by Doctor Who
‘You don’t think he’d go for it?’ Martha asked, though she didn’t know what they were talking about.
‘General Orlo gives way on nothing,’ Chekz said. ‘He sees all compromise as surrender.’
‘So why is he here?’
It was Stellman who answered. ‘Perhaps he thinks it is better that both sides surrender than risk the other side winning.’
‘Or perhaps,’ Chekz said, ‘he is old and tired. I know I am. Now, please excuse me.’ He lumbered across to where Lady Casaubon was talking quietly to Defron. Despite being a huge upright crocodile creature, Martha thought, he did indeed look frail. She wondered how long the Zerugian life span was, and turned to ask Stellman.
But before their conversation could progress, another man came into the room. He was tall and thin, walking with a slight stoop. His hair was grey and thinning badly on the top. He walked carefully and slowly round the edge of the room, as if keen to keep well away from the food.
‘Looks like he’s tried the water truffles,’ Martha said quietly to Stellman.
‘Professor Thorodin always looks like that,’ Stellman told her.
‘The mirror man?’
‘Oh he’s an expert in all manner of antiquities. Or so he keeps telling us.’ Stellman called across: ‘Professor, come and meet Miss Mouse.’
‘Martha,’ she corrected him quickly, She held out her hand to the Professor, but the man ignored it.
‘I can’t stop,’ Thorodin said in an agitated and impatient tone. ‘I had some questions about the replica mirror for General Orlo but he seems . . . ’
He broke off to glance at Orlo who was still talking with the Doctor. At that moment the two of them burst into laughter.
‘Oh that’s good,’ the Doctor was saying loudly. ‘Very good.
You ever heard of a guy called Noel Coward? Very funny, Noel.’
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‘. . . busy,’ Thorodin finished, as the General clapped a clawed reptilian hand on the Doctor’s shoulder and led him away from the table.
‘You think the peace process will work?’ the Doctor asked.
Now he’d broken the ice with the General, and munched his way through some of the most revoltingly disgusting vegetation he’d ever tasted, he reckoned he was entitled to cut to the nitty-gritty.
The General’s jaw moved slowly back and forth as he considered. ‘It is working so far, but the process is of necessity long and drawn out.’
‘These things always take time. Time for memories to fade and wounds to heal. You’ve come a long way in twenty years.’
‘Too far for any of us to back out gracefully,’ Orlo agreed.
‘But that just makes it all the more dangerous.’
‘I can’t see Lady Casaubon throwing in the towel and calling for the troops,’ the Doctor said. He gave the old lady a friendly wave across the room.
‘Yet Anthium sees fit to send Stellman to make sure she does not concede too much.’
‘And Zerugma sends you,’ the Doctor pointed out. ‘A soldier. A general, no less. Highly decorated, no doubt.’
‘No doubt,’ Orlo growled. ‘Stellman and I are similar, I grant you that. We both know the value of strength and power. We both, perhaps, yearn for the days when things were easier – us and them. Them and us.’
‘Easier, but not safer.’
‘Peace is not a natural state of affairs,’ Orlo said. ‘There is nothing inherently safe about peace. Better, surely, to be at war and know your enemies, know where the threat is coming from. A truce, however uneasy, is sometimes better than a surrender.’
‘You see this as a surrender?’
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‘Both sides must surrender something. That is what negotiation is about. That is why we are here.’
‘Yes,’ the Doctor said, ‘but isn’t it just a teensy-weensy bit about trust and friendship and making the universe a better place to live in?’
Orlo chuckled, saliva dripping from his lower jaw. ‘As I said, Doctor, that is why we are here. If I did not believe – seriously believe – that what I am doing here is right, is the best course for my people, then I should not have come.’
‘ Your people?’ The Doctor raised an eyebrow.
‘A turn of phrase.’
‘If peace comes,’ the Doctor told Orlo, ‘ when peace comes, I imagine you will be surrendering a lot. Personally. For your people.’
Orlo’s deep red eye regarded the Doctor closely for a moment. Then he turned and pointed down the length of the table towards the enormous mirror that dominated the far end of the room. ‘I have already shown I am willing to make sacrifices. That mirror is a replica of the original Mortal Mirror that hung there.’
‘And very impressive it is too.’
‘My great grandfather led the raiding party that took Extremis and destroyed the original mirror. He burned the wooden frame, and cast the shattered pieces of glass into space so it could never be reassembled.’
‘Yet someone built a replica.’
‘His son – my grandfather. He had it made as a reminder, lest we ever forget that we must only ever destroy in order to create. Out of war must come something positive, or else the war is not worth the cost. Out of war must come power, territory, wealth . . . ’
‘Peace?’ the Doctor suggested.
Orlo turned back to him, his great scaly head nodding slowly. ‘So it would seem.’ His eye blinked as he looked past the Doctor. ‘I see that Professor Thorodin has deigned to grace 46
us with his presence. Why are clever men so often dull, Doctor? Are you wise enough to tell me that?’
‘Oh I doubt it,’ the Doctor said, turning to look at the stooped man walking slowly towards the doorway. ‘But I’m clever enough to know one thing.’
‘And what is that?’
‘That I’m the exception that proves the rule. Here, hold this a minute, will you?’ The Doctor thrust his empty plate at Orlo.
As the General took it, the Doctor turned, jumped up on to the table, hop scotched between the plates and dishes, and jumped down the other side.
‘Never dull, me,’ he called back to Orlo, running to catch the Professor before he reached the door.
‘Are you the entertainment?’ Thorodin asked drily as the Doctor ran up to him.
‘Frequently. Just wanted to say hello. Professor Thorodin, isn’t it? I read your paper on the origins of ancient Anthium and the Wandering Scholars. Terrific stuff. Just terrific. Mind you, completely wrong about the part played by Cranthus. I mean – what were you thinking of? What was that all about, eh?’
Thorodin’s expression did not change. ‘Is there some point to this, Doctor?’
‘Oh, you’ve heard of me too?’
‘Very recently. Are you published?’
‘Published, translated, out of print – you name it. And talking of books, I wanted to ask you about this.’
The Doctor reached into his jacket pocket and took out the glass book he had found behind the stone. He leafed carefully through the brittle pages, showing it to Thorodin.
‘Where did you get that?’ the Professor asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
‘Found it. Behind a stone. Here in the castle. Interesting isn’t it? I was wondering if you could tell me anything about it?’
‘What makes you think I’d know anything?’
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‘Oh, because you’re clever. And an expert on the history of Castle Extremis.’
Thorodin glared at the Doctor, then lifted the book carefully from him. He examined it closed, peering at the symbols on the pages. ‘There is a system to this. It is writing. But not a language I know.’
‘Code of some sort?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I can usually do codes. Quite good at them. But this . . . ’ The Doctor took the book back and ran his finger along a line of the enigmatic text. ‘Something unworldly about it. Something
“other”. Something from outside time and space. Must be.’
‘What make
s you say that?’ Thorodin asked slowly.
‘Oh, nothing really. Just rambling. Ignore me.’ The Doctor grinned. ‘Well, thanks for your valuable time. Don’t let me keep you.’
‘You won’t,’ Thorodin assured him. ‘But if you find out more . . . ’
‘Yes?’
‘I would be interested.’
The Doctor walked slowly round the long table and back to Orlo.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘Not convinced about the clever.
But he’s certainly dull. Dull as ditchwater. Talking of which, is there any more of that truffle stuff left, or did we finish it all?’
First Secretary Chekz was about to leave the Zerugians’ quarters when he heard a knock at the door. He put the papers he needed for the next session down on a table and opened the door, He was surprised to see the man standing outside.
‘And how can I help you?’ Chekz asked.
‘I was looking for General Orlo,’ the man said. ‘I wanted a quick word. There are . . . developments.’
‘What sort of developments? The General has already gone to the negotiating chamber. I should be leaving too.’
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‘Can I talk to you?’
‘Anything you can tell Orlo, you can tell me.’
‘Then – you know? You know of the General’s plan?’
‘Plan?’ The scales round Chekz’s eyes wrinkled.
‘The mirror. The plan. There is a problem. It doesn’t work as he thinks it does. I know – I am proof. Everything is so fragile. If he goes ahead, he has to . . . ’ The man hesitated, seeing Chekz’s worried expression. ‘You don’t know at all, do you?’
‘No,’ Chekz agreed. ‘But I think you had better tell me. Tell me everything.’
‘I can’t.’ He turned to go.
Chekz caught the man’s shoulder and pulled him back into the room. ‘Tell me,’ he insisted. ‘I know the General’s ambition, his feelings about these talks. And I know that peace is the only hope we have – Zerugians and Anthiums.’
The man pulled himself free. ‘Get off me. I’ll talk only to Orlo, you old fool. You have no idea who I am, what you are doing. You don’t recognise me at all. And you really think peace – surrender – is the answer?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Chekz said quietly, ‘What do you mean, I don’t recognise you?’
‘My name is Sastrak,’ the man said.
Chekz gasped and stepped back, his claws scraping on the stone floor. ‘That can’t be. How?’
‘Orlo was right not to involve you. You are old and weak and wrong. There will be no peace.’
‘Oh yes there will.’ Chekz stepped forward again, reaching for the man. ‘You will come with me, now. To the negotiations.’ He grabbed the man’s arm. ‘We will ask Orlo to explain this plan in person.’
‘Get off me!’ the man insisted.
He wrenched his arm back, but Chekz held on. ‘I said get off!’ The man thrust the Zerugian away from him, but still Chekz held on. He dug his claws into the sleeve, but there was resistance. Strangely, the material did not yield.
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Then they were falling as the man pushed again – hard.
Chekz slipped backwards. The man’s arm tore free of his grasp – and smashed into the side table, sending Chekz’s papers flying.
Smashed.
The arm smashed.
Papers drifted down around the man as he raised his shattered arm in disbelief.
‘What have you done?’ he screamed. His hand lay splintered and broken on the floor close to where Chekz had fallen. The man’s arm ended at the jagged wrist. The broken stump was sharp, with splinters and shards sticking out like thin bones.
Chekz stared at the hand lying on the floor. Stared at the broken wrist, the chipped fingers. The way it caught the light.
Then the man stabbed downwards with his broken arm.
The sharp jagged end ripped through the First Secretary’s tunic and into his cold flesh.
They heard the cry in the negotiating chamber. For a moment there was silence. No one moved.
Stellman and the Doctor recovered at the same instant, running for the door.
‘Chekz,’ Stellman said as they ran together. ‘Along here.’
Martha caught up with them as they stood in the open doorway to the Zerugians’ quarters.
‘Job for you, Martha,’ the Doctor said quietly.
She stepped past him, and knelt by the body. She reckoned a vet would be more use – she knew almost nothing about reptiles. But she had to do what she could. There was so much blood. Cold blood.
As she felt for the wound, tried to staunch the bleeding, Chekz gave a final gasp, and his head lolled to one side.
‘Oh no,’ Lady Casaubon said from the doorway. ‘Is he . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Martha said, her own voice as numb and flat and cold as she felt inside. ‘We’re too late.’
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She lifted her hands away from the body and, as she did so, something caught the light, something sticking out of the wound. She pulled it out, grasping it with her handkerchief, careful not to cut herself on the sharp edges.
‘What is that?’ Defron asked as Martha held it up.
‘It’s glass,’ the Doctor said.
Martha nodded. ‘But why stab him with glass?’
‘Stab him?’ Defron’s voice rose in pitch. ‘At my conference?
It must have been an accident. Some sort of grotesque, crazy accident.’
‘I doubt it,’ the Doctor said, crouching down beside Martha to examine the long, sharp sliver of glass.
‘But why – how can you know it was deliberate?’ Defron asked.
‘The weapon detectors,’ Stellman said quietly, ‘do not scan for glass.’
No one said anything. They were all staring down at the body, at the blood, at the shard of broken glass. And they were all listening to the sound of rapid footsteps – the sound of a child, running quickly away from the room . . .
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‘Keepaneyeonthings,’theDoctorwhisperedtoMartha.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Cherchez la femme!’ he announced, straightening up and running from the room.
‘Well, really!’ Defron complained as the Doctor nudged him aside. He seemed more put out at getting an elbow in the ribs than he did at Chekz getting stabbed in his.
‘Should we get Hornbard?’ Stellman suggested. He was leaning against the wall, one hand in his jacket pocket.
‘Is he a medic?’ Martha asked. ‘A doctor?’
‘He’s a chef,’ Lady Casaubon said.
‘But he’s done the first-aid training,’ Defron added quickly.
‘The Health and Safety people insisted.’
Martha stared at them.
‘I think we’re a bit late for first aid, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Look at him – he’s dead. And I don’t think there’s much doubt about the cause of death.’
‘There is every doubt, General Orlo announced, pushing past the others into the room.
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Martha held up the glass. ‘ This was the cause of death. All right?’
‘ That is what killed him. It was the means not the cause,’
Orlo growled. ‘And we need to know the cause. Was he killed to sabotage our negotiations, or perhaps to help them? Or in a personal feud or – as Defron rather improbably suggested – in an accident? Was it suicide or murder?’
‘Yeah, all right, I get the message,’ Martha said. ‘Look, we can’t just leave him here.’
‘Indeed we can’t,’ Orlo said. ‘I will need to work here – if I am to prepare the Zerugian response to this outrage.’ He turned slowly to glare at Lady Casaubon.
‘You surely cannot believe –’ Defron started.
But Orlo cut him off. ‘I believe nothing. I deal only in facts.
And the facts are plain. First Secretary Chekz refused to give way on certain key issues. Lady Casaubon was frustrated.’
Martha roll
ed her eyes. ‘She’s an old lady. I really don’t see her taking on a seven-foot tall crocodile in single combat. Do you?’
‘I don’t think General Orlo meant Lady Casaubon,’ Stellman said calmly. ‘I think he believes – or perhaps merely suspects –that I killed Chekz.’
‘And why would you do that?’
‘Because Chekz was Zerugian and I am an Anthium. Because it might force a compromise in our current stalemate.
Because I am the only one here strong enough . . . ’ Stellman shrugged. ‘And because, by trade, I am an assassin.’
The sound of footsteps echoed back down the corridor. The Doctor was running to keep up. It was difficult to tell if he was gaining on the girl or not. But she couldn’t be far ahead of him.
Which made it all the more surprising when he rounded a corner and saw that there was no sign of her in the long corridor ahead. He skidded to a halt, straining to hear the girl’s footsteps. But there was nothing.
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Nothing except a rasping electronic voice that said: ‘Up a bit your end, Bott.’
‘If you say so, Bill.’
‘I do, Bott. Whoa – that’s enough. Maybe too much, take it down a bit.’
The two robots were fixing a picture to the wall of the corridor. Each was holding one end of the large painting as they struggled to get it level. The Doctor stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and wandered over to them. There were several doors off the corridor, and as he passed each he tried the handle. They were all locked.
‘Want me to take a look and tell you when it’s level?’ he asked.
‘If you would,’ Bill said.
‘Be a great help,’ Bott agreed.
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ the Doctor asked as he held the picture steady so Bill could fix it in place with a glue-gun attached to one of his spindly arms.
‘Depends what you mean by ghosts,’ Bott said.
‘Do you?’ Bill asked the Doctor.
‘I’m not sure,’ the Doctor admitted. ‘But I don’t think so.
Not, you know, clanking chains and wailing grey ladies and all that. But imprints of the past. Personal demons . . . ’
‘Bits of memory storage that become detached and float about interrupting other thought processes,’ Bott suggested.
