Doctor Who_ The Dying Days Part 21

They didn't need their umbrellas, the Martian s.h.i.+p hovering overhead sheltered them from the light rainfall. There were a couple of dozen of dignitaries: politicians, businessmen, soldiers. All of them were supporters of Greyhaven's cause. They were his co-conspirators, the people who had facilitated his rise to power, although none of them had been let in on the full scheme. Now they were helping to ease the transition between the old government and his regime, and to ensure their continuing support they thought they were being rewarded with a state banquet. For the moment, they were delighted just to be so close to the Martian s.h.i.+p, London's newest tourist attraction.

Greyhaven hadn't really thought about the Tower of London before. It had sat there in the London drizzle for almost a mil ennium, and for most of that time it had been a part of the landscape. A thousand years ago the squared-off Norman architecture of the White Tower must have been as striking a symbol of alien occupation as the Martian wars.h.i.+p was now. A thousand years before that, Roman biremes had ploughed down the Thames, and to the eyes of the ancient Britons they must have seemed like Martians with their gleaming armour, their strange customs and advanced technology.

'The ravens have gone,' Greyhaven said. 'The Yeoman warders took them away. They and their families voted to leave rather than serve the Provisional Government.'

'What's more, your little American friend isn't here.'

Greyhaven checked the crowd, already aware that Staines was right. The Home Secretary hadn't finished his a.n.a.lysis. 'She must have found something that's more important than her first sight of a Martian.'

'Indeed,' Greyhaven said acidly.

Xznaal watched the small gathering on the hologlobe. The head of his scientific research division, Vrgnur, was standing opposite him, studying the image.

'Humans take some getting used to,' Vrgnur said.

'Indeed,' Xznaal grunted back. The human body was a stunted parody of the Martian form, but with an endoskeleton. Many centuries ago, Martian scientists had concluded that an oxygen-breathing lifeform was a theoretical absurdity. Xznaal found himself wondering what effect a sonic blast would have on such a creature.

Without even a sh.e.l.l to crack open, the damage would be entirely internal. Every one of those brittle bones would shatter like pottery. Every nerve would burst. It would mean instant death, even at the lowest settings, Xznaal was sure of that. The only question was if human physiology was sufficiently developed for them to feel pain as they died.

'Nothing as bizarre ever evolved on Mars. Would your authorise the capture of a couple of specimens for study?'

Vrgnur was one of the clan's foremost scientists, and his insight into human anatomy would be invaluable.

'That might be considered... undiplomatic, for the moment,' Xznaal answered. 'Soon it will be possible.'

It was time for him to meet these creatures. Xznaal stepped up onto the magnetic lift platform.

'You will really honour such creatures with a ceremonial banquet?' Vrgnur asked.

76.'They do have some degree of sentience. Their chieftain, Lord Gerayhayvun, tells me that this ceremony wil secure my legal claim to this world.'

'They are cattle, my Lord. Would you ask an animal permission to enter his cave?'

'We have not yet established a firm grip on this world,' Xznaal warned. 'Until then we shall treat the humans as we would any serfs won in battle, with courtesy. Activate the magnetic beam.'

Vrgnur reached across to the large lever mounted on the wall, yanking it to release the exit hatch. It slid open beneath Xznaal, and the platform began descending gently.

Below him, the humans were staring up, murmuring. They had gathered on an area called 'Tower Green', within both sets of curtain walls.

The heat.

He had waited until nightfall before emerging, and the light level was almost exactly right. But the heat was overwhelming. As he floated down towards the ground, Xznaal found himself gasping for breath, sucking in warm, wet air. For the first few instants, until he was used to it, breathing Terran air was like drowning in soup. It was an odd sensation: the thick air was rich with nitrogen, but so much more besides. Earth was a whole new world of smells: the air was damp and fetid like a rubbish dump, the air buzzed with smell of loam, and dung and choking petrol fumes. This planet was meant to be vibrant and alive, but stank of rotten fruit.

He remembered his childhood, eighty-five years ago. He'd been in the plantations of the Mare Sirenum and had become lost among the withered bushes, yet another failed attempt by the farmers to grow food in the barren Martian soil. To a child's eyes, the plantation was a secret garden, a miracle blossoming in the sands. He'd found a winter berry, a vivid orange against the ash-brown branches. He'd reached into the tangle with his claw, snipped the berry from the vine. It had been so beautiful, and looked so tasty. Xznaal took a bite from it, only to discover that inside it was black. It had putrefied inside, without leaving any external sign. He had swallowed what he had bitten off, so that he would never forget that moment.

Was this planet a rotten fruit, lush from the outside, but foul and worthless within? Xznaal remembered his history.

In the Early Period, Martian cities would have smelt like this. Instead of being endlessly recycled, food waste and plant matter was left in the streets. On hot days, the streets would buzz with insects, the weak would die of diseases caught from the sc.r.a.ps left lying in ditches and gutters. The rubbish piled up against the bastions and glacis of every building was - and this was the image that stuck with Xznaal from that distant schoolroom - teeming with tiny worms and bacteria. No Martian day was as hot as even this Terran night, no city was ever as large as London. That smell was life, digesting the rubbish and filth of other life. What a world this was where even the night air sang with chemicals and buzzed with energy.

The platform had reached the ground. The humans were unsure how to react to him, and most contrived to both back away and lean forward. It amused him to think of their animal emotions trying to cope with something entirely beyond their comprehension.

The stench. The dreadful milky stench that these humans al had. They were aware of their pungent state: they tried to disguise it with ethanol and plant extracts, but this only made the rancid smell al the more powerful. He had noticed it before when Gerayhayvun and Xztaynz had come aboard, here there were a dozens of them, al with different odours. He imagined their bodies, crawling with insects and bacteria. Xznaal was dizzy, bombarded with so much that was new. He stepped onto the green flooring material, realising at the last moment that it was plant matter, soaked with water.

'Gerayhayvun... ' he wheezed.

He was becoming adept at distinguis.h.i.+ng between individual humans. Clearly even they had difficulty telling each other apart - they all wore slightly different arrangements of cloth over their bodies. This was an odd custom that served no defensive purpose. It must be a system that allowed easy identification, like the heraldic designs on Third Period siegewalkers. Lord Gerayhayvun's head was distinctive because it showed signs of disease - his hair was drained of colour, finer and more patchy than many of his a.s.sociates. It was a symptom of extreme age, white hair, yet Gerayhayvun had lived only sixty years - Terran years, he reminded himself. The cold, sterile air of Mars had its advantages, then: what remained of Martian life wouldn't burn itself away, or rot from infections and plagues.

Xznaal reeled.

'Lord Xznaal,' Gerayhayvun exclaimed. The human lord and two colleagues rushed forwards to keep Xznaal upright, clasping his sh.e.l.l with their vestigial, quadfurcated claws. Despite the greater gravity of their home world, their bodies were frail, but the heat where they laid their hands stung him, forcing him to steel himself. He had been here a full Earth day, and grown almost used to weighing three times more than was normal, but combined with the temperature and the smell and the air like soup, it was al too much.

'Inside the Tower you wil find the conditions more suitable,' Gerayhayvun said.

Xznaal nodded groggily, and began stepping forwards, his feet dragging against the turf.

'Killing life,' he grunted, his head lolling.

'It's only gra.s.s,' Gerayhayvun explained. 'Plenty of that here.'

The humans were relaxing as he pa.s.sed, clearly not seeing him as a threat. Many were making gurgling noises.

'A drunken rhinoceros,' one human muttered. More gurgling.

Ears that could pick up a whisper on the imperceptible breeze of the Martian deserts were almost deafened by the sound of human laughter. He snapped his claw, and was satisfied to see some of them back off.

The human fortress was so far away. He lifted his foot and swung it down in front of him. His other foot sc.r.a.ped the ground. His sh.e.l.l was sagging, digging into the muscle cl.u.s.ters of his shoulder. Water fell from the sky - tiny droplets pattering against his carapace.

77.Some of the humans were rus.h.i.+ng on ahead, opening a portal for him. Three humans walked in front of him, bearing swords. Those that weren't laughing at him seemed genuinely concerned. He half-stumbled over the threshold, welcoming the fresh air inside. The humans in here wore more cloth, and had covered their claws. Was their clothing designed to raise their temperature even further? The thought almost made him pa.s.s out.

But he was inside now. The air was thick and cool, like the blood of an enemy.

'Is this more suitable?' Gerayhayvun asked him, clearly agitated.

'Yess,' he barked. He could feel his strength returning, his congestion clearing a little. The humans were beginning to follow him in, and they gave him a wide berth. Their respect for him was returning, without the need for him to enforce it. They were climbing tiny steps.

'Where are we going?'

'The Chapel of St John the Evangelist. Not far now. Wil you be able to speak to them?'

'Ssoon,' Xznaal whispered.

'You will only need to say a few words.'

The Brigadier checked his watch.

'She's not coming,' he told the Doctor gently.

'No.' The Doctor had been staring into the fire for the last half-hour, and had hardly said a word. He seemed tired, weary - not sleepy, like Benny, who dozed quietly in his lap with two mugs of cocoa and just as much vodka inside her. The alcohol had come from her "private reserve" up in her bedroom. The Brigadier wondered how long the Doctor had owned this house - he'd never referred to it during the seventies, but he often disappeared for days at a time in Bessie. Perhaps he had been here.

'If you need some shut-eye, Doctor, I can keep watch.'

The Doctor shook his head, smiling. The Brigadier had seen the Doctor sleep from time to time over the years, but he remembered those long vigils in the UNIT labs where the Doctor would spend thirty, forty, fifty hours at work, without even a tea-break, discovering the cure for a plague or a.s.sembling some magical gadget from household junk. When they'd been setting up his lab, the works department had put a little bunk in the corner. The very next day it had been piled high with computer parts and components from a car engine.

'We've been here before, Doctor. The aliens have landed, they've tried to destroy the world and we beat them. The only difference is, back when I was in charge, we always managed to keep it a secret.'

'And they didn't even make you a general,' the Doctor chuckled.

Lethbridge-Stewart looked down at his half-full gla.s.s of vodka. Mrs Summerfield might be able to knock back her drink, but he was taking it easier these days. 'No. Office politics.'

The Doctor was watching him. 'General William Lethbridge-Stewart came down from Scotland with King James.'

The Brigadier perked up a little. 'Yes, yes, I know. Have you met him on your travels?'

The Doctor shook his head.

'They arrived at London in 1603 to a glorious parade, a magnificent spectacle, according to family legend. It was seen as the glorious union of the English and Scottish crowns. James the Sixth of Scotland would become James the First of the United Kingdom. The English aristocracy fell over themselves to greet their new master. And do you know what? When King James spoke, not a single one of them could understand his accent. For the first few months he needed a translator.' The Doctor laughed out loud, and Alistair found himself chortling.

'There was a General Lethbridge-Stewart at Naseby and at Waterloo. My father died in the Sahara, fighting Mussolini alongside Montgomery. A dozen generations of fighting men.'

'And there wil be a dozen more,' the Doctor said.

Alistair's expression flickered. 'No, I don't think so. My daughter may be talking to me now, but I don't think she'll ever let Gordy join up.' He paused, looking down at Bernice, so peaceful in sleep. 'Thank G.o.d.'

The Doctor didn't say anything.

Alistair sighed. 'The world has changed. My father could remember reading about the Wright Brothers' first flight. I remember him bringing home a piece of Bakelite to show us. It was like moonrock. You know what Bakelite is, don't you?'

'Plastic,' the Doctor replied.

The Brigadier nodded. 'Forty years ago, I was a lieutenant in Africa. I got lost in the jungle, and stumbled across a Themne village called Rokoye where most people had never seen a white man before. For a while I lived there, in a place where half of the women died in childbirth and where you were considered a traveller if you walked for more than a day. They were good people, but were probably less advanced than the Britons when Julius Caesar invaded.' He paused. 'It's a long time since I thought about my time there. There are great chunks of my life that I don't - or can't - talk about. I've made a career from keeping a lid on my memories.'

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. 'So what made you think of Sierra Leone now?'

'Because last week I watched the Channel Four News and learnt that the Themne are wiping out their neighbours with attack helicopters over oil rights.'

'You blame yourself for that?'

The Brigadier looked into the fire. 'I don't know. When I was back in Britain, I used to read about all those groups who were trying to free Nelson Mandela and think that they were wrong, that he was a communist terrorist and that the world would be a better place without people like him running around. Apartheid was wrong, I knew that, but that didn't make everyone who opposed it right.' He hesitated before changing the subject. 'Do you remember Crichton?'

78.'Colonel Crichton, the head of UNIT in the eighties. I only met him a couple of times.' The Doctor's expression remained neutral, but Alistair sensed disapproval in his voice.

The Brigadier nodded. 'He was promoted to general two years ago, after a fracas involving the Yeti. It was only the third time he'd led men into battle against extraterrestrial forces. They promoted him, but they never promoted me.'

He paused for a moment before knocking back the vodka.

The doorbel rang, startling them both.

They looked at each other sheepishly - both thinking about the hordes of monsters they'd fought over the decades, only to end up here being frightened of doorbells.

Lethbridge-Stewart had already reached for his gun. The Doctor shook his head. 'Ice Warriors don't knock,' he a.s.sured his friend.

The Brigadier nodded, but kept the pistol close to him. 'I'm coming with you.'

The Doctor extricated himself from the dozing Benny and made his way through to the hal . The Brigadier stayed behind him, far enough back to get a clear shot if that proved necessary.

The Doctor reached the front door. He glanced back at the Brigadier, who was standing by the grandfather clock. It provided him with partial cover, and with something to conceal his gun behind.

The door opened to reveal a pretty blonde thing standing on the step. She didn't have a hair out of place, she wore a haute-couture dress and a gold necklace that would break the bank for most people. A hairy chap behind her looked a little more nervous. He was carrying a big bag with a shoulder strap - it was almost certainly just his camera equipment, but there was room in there to stow a bazooka.

'Miss Waugh,' the Doctor beamed, 'good of you to join us.'

She smiled, kissing the Doctor on the cheek. 'I'm sorry we're late. The motorway was at a standstill - police roadblocks at every junction. It was causing tailback, fender-benders, chaos. Who's this?' she asked, looking over at him.

The Brigadier introduced himself, but didn't shake her hand.

'UNIT... ' Miss Waugh breathed. 'You were the head of UNIT in this country during the seventies.'

'That's meant to be cla.s.sified,' Lethbridge-Stewart joked. Twenty years ago, only a handful of people had known that information, but nowadays it was an open secret. His picture had appeared dozens of times over the years in various newspapers and books.

The Doctor hurriedly introduced the woman and her cameraman, Alan, to him. The Brigadier watched them carefully, and asked them to leave the camera bag and Eve's mobile phone in the hall. They agreed, and the Doctor led them through into one of the dining rooms, so as not to disturb Ms Summerfield.

The humans were taking their places around tables. They were divided into groups of six or seven. Xznaal was sitting in a chair designed for a human.

Xztaynz was talking to Gerayhayvun. They were speaking quietly, but Xznaal could hear them. 'You can't be going through with this?'

'Of course I am.'

'That is not the Archbishop of Canterbury.' Xztaynz waved a withered claw at a human animal in flowing purple robes, who was muttering the words of some pagan ceremony.

'Oh, he's near enough,' Gerayhayvun said breezily.

A hundred human eyes were watching Xznaal, with a mixture of curiosity and respect. The tables were piled high with food - steaming animal carca.s.ses, vegetables, fruit.

Xznaal had read an oath, and this had been the cause of some consternation in the crowd. Now the purple robed human came forwards with a gold implement. He was a priest of some kind.

'If you could move onto King Edward's chair,' he prompted, indicating the adjacent seat.

'Why?'