Doctor Who_ The Eleventh Tiger Part 33

'Are you certain of that?'

'As certain as I can be, and I've known him since he was twenty and under my father's command.'

'Captain, we must get to Xamian Island at once.'

'The boat will have gone back already.'

'Then we must use the junk. Or Ian Chesterton will make a terrible, terrible mistake!'

Ian walked on to the parade ground in the heart of the fortress at Xamian. He didn't feel his footsteps. .h.i.t the ground, and felt as if he was floating. All a product of adrenaline or something, he supposed.

A couple of soldiers in grey s.h.i.+rts, sans uniform tunics, were whitewas.h.i.+ng the perimeter of small stones around the parade ground. Ian suppressed a smile. In... what?... ninety years? ...he'd be doing the exact same thing in Wales. What was it the French said? The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Technologies, policies and att.i.tudes may change, he thought, but the British army would for ever run on the motto, 'If it moves, shoot it; if it doesn't move, paint it white.'

He wondered if these men were conscripts, as he had been in his National Service days, or volunteers. For all Ian knew they still press-ganged people in 1865. He reflected that his knowledge of army history wasn't up to much. He should ask Barbara, he thought, and then s.h.i.+vered.

'Major Chesterton,' a voice called. Ian froze, struck with the fear that his other self was about to stumble upon him. True, he wanted to meet the major, but on his own terms. He wanted to see him coming.

The call came again and Ian looked around for the source.

A soldier was coming across the parade ground holding a bundle. 'Excuse me, sir,' the man said with a salute. 'Sorry, sir! Didn't recognise you without your moustache, sir.'

'That's all right,' Ian told the man. 'Life is all about change, isn't it?' He forced a smile he didn't feel. 'What can I do for you, Private?'

'Oh, sorry again, sir. For the delay, I mean.'

He held out the bundle he was carrying. Ian took it, and found that it was heavy. It was a leather belt, wrapped around a leather holster that contained a pistol that weighed almost as much as Ian's heart.

'Quartermaster says it's as good as new, sir.'

Ian forced something he hoped resembled a smile. 'Of course he does. Thank you, Private. Dismissed.'

The soldier left just in time, as Major Chesterton emerged from a door twenty yards behind him.

The pistol felt heavy in Ian's hands as he walked towards his other self. He registered that people were looking at him, and speaking or shouting. They were like reflections in a fairground hall of mirrors - distorted and silent, fading out of his peripheral vision as he came closer to the major.

There was sound - voices, in the main - but it floated past him like the breeze. His older self, turning, surprised, as Ian raised the gun.

Their eyes locked and Ian saw understanding there of what was about to pa.s.s between them. He knew he shouldn't be surprised as his older self must surely have remembered this moment when it had been he who pulled the trigger.

Where was Barbara in Major Chesterton's life? Had they parted, amicably or otherwise? Had Ian's older self become separated from the others and left behind? Was an older Barbara still travelling through time and s.p.a.ce, yearning to return to where the s.h.i.+p had left him?

Or had Gao not kept his word to release her? Would she follow his older self into death today, killed by a captor who had no further use for her?

Not knowing the answers to any of these questions, Ian fired once, then again and again. Major Chesterton crumpled, his ankle turning under him, and crashed to the ground.

CHAPTER SIX.

Last Hero in China

l It was like stepping through a doorway. One moment they had been in the terraced garden outside the old monastery, and suddenly Barbara and Qin were standing on a dark, rain-soaked hillside, overlooking a vast temporary camp that would have put the preparations for D-Day to shame.

A city of yurts and tents was spread across broad, dusty fields on every side. Wooden cabins and huts cl.u.s.tered around the base of the hill. Some had simple iron chimneys burping out foul, black smoke. The doom-laden thump of mechanical workings rolled up the hill towards them.

Guards were patrolling everywhere, and troops were drilling in the open s.p.a.ces left between the blocks of tents. Civilians were hard at work, fetching and carrying. Some wore the robes of monks, and Barbara fancied that she now knew what had happened to the population of the town she had been in previously.

The hill itself seemed to be square, with relatively straight sides rising to the summit. It was more like a squat pyramid, Barbara thought, than a natural hill. It squatted against the fields like a limpet or barnacle on a s.h.i.+p's hull, parasitically holding on to the land.

Then Barbara felt a pressure behind her ears, and the world around her disappeared again.

She woke up retching, with no idea how much time had pa.s.sed. She was in a small, stone room. There were no windows, but the door was open and led out into a stone corridor. An oil lamp just outside the door cast a dim, honeyed light into the room. There was very little dust and the air was thick and heavy, having been trapped for a length of time that Barbara could only guess at, but which she suspected would be measured in centuries.

The abbot, or Qin, was watching her as she got groggily to her feet. 'Welcome back, woman,' he said. He didn't seem angry any more.

'Where are we?'

'In my mausoleum.'

There were painted friezes on the walls depicting hunting scenes, parades and caravans travelling through mushroom-shaped mountains. At the centre of every scene was a large man who carried a paunch ahead of him like a prow. He was wearing quilted robes and a sort of wide c.u.mmerbund. On his head was a kind of mortarboard with a row of ta.s.sels at the front and back. He might almost be a comical figure, Barbara thought, except for the face.

It was a face that could adorn the posters in Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, Nineteen Eighty-Four, or give Stalin nightmares. Fierce, burning eyes looked out from a proud snarl and a Rasputinesque beard. It was the face of a man who knew he had the power of life and death over everyone he could ever meet, and could not imagine living any other way. or give Stalin nightmares. Fierce, burning eyes looked out from a proud snarl and a Rasputinesque beard. It was the face of a man who knew he had the power of life and death over everyone he could ever meet, and could not imagine living any other way.

Barbara's gaze followed the abbot's as he noticed the friezes. He reached out a hand to touch the painted face, and put the other to his own cheek.

'This is...'

'You, I suppose,' Barbara said. 'Qin s.h.i.+ Huangdi.'

'So you accept the truth? That is good. I may yet let you live.'

He seemed to be struggling with the words, and she got the feeling he was trying to justify something to himself.

'In any case, your friend Ian did what he was told. Gao reports that he shot Major Chesterton, and so nipped in the bud any coalition to move against me. He will be hanged, of course. He is now a murderer, after all.'

'I don't believe it! Ian wouldn't harm anyone!'

'Would you harm someone to save the life of someone you loved?'

She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

'So would he. And I have kept my word and spared your life.'

'Why?' She didn't know much about the First Emperor, but she knew he was supposed to be vengeful and s.a.d.i.s.tic. 'Why keep me alive instead of killing me?'

He turned away, refusing to meet her eyes, and she realised the truth.

'I said maybe you were out-possessed...' She tried to meet his eyes, but he avoided her. 'You can't kill me, can you?

That other creature, the one that's inside you, has other plans, and it won't let you kill me!'

'Nonsense!' He slapped her. 'I do as I please.'

He dragged her out into the corridor. Oil lamps were burning at regular intervals, and the darkness above them had a weight that made Barbara uncomfortable. She wondered if there was a whole mountain over her head, threatening to crash down on her at any moment. Set into the wall at the end of the corridor was a plain, undecorated slab. A ramp of desiccated skeletons climbed halfway up it, their twig-like fingers reaching out for the freedom that was separated from them by the stone.

Leathery skin was shrink-wrapped around their bones, bearded with patches of fungus that had dried to dust centuries ago. They looked as if they had simply grown older and more decrepit with the pa.s.sing of centuries, and had eventually forgotten to die and rot.

'Who were they?'

Qin didn't spare the skeletons a glance. 'Labourers, masons, painters. People who could not be trusted to keep what they had seen to themselves.' He compared his own hand to one of those that had been mummified by the sealed-in air. 'They were supposed to serve me in heaven, until my return.' He dropped the hand he'd been holding and kicked its owner, who exploded into choking dust. 'They didn't.'

He pa.s.sed by the ramp and led Barbara into a larger chamber.

Several sarcophagi lay in the darkness sealed with heavy, stone lids. Despite her fear, Barbara couldn't resist looking at the carvings on the sides. This was an opportunity that could never come again. She knew she was inside the tomb of the First Emperor, and she also knew it had never been discovered by archaeologists or historians. Not in her time, anyway.

The carvings on the sarcophagi showed loving, romantic scenes of courting, and couples holding hands.

'Your wives... or mistresses?'

'Concubines,' Qin said. He stroked the top of the nearest sarcophagus. 'I had forgotten these...'

He stopped to look at the sarcophagus and his hands moved towards its lid as if he wanted to remove it. His hands fell, and Barbara was relieved. All that could be inside - hopefully - would be another desiccated mummy, or an ivory skeleton, or simply a layer of dust. None of these would be the best way to remember a wife or lover. If it was her, she decided, she would rather not see what was inside, and remember her lover as he had been the last time they made love.

'The ones who didn't bear me sons,' he muttered.

'Strangled.'

Barbara's pang of sympathy for him died quickly; more quickly than the poor women in the sarcophagi had. 'That was their punishment, was it?' she demanded, putting every particle of disgust that she could into her voice.

'Punishment? No!' Qin caressed the top of the sarcophagus again. 'A son is an heir and needs his mother. The others... I was to love them for ever, in heaven. They would spend eternity with the one who loved them more than anyone could.' A shadow cloaked his features. 'They didn't. They will be courtesans in heaven, but I remain here, to look after my empire and its people.'

Sadness had replaced the earlier anger in his voice. He might be an alien, or a spirit possessing the living, or both, but Barbara knew he was desperately unstable.

'If this is the tomb of Qin s.h.i.+ Huangdi, it's been lost for two thousand years.'

'Not to me.'

'What I mean is, these oil lamps are quite small. How come they're still burning?'

'We are not alone here. Four of my captains are on duty.'

As if called, a shadow appeared on the wall. It was ma.s.sive and bulky, and Barbara realised it was one of the hooded figures who had abducted her and Vicki from Po Chi Lam.

The figure stepped into the light, and Barbara saw it clearly for the first time. She couldn't believe her eyes. It was a phrase she had long thought a cliche, but now it was literally true and her mind tried to turn away from the image. It was repulsed, as a magnetic pole is repulsed by a like pole.

'It's impossible,' she breathed, already feeling her voice lose control.

'No, it isn't. And soon you and all the gwailos gwailos in China will be seeing a lot more of them. A lot.' in China will be seeing a lot more of them. A lot.'

Barbara finally screamed.

Ian Chesterton was slumped in the major's office, a guard on duty outside. He didn't know why they hadn't put him in a cell, or even why they hadn't simply hanged him once they had tackled him to the ground next to the major's body. He didn't particularly care, either. He was a murderer and if they hanged him for it, well, at least he had done his best for Barbara.

He noticed a photograph on the wall, and was momentarily surprised. He wasn't sure when photography had been invented. The picture had a caption identifying the men as members of a Hussar company at Jaipur, five years ago.

Everyone wore old-fas.h.i.+oned uniforms with lots of braid and, after a moment, he recognised a face on the far left of the picture. It was the one he had looked into when he pulled the pistol's trigger. The one he had seen in the mirror last time he shaved.

'India, in 1860? So we don't come here again,' he muttered to himself. It was a strange feeling to know one's future, he thought. The phrase 'someone walking over my grave' just didn't do it justice. It was a feeling of awe at the complexity of fate, and fear at the knowledge of one's own doom, and comfort at there being even one certainty in life, all combined to create a heaviness in the veins and a sluggishness in the mind.

He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, or just keep praying that Barbara was, and would remain, alive and healthy.

'So,' a familiar voice said. 'You're the Chesterton I'd heard so much about.'

It was none other than Major Chesterton, alive and without so much as a bloodstain on his s.h.i.+rt. He was wiping some parade-ground dirt off his cheek.

'You're still alive?'