it is almost funny. Almost.