Doctor Who: Dreams of Empire: 50th Anniversary Edition

by Richards, Justin

  ‘You’re sure?’ Trayx snapped.

  But before Prion could answer, the second operator called to them. ‘That course correction takes them within range of the distress beacon, sir. The AI suggests they are moving to intercept.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Trayx said to Prion. ‘Stupid question.’

  On the screen the point of light labelled ROGUE ONE was now heading off at an angle to the line that projected its course to Santespri. After a moment, the line disappeared, and was immediately redrawn to show a sharp elbow bend in the course. The operator by the screen pointed to it. ‘That’s the projected launch point. The system assumes a distronic missile. They might try a wide dispersion beam from further out, but that would slow them down and they probably want to be sure they hit it.’

  ‘And if they do take it out,’ Trayx said, ‘then it doesn’t matter that they were delayed.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere, and nobody else is coming here,’ the operator agreed.

  ‘We can’t guarantee that Sponslor will talk,’ Trayx said to Prion as they watched the screen. Rogue One was making slow progress along the dotted line, erasing it as it went. ‘Find the girl, Victoria. She seems rather naive in these matters, but try to find out from her what Sponslor was doing in the Hall. We need to know why he was so worried about being caught that he tried to kill her.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Captain Logall and his team have mined the loading bay and the ancillary landing areas. They are now working in the main thoroughfares. He is producing maps for the garrison and Kesar’s people are marking the routes that remain safe.’

  Trayx sighed. ‘It won’t stop them getting in. But it might slow them down.’ He slapped Prion on the shoulder. ‘Make sure I get a map, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Behind them the operators were intent on the screen. ‘Projected missile launch in seven seconds,’ one of them announced.

  ‘Now we see,’ Trayx said.

  ‘Five seconds.’

  ‘Rogue One is slowing to launch speed,’ the second operator said.

  ‘Three… two… one…’

  ‘Missile away.’ On the screen there was nothing to see except the slow movement of Rogue One along the next leg of the dotted line. ‘And running true.’

  The constant ping of the beacon was loud in their ears. Now it was joined by another tone, insistent, discordant, alien to the beacon’s own harmony. The new tone was another rhythmic beat, but getting louder and faster all the while as the missile closed.

  ‘Beacon has detected the inbound. Countermeasures released and active.’

  ‘No change in missile course. Still running true.’

  Prion stepped forward and pointed to the ship on the screen. ‘Rogue One has changed course already. They are not waiting for visual confirmation of the kill.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Trayx asked.

  ‘A human commander would want visual confirmation,’ Prion said. ‘He would not trust his instruments alone for a long-range missile kill of this importance.’

  Trayx considered. Prion was right. For a moment there was silence in the room apart from the rising sound of the missile’s targeting systems relayed through the beacon. The operators were both looking at Trayx. They too knew what that meant.

  ‘All right. That’s hardly a surprise. And it alters nothing.’ Except their chances of survival.

  One of the operators was checking the instruments again. ‘Impact imminent.’

  The beep of the beacon was drowned out now by the almost constant ping of the missile. The sound crashed to a volume that was unpleasant, that echoed round the room and made them all wince. All except Prion, who stared at the screen the whole time as if he could actually see the tiny, deadly projectile hurl itself at the beacon.

  Then there was silence.

  ‘The beacon is no longer transmitting,’ one of the operators announced, breathless and unnecessary.

  ‘Before you see the girl,’ Trayx said to Prion, ‘talk to Kesar. Tell him there is no longer any doubt. Tell him his retinue is now on active service under my command and may be officially considered part of the garrison. Then have Logall break out weapons for them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Prion turned to leave.

  ‘Oh.’ Trayx’s call paused him in the doorway. ‘You’d better tell him what we’re up against too. Tell him that all the evidence so far suggests that a large VETAC force with hostile intent will arrive at Santespri in just over four hours.’

  Jamie was bored and frustrated. He did not take well to sitting around, though he understood the reasons for it. Captain Logall had asked that all three of them remain in their rooms while the garrison set up what he described as ‘defensive measures’. Some pointed questions from the Doctor had resulted in an answer that convinced Jamie that he could not help, and that there was considerable danger in wandering around the fortress while Logall’s men were in effect booby-trapping it against enemy incursion.

  But he was still frustrated. And as he listened to Prion question Victoria again about what the man Sponslor had been doing when she saw him in the Banqueting Hall, his annoyance boiled over.

  ‘Look, why do you keep going on at her about this?’ he demanded. Jamie did not like Prion anyway. The man’s lack of apparent emotion, his super-cool exterior, annoyed him. And Victoria’s apparent attraction to him was enough to persuade Jamie that it was his duty to demonstrate to her just how shallow the man really was. Jamie had seen him throw Sponslor across the room, so he knew he was strong. Jamie had heard Prion talk about Haddron history, so he knew the man was articulate and learned. But there was something lacking, some depth of commitment or understanding which Jamie was sure he himself had.

  Prion’s level answer to his question did nothing to help Jamie understand or appreciate him. It did nothing to alleviate the feelings that Jamie would never realise were simple jealousy.

  ‘We have yet to establish a motive for Sponslor’s attack on Victoria,’ Prion explained, apparently not having registered Jamie’s aggressive tone. ‘Nor do we have any indication of motive for the murder of Remas, for which we now believe Sponslor was responsible.’

  ‘And you think Victoria knows why he went for her? She’s a victim, not a criminal. She’s told you everything she knows already.’

  The Doctor coughed before Prion could answer. ‘He does have a point, you know,’ he told Prion. ‘I think you might be better served by asking this Sponslor what he was doing rather than questioning us.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Prion conceded. ‘But we must explore every stratagem.’

  Jamie snorted. ‘This isn’t one of your games of check.’

  ‘Chess, Jamie,’ Victoria corrected him quietly.

  ‘Whatever it is. But it’s not a simple game.’

  ‘Now, Jamie,’ the Doctor said quietly, ‘chess is not actually that simple, you know.’

  Jamie folded his arms. They all seemed to be against him now. ‘Well it looked pretty simple to me,’ he said sulkily. ‘There can’t be that many moves you can make with the bits.’

  ‘Pieces,’ Victoria said. ‘They’re called pieces.’

  ‘Well, that’s an interesting hypothesis, Jamie,’ the Doctor said. Suddenly he seemed enthusiastic. ‘Let’s ask Mr Prion here if he can tell us just how many combinations of moves there actually are, shall we?’

  ‘Why?’ Jamie asked. He was not at all interested in the game, and couldn’t understand the Doctor’s sudden interest in his throwaway comment.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a very important consideration,’ the Doctor said. He leaned towards Jamie slightly, and hissed, ‘And it will stop him from questioning Victoria.’

  ‘Oh. Aye.’ Jamie considered this. ‘You’re right, Doctor. It might be important.’

  ‘Splendid.’ The Doctor clasped his hands together and turned back to Prion. ‘So, can you help us explain the complexities of the game of kings to Jamie?’

  As
ever, Prion seemed unmoved by the change in direction of the conversation. He appeared able to switch topics easily, refocusing on the new subject without pause for thought. Perhaps this was why Trayx held him in such obvious esteem and looked to him for advice, Jamie thought. In the middle of a battle, he was forced to admit, such single-minded attention could be very useful.

  ‘Consider a game of chess that lasts exactly n moves,’ Prion said.

  The Doctor cleared his throat. ‘I think we should all be rather happier with some more empirical rather than theoretical data,’ he said. ‘Shall we assume, what, forty moves, Jamie?’

  Jamie nodded. That sounded like a pretty short game from what little he knew, but if it kept Prion talking, so much the better.

  Prion nodded. ‘Very well. The number of possible games that last exactly forty moves is in the order of twenty-five times ten to the power of one hundred and fifteen.’ This seemed to be the end of the conversation as far as Prion was concerned. Point made.

  Jamie blinked. ‘Big, then,’ he said at last.

  Prion nodded. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have other duties I must attend to.’

  ‘Is he right, Doctor?’ Victoria asked as soon as the door had closed behind Prion.

  ‘What? Oh yes.’ The Doctor seemed to have his mind on other things. ‘Yes, he’s quite right, Victoria.’

  ‘I bet he just said it that way because he couldn’t work it out,’ Jamie said.

  ‘I doubt if we would have had time to listen to the answer, Jamie,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Now I wonder…’ He tapped his chin with his index finger. ‘What games are being played here? What combination of moves are we facing?’

  Victoria frowned. ‘What do you mean, Doctor?’

  ‘Please, Victoria,’ the Doctor waved her to silence. ‘I’m wondering.’

  The guard was a problem. Potentially. But if she kept her nerve, everything would probably be all right. Helana Trayx said nothing as she approached the door, just nodded to the duty soldier and waited for him to unlock it.

  The guard made no comment. He unlocked the door, and stood back. The only sign of emotion, of disapproval, was when she pushed open the door without knocking and went inside. She closed the door behind her.

  Kesar was sitting with his back to her. She wondered for a moment if he had heard the sound of the door. She had no idea how well his hearing sensors worked. But even as she considered this, Kesar said without turning, ‘This one is a real problem. What do you think?’

  She said nothing, realising his mistake. Instead she made an effort to keep her footsteps quiet, so that he might not yet discern the hard click of her high heels and distinguish it from the heavy boots of her husband.

  Kesar continued speaking as she made her way over to join him at the chessboard. ‘Cruger says that it is possible to achieve dominance in a single move.’ The metal head remained bowed over the board, the lights flickering, reflected in the burnished surface of the cranium. ‘I sometimes wonder how he dreams up these problems. Perhaps he has a digital predictor hidden away in his quarters. Anything is possible. He cannot bear to lose, you know.’

  ‘Neither can you,’ she said, and sat down beside him.

  Kesar seemed frozen in position. Whether this was through surprise or concentration, she had no way of telling. She hoped it was surprise.

  ‘You were expecting someone else?’ she asked. ‘My husband, perhaps?’

  The metal face turned slowly towards her. ‘I am always expecting someone else,’ the voice croaked electronically. ‘Perhaps it is you.’

  ‘And since when,’ she went on, ‘have you had the concentration to consider problems without leaping immediately to possible solutions?’

  He was silent for a moment, considering perhaps. Then he turned back to the board. ‘Defeat makes thinkers of us all,’ he said. The generated voice was quieter now, the rasp less harsh. ‘There is nothing like it to mellow the soul and blunt the indiscreet edge of impulse.’

  ‘You have indeed changed, my love.’ She said it quietly, sadly. And she was surprised at the effect of her words.

  Kesar’s head snapped upwards and he turned quickly back to her. His expression, of course, was unreadable, but his whole body seemed to tense.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I did not mean… That is,’ she said, trying again to articulate the thought, ‘I meant your character. Not your… body.’

  His blank eyes were still on her. She could almost feel his stare, could imagine the disfigured remains of the real eyes behind the mask bubbled and misted by the heat of the explosion. She felt herself blush. She grasped at the straws of memory, sifting through them for something to say, to redeem the situation.

  ‘Remember that night, just before the war, at Rutger’s?’ she said. ‘You remember how my husband and Rutger spoke together while you came to me on the balcony? Remember the waves crashing into the rocks below us, showering us with their spray?’

  Kesar said nothing.

  ‘I really thought that our passion was as full as the sea that night,’ she told him. She could hear the regret, the sadness in her voice as she spoke. ‘But that was the start of it. That was when I had the first inklings of what I must do.’ There was no response from him, no movement at all. ‘Do you understand?’

  Kesar’s head inclined slightly. ‘I think I do.’ The words were drawn out, slow and grating. ‘It was then that decisions were made. It was there, in the Seaview Room, that the die was cast.’

  She exhaled loudly. ‘You do remember. I knew you would.’ She laughed – high and nervous. ‘How could we forget?’

  ‘How indeed?’ He turned away sharply. His voice was quiet again, so quiet that she almost missed his words. ‘The wine was good. Very good,’ he said. ‘It has been so long since I have actually tasted wine that has not been filtered, emasculated by this mask.’

  His fingers clawed at his face. He seemed to be pulling the mask downward. But the glove could not hold its grip, and his fingertips skidded off the polished surface. There was a sound coming from behind the mask, an electronic gasp. A sob.

  ‘It has been so long since I have experienced anything for myself. All is filtered now. Second-hand.’ Another sob, and his body seemed to shake with the effort of it. ‘Emasculated is indeed a good word.’

  Helana reached out tentatively, uncertain whether to put her hand on his shoulder, whether to touch him. ‘That is why I came,’ she said. ‘I cannot –’ She broke off, trying to decide what to say, how to say it. ‘Never again,’ she said simply. ‘My husband. I love my husband, Hans. I – I have always loved him. I always shall.’

  Kesar was still facing away from her, though he was still now, the gasps and sobs having subsided.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply. ‘But I felt I had to tell you. Once and for all.’ She bit her lower lip as she tried to suppress her emotions. ‘We shall never speak of it again,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you agree? Not to anyone.’ Kesar turned now, as if understanding what she was asking of him. ‘Please.’ Could he tell how desperate she was? ‘Please,’ she said again. It was all she could say.

  Kesar’s voice was somehow even more flat, even more devoid of emotion than usual. ‘Your husband,’ he said, ‘will never learn of your past indiscretions from Hans Kesar.’

  And she laughed. A sudden gasp of pent-up emotion. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if in an attempt to keep the sound inside even after it had escaped her lips. ‘Thank you.’ she managed to say. ‘Thank you.’

  Then she ran to the door, and pulled it open. As the door closed behind her, Helana leaned back against it, her eyes closed and her breathing heavy.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The guard’s voice was close and sudden. Her eyes snapped open and she struggled to regain her composure.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Of course I’m all right.’ She did not look at him as she started down the corridor. ‘Everything is all right now.’

  In his room, Kesar sa
t immobile. She was gone. He hardly dared to think through what she had said, what had been implied. He was just glad he was still alive. For a while, when she first came in, he had thought – had really thought – it might be her.

  Slowly, Kesar got to his feet. He stared back at the chess problem, but he did not see it. His eyes – his real eyes – were brimming with tears. Instinctively, he made as if to wipe them away with the back of his gloved hand. And met the metal of the mask. The damned mask. So heavy. So uncomfortable. So inescapable.

  He spared a single glance for the point in the wall where he knew the nearest camera was concealed, then turned and went to the en suite washroom. He closed and bolted the door. There were no cameras here. Here at least he was alone. Really alone.

  He stood facing the mirror over the basin, watched his hand fumble with the small nuts at the side of the mask, heard the slight creak and complaint of the metal as he unscrewed them. Slowly, he pulled the faceplate away from the headpiece. And now he did wipe his damp eyes.

  When the tears were gone, when he could see properly again, he ran his hands down his face, feeling the contours and the bone structure. He watched his reflected actions in the mirror, saw the fingers trace their paths. Then he ran cold water into the basin and splashed it on his face. It was good to feel the cool liquid, refreshing. Life. He pulled a towel towards him. And when he was done he spent a moment just staring at himself in the mirror.

  He stared at his face, his real face, for several minutes. Then, reluctantly, he put the mask back on. The mask and all that went with it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SACRIFICE

  THE MASK WAS barely back in place when he heard the knock at the door. Although he knew that the visitor could not see his face – his real face – behind the metal facade, he took a moment to compose himself before answering.

  It was Cruger. Kesar could tell at once that the general was pleased with himself.

  ‘My Lord,’ Cruger said. He bowed low.

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. It is finished.’