Doctor Who_ Warmonger Part 26

'Well, Supreme Coordinator, which plan is it to be?'

'Neither,' said the Doctor firmly. He looked at the two faces, so different in their physiognomy, so alike in their wounded expressions, and saw that tact was necessary. 'Your plan, Battle-Commander Streg, has that cla.s.sic simplicity for which the Sontaran military mind is so justly famed.'

As far as a Sontaran is capable of beaming, Streg beamed.

'Unfortunately,' the Doctor went on, 'we have not, as yet, the resources to carry it out. The bulk of Morbius's forces will be concentrated on his planetary base. If we attack them head-on, we shall lose.'

Streg sulked.

The Doctor turned to Aril. 'Your plan, High Commander, has the subtle brilliance so typical of Draconian tactical thinking.'

Gracefully, Aril bowed his acknowledgement.

'However,' said the Doctor, 'it involves splitting our already inadequate force into even smaller segments. Should one or more of those segments suffer defeat by Morbius, the whole plan will collapse.'

There was a moment of disappointed silence.

Then Aril said, 'Are we to take it that you have a better plan, Supreme Coordinator?'

To his own surprise, the Doctor heard himself say, 'As a matter of fact, I have. My plan is rather more complex than yours, Battle-Major yet considerably simpler than yours, High Commander!' He leaned forward, indicating a particular planet.

'We shall attack here!'

'Fangoria? The planet is completely obscure,' protested Aril.

'Of no strategic importance whatsoever.'

'And it couldn't be further from Morbius's current base,'

said Streg.

'Exactly,' said the Doctor. 'And do you know why? It's the first of Morbius's conquests. The very first!' He leaned forward eagerly. 'We are going to follow in Morbius's footsteps, gentlemen. First Fangoria, then Romark, Darkeen, Martak. As fast as he conquers planets, we shall liberate them. Faster, with any luck. He's moving so fast his forces are being spread thin.

Soon he'll feel us treading on his heels, our hot breath down his neck. Eventually, he'll turn and fight!'

'You rejected both plans because of our inferior forces,'

protested Aril.

'Exactly,' growled Streg. 'Yet now you advocate the very same course you rejected in my plan attacking Morbius head-on.' 'Yes, but not now, not right away. The final attack will come some considerable time in the future. During that time Morbius's armies will suffer continual attrition. Each planet he conquers has to be occupied, every victory weakens him. But every planet we liberate makes us stronger! We shall arm the inhabitants with captured weapons and s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps and add them to our forces.

With a string of victories behind us, the other galactic powers will join our cause. Before the final battle, every minor one will serve as a training exercise, welding us all into a single fighting force.' He rose to his feet. 'By the time we meet Morbius in battle, we shall equal him in strength. We may even be stronger.'

Aril and Streg both rose as well.

'Genius, sheer genius, Supreme Coordinator,' said Aril. He saluted. 'My life at your command!'

'Coordinator, I too salute you,' said Streg, and did so.

'Thank you, gentlemen,' said the Doctor. 'Now, return to your fleets and prepare for battle!'

Chapter Twenty-one.

First Step On the last day of his life, Ragar came out of the guard hut, blinking in the morning sun. He yawned and spat and scratched his hairy chest, licked his lips with a dry and furry tongue. He'd been drunk last night, and most of the nights before that. But then, what else was there to do on this stinking planet?

Ragar was a ma.s.sive brute of a man who carried a whip and a blaster. He looked exactly what he was a Gaztak, a s.p.a.ce pirate, a mercenary killer for hire. He'd been one of the General's earliest recruits, part of the mercenary army that had captured the agricultural planet of Fangoria. It had been easy enough. There was no kind of army, just a local militia, inexperienced farm boys, part-time soldiers with antiquated projectile weapons. Most of them had been killed.

Capturing the planet had been fun, burning the little country towns, a bit of rape and pillage on the side. But that was all over now. It had been Ragar's bad luck to be part of the little force left down to hold the planet, to harvest its resources to feed Morbius's ever-growing armies. Since they were so greatly outnumbered, it was necessary to keep the local population down by a policy of ruthless brutality. Even that palled in time.

One grew tired of flogging and shooting peasants.

Ragar was in charge of one of the vast new military-run farm collectives which meant that he had to rise at dawn to flog the lazy peasants to work in the fields and stockyards. With increasing frequency Morbius's cargo carriers landed on the planet, demanding ever-greater quant.i.ties of meat and grain and wine. And there was no mercy for the administrator who failed to meet his quota. He was shot and replaced by someone prepared to flog the peasants harder.

Ragar stroked the handle of the whip thrust into his broad leather belt. It wasn't going to happen to him.

He was about to rouse his squad of guards, who would in turn rouse the slave workers, when something astonis.h.i.+ng happened. A s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p appeared in the sky.

Ragar rubbed his eyes and blinked at it. The collecting cargo vessel wasn't due for another month and besides, this s.h.i.+p was something very different. It was some kind of battlecruiser, sleek and deadly. And it was landing.

It landed in the centre of the compound, a ramp came down and a horde of squat figures in battle armour ran down it, spreading out to cover the surrounding buildings.

Ragar turned and yelled into the open door of the hut behind.

'Sound the alarm, we're under attack!'

Confused and dishevelled guards began running out of the hut, some with blasters, some without. One or two fired wild shots and were instantly shot down.

Belatedly, Ragar grabbed for the blaster in his belt and froze as a harsh, grating voice said, 'Stop!'

Three of the squat figures were marching towards him. They wore dome-shaped helmets with eye-slits, and looked both menacing and grotesque. The two on the outside carried heavy blaster rifles, the one in the middle wore a holstered hand-blaster.

The centre figure said, 'Surrender and you will not be harmed.'

'What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?' bl.u.s.tered Ragan 'Do you know who you're dealing with? This planet is under occupation by the forces of General Morbius.'

'No longer. It has been liberated by the Son by the Army of the Alliance. Surrender your weapon.'

The figure came closer and Ragar glared down at it. The top of the domed helmet was barely level with his chest. He felt a sudden revulsion at the idea of surrendering to somebody half his size. This one seemed to be the leader. If he could capture him, take him hostage...

Ragar's big hand flashed down and up again in the fast draw that had made him feared on a hundred worlds. He jammed his blaster against the eye-slit of the domed helmet.

' You You surrender, shorty, or I'll splatter your brains all over the inside of your tin hat. Tell your troops to drop their weapons!' surrender, shorty, or I'll splatter your brains all over the inside of your tin hat. Tell your troops to drop their weapons!'

For a long moment n.o.body moved. Then a stubby gauntleted hand flashed up and took the wrist holding the blaster in an iron grip. Bones crunched and Ragar screamed and dropped the blaster. The hand gripping his wrist pulled him forward and down so that he fell to his knees. His captor's other gauntleted hand swept around in a semicircle, delivering a blow that shattered Ragar's skull. Blood spurted from his nostrils and he died instantly.

Releasing his grip, the squat figure let the body slump to the ground. He glanced at the other guards, who instantly dropped their weapons and stood with hands held high. He removed his dome-shaped helmet, revealing the dome-shaped skull beneath, the burning red eyes and the almost lipless mouth.

He glanced down at the still-twitching body, and the thin lips moved just a fraction.

Sontarans seldom smile except at the death-throes of an enemy.

Some kilometres away, at the barracks outside the nearest town, the commandant unwisely ignored the courteously phrased request for surrender from a tall, elegant officer with green skin, slanting green eyes and a high-domed skull.

The officer gave orders to his men and a laser field-cannon was brought forward. A single blast destroyed half the building and killed a quarter of its inhabitants.

With unfailing courtesy, the demand for surrender was repeated.

The commandant and his surviving troops staggered from the ruins, hands held high.

In the war room of his flags.h.i.+p, the Doctor studied a steady stream of reports concerning these and many other similar incidents. By early evening, High Commander Aril was able to confirm that the planet was in Alliance hands.

'The inhabited parts, of course, Supreme Coordinator,' said Aril. 'There are areas of mountain, desert and jungle we have neither the time nor the resources to cover. We must a.s.sume that only the agricultural settlements were occupied.'

'Quite so,' said the Doctor. 'Prisoners?'

'Very few. It seems that once they realised what was happening, many of the enemy embarked upon a foolish, last-minute resistance and had to be killed. They are, mostly hired thugs, not proper soldiers,' added Aril disdainfully.

The Doctor nodded, understanding. Professional soldiers, surprised and manoeuvred into a hopeless position, accepted the inevitable and surrendered, hoping to fight another day.

Hired bullies, however, most of them violent and unstable personalities to begin with, tended to react with berserk rage and get killed for nothing.

'Perhaps it's just as well,' thought the Doctor. 'Most of Morbius's men are no loss to the cosmos, and prisoners are always a liability.' He frowned, surprised for a fleeting moment by his own indifference to death. But one had to be practical, and there was so much to do...

'Have you found any remnants of civil authority?'

'There was an official, a a mayor mayor in Fangor, the capital city. A man called Makir. He was running the essential services for the invaders, but only because they were holding his wife and daughters in prison as hostages. He's here now, waiting to see you.' in Fangor, the capital city. A man called Makir. He was running the essential services for the invaders, but only because they were holding his wife and daughters in prison as hostages. He's here now, waiting to see you.'

'Bring him in.'

Seconds later the Doctor's hand was being wrung by a tubby balding man in the s.h.i.+ny dark suit of an official.

'Thank you, sir, thank you,' the man babbled. 'I can't thank you enough. To be free, after all this time. Forgive me for troubling you, but my wife and daughters. .'

The Doctor looked at Aril who said, 'Safe and well, Supremo. We released them from prison and they're on their way here.'

Makir broke into renewed thanks until the Doctor cut him short.

'I'm giving you back your planet, Mayor Makir or rather, President Makir.'

The man stared at him. 'Me? President? But I can't '

'You'll have to. I've no time to find anyone else. You'd better raise some kind of police force or militia. We'll give you some of the weapons taken from Morbius's people. You can use the survivors as a labour force. Choose yourself some good people and form a provisional government. Was there any kind of resistance movement?'

'I believe so. They were driven out of the cities and went into hiding in the jungle.'

'Make contact with them when they come out, form an alliance. Don't let them get above themselves, though, make sure they know you're in charge.'

The new President looked dazed by the string of orders. 'But you'll stay and help us?'

'Not for long. We've a lot to do. Yours isn't the only planet Morbius conquered. From now on, you must look after yourselves.'

'But suppose Morbius comes back?'

'He won't. We're going to give him a lot more to worry about. We may need your help...'

There was a confused babble of voices in the corridor and three women forced their way past Ensign Vidal, the Doctor's scandalised aide. One was middle-aged and plump, one a statuesquely beautiful young woman, one little more than a child.

At the sight of them Makir cried, 'You're safe. Oh, my dears, you're safe!'

Laughing and weeping at the same time, the three women threw themselves on him, all three trying to hug and kiss him at once. He spread out his arms and drew them to him.

Aril was horrified, and the Doctor said, 'We'll talk later, President Makir, after your reunion.'

He made sweeping-out motions to Vidal, who managed to bustle the family group outside.

Cries of 'Thank you, oh thank you!' echoed back down the corridor and gradually faded away.

Aril looked stunned. 'I have great regard for my lady wife, and for our offspring,' he said. 'But I do not think I could express it so publicly.'

The Doctor smiled. 'The settlers here are of human stock.

They are an emotional species.'

'So it seems.' Aril himself was clearly grappling with unaccustomed emotions. All the same it was pleasing to witness their happiness, to feel that one had contributed to it. 'If you would excuse me, Supreme Coordinator? I must check on the situation in the field.'

Aril left and the Doctor plunged into the pile of reports.

A few minutes later, Vidal came back into the room. 'If you could spare me a moment, Supreme Coordinator?'

Wearily the Doctor looked up, 'Yes?'