Doctor Who: Myths and Legends

by Richard Dinnick

  They called Group Marshal Sten the ‘Breed Slayer’. For under his command the 12th Sontaran Battle Group had succeeded where so many had failed. He was on the verge of winning the war that had been raging so long, they had forgotten when it started.

  The main screen on the bridge of his Mothership showed a yellow-green sphere. Mekonne was its interstellar designation, but Sten preferred to think of it as the last outpost. There was no Rutan fleet left to defend the planet. The Battle Group had seen to that – at great cost: two War-Wheels and 117 capsules.

  However, all they needed to do now was penetrate the planetary defences – laser cannon and missile batteries on the surface – and the last Rutan breeding world would be theirs for the taking.

  ‘Reduce velocity,’ Sten ordered. ‘Estimate range of enemy weapons fire.’

  ‘400 kilometres,’ came the reply.

  ‘Hold at 420 kilometres,’ he said. ‘Prepare capsules for launch.’

  All around the equator of the Mothership’s central core, klaxons sounded. Sontaran troopers and Commanders ran to their stations, clambering through the ports that led to their single-occupancy capsules.

  ‘All capsules are combat ready,’ a junior officer reported.

  ‘Very good, Field Major!’ Sten was enjoying this. He licked his grey lips, watching the orbital distance indicator slowly counting down to ‘420’.

  The moment it reached that number, Group Marshal Sten issued the order to launch. He did not need a junior officer to tell him the information he could see with his own eyes.

  Within minutes, the capsules had identified all planetary defences and the Mothership had destroyed them from orbit.

  ‘Deploy transmat units and start landing!’ Sten roared. He made for the door, eager to be one of the first to make planetfall. ‘Field Major, you have the bridge!’

  ‘Group Marshal!’ The junior officer’s voice seemed to rise in pitch, clearly nervous for some reason.

  Sten turned back. ‘Well?’

  ‘Bio-scans, sir. Our instruments are not picking up any Rutan life signs.’

  Sten managed a brief laugh. ‘They are shielded! Re-scan. Full spectrum.’

  The luckless Field Major turned to face his superior officer. ‘I have, Group Marshal. Still negative. There aren’t any Rutans here!’

  Sten was across the bridge in seconds and struck the other Sontaran where he stood. This was a serious affront, and the Field Major would probably be assigned to the medical division as punishment. He crept away into the shadows.

  ‘Would any competent officer like to replace the Field Major and take the readings again?’

  A commander stepped forward. He saluted and took the station, his six fingers flowing across the controls.

  ‘You’re right, sir,’ the Commander said.

  ‘Ha! I knew it!’ Sten nodded.

  ‘The Rutan scum are blocking our scans. They have a dampening field. We are not close enough to the planet surface.’

  Bring us in, then! Pilots, set optimum orbit at 100 kilometres.’

  The Mothership moved forward smoothly, closing the distance to Mekonne in a less than a minute. It now loomed large on the main monitor.

  ‘Scan again!’

  An uncomfortable silence fell.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Group Marshal, we have a larger problem,’ the Commander said. He flicked a few buttons and a three-dimensional schematic of the planet appeared, showing the molten core and flow of magma beneath the surface in a volcanic network.

  ‘What’s this?’ Sten demanded.

  ‘We are picking up unnaturally high tectonic activity right across Mekonne,’ the Commander reported.

  ‘Unnatural?’ Sten was frowning, his brows even more knotted than usual. ‘As in artificial?’

  ‘Yes, Group Marshal.’

  Almost immediately, reports started coming in from Sontaran units already on the surface. Earthquakes were taking place – serious ones – and volcanic eruptions had been reported around the planet.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ breathed the Group Marshal. ‘Withdraw. There are no Rutans!’

  ‘Full reverse,’ squeaked a Sontaran pilot as the Mothership reversed its thrusters.

  ‘Auxiliary power!’ shouted Sten. ‘We’ve been ensnared in the planet’s gravitational pull.’ He turned to another officer. ‘Recall the capsules. Secure the War-Wheels!’

  The Mothership strained to escape the planet below but managed to pull away. The War-Wheels were not so powerful and were taking longer to achieve escape velocity.

  ‘Subterranean detonations detected,’ the Commander said, his voice belying the calmness of his demeanour.

  ‘Signal the fleet,’ Sten said quietly. ‘Assembly point Epsilon. Prepare for light speed.’

  On the screen, one of the War-Wheels was almost away from the planet when a huge plume of lava erupted from the surface. It caught the ship on its port battle-pivot and sent the vessel into a downward spiral. The burning part of the War-Wheel detonated before it hit the ground, catching several dozen capsules as they attempted to flee. Then the War-Wheel collided with the liquid surface with a huge explosion.

  The shockwave hit even them at such high altitude that the Commander had to yell over the noise to make himself heard. ‘Coordinates locked!’

  ‘Make the jump! Make it!’ Sten screamed.

  It was not just the 12th Sontaran Battle Group that was in shreds; the Group Marshal’s reputation, his command and military standing – everything he had literally fought so hard to achieve was now burning along with his fleet.

  There are many things a Sontaran mind does not like to contemplate. Chief among these is the concept of defeat. Sontarans are bred not only for war, but for winning. They are the finest soldiers in the galaxy and while they are willing – keen, even – for death in battle, it is only really what they would think of as glorious if that death ultimately results in a victory for their race.

  This was the polar opposite of that and Sten had no idea at that moment how he was going to come back from it.

  The hand that rose from the vat of green liquid was three-fingered. A powerful arm followed and a domed head of smooth, brown skin. Sontaran Science Squadron Leader Yarl watched as his new creation stood and looked at him.

  ‘You are designated Commander Myre,’ he said, a slight rasp to his voice.

  The newly hatched clone nodded.

  ‘How do you … feel?’ Yarl asked. He waved a white-gloved hand at his assistant, Science Squadron Officer Klym, who duly started taking notes on his datapad.

  ‘I am … strong. I am … Sontaran!’ barked the new-born.

  ‘Very good,’ Yarl said. ‘You will find your armour there.’ He pointed to a bench on which sat the black and silver suit of a Sontaran warrior, its heavy boots and dark helmet.

  Myre stepped from the tank and moved slowly across the laboratory.

  ‘Note his gait,’ Yarl whispered to Klym. ‘It is far more attuned for long-distance marches, endurance and combat.’

  ‘Yes, Squadron Leader,’ Klym replied. He, too, was wearing the white bodysuit of a Science Squadron officer.

  ‘It is well known that science is not the most glorious of placements,’ Yarl said, watching his new creation dress. ‘But the weapons we in the Squadron create are crucial to victories of our military counterparts. Indeed, it could be said that we are responsible for far more deaths than any field trooper.’

  ‘Yes, Squadron Leader.’

  To the back of the laboratory a bulbous station housing a simple screen buzzed and a face identical to both Yarl’s and Klym’s appeared. It was Sten. Despite the orders from Sontaran High Command, his neck armour still bore the two pointed discs of a Group Marshal.

  ‘Report!’ he barked. ‘Yarl! How did the experiment go?’

  The Sontaran science officer moved across the brightly lit lab to the screen. He pressed a button to transmit his image back to his commanding officer.

  ‘Group Marshal Sten
,’ Yarl purred, throwing an immaculate salute. ‘I was about to contact you myself. The experiment is a success. Here, see for yourself!’

  Yarl beckoned over Commander Myre who came to stand beside him. He threw his arm across his chest in salute but Sten pulled back from the screen.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘The skin colour is markedly different! The facial structure changed. Is it … shorter?’

  Myre’s light brown, smooth, shiny skin was very different to the other Sontarans. They all had greyish flesh tones and an almost matte finish to their skin.

  ‘Improvements, Group Marshal,’ Yarl said.

  ‘Improvements for which I do not recall issuing the command,’ Sten growled. ‘You overstep your orders, Squadron Leader!’

  ‘No, sir,’ Yarl remained calm. In former days he might not have been so bold. ‘They are side effects of the distinctive gene splicing we had to employ to bring about success in the experiment.’

  Group Marshal Sten leaned forward, his face filling the screen; his voice even and hard. ‘I want a full report from you in person in one hour. Bring the … nonconformities with you!’

  The viewer snapped off.

  Yarl turned back to Klym. ‘You heard him. Nonconformities. Plural. Proceed with the experiment!’

  At the Sontaran Military Academy on the home world, the clone race had hatchings of a million cadets at each muster parade. To Yarl, that was nothing more than simple mass-production. What he was engaged in, much like the designers of the War-Wheel, could almost be considered art. The word felt alien and uncomfortable in his thoughts.

  However, the analogy was a good one. The improvements he was trying to make to the Sontaran pattern were intricate and difficult. He was sure that in the sterile corridors of the Military Academy they would be considered heresy.

  Klym was now bringing the second new Sontaran out from the cloning vat. This one looked slightly different to the first one. Klym voiced his concern that there had been an error in the process.

  ‘Not at all, Klym,’ Yarl said. ‘Each one will be … individual. That is the purpose of our mission. Individual thought, individual personalities, individual actions.’

  Less than an hour later, all four of the new Sontarans lined up before Group Marshal Stem. They were standing in his personal quarters: a spartan room containing a simple, white chair; a single station of computer banks with a screen and behind the chair the diode bypass transformer used for feeding energy directly into his body via the probic vent at the base of his neck.

  Stem moved down the rank of new recruits, inspecting them. Yarl introduced each of them to their new commanding officer.

  ‘Commanders Myre and Promynx; Field Majors Atas and Epax.’

  Stem sneered at them. ‘They look like aliens dressed in our uniforms,’ he said. ‘Impostors!’

  ‘With your permission, Group Marshal?’ Myre spoke up. Stem eyed him suspiciously but gave a curt nod. ‘I was going to ask for your consent to alter our uniforms, upgrade them.’

  ‘Upgrade?’ The Group Marshal smiled. ‘You think you can improve the work of our scientists on the home world?’

  Another of them answered. ‘We do, sir.’ It was Promynx. He seemed to have a gap in his teeth.

  ‘Yarl, have you briefed them on the Mekonne campaign?’

  ‘Yes, Group Marshal. They understand.’

  Stem returned to his chair. ‘You four have been bred for one reason: to think the thoughts normal Sontarans cannot or dare not,’ he said. His voice sounded tired. ‘Because of our code, we would never have thought of a cowardly attack like the one the Rutans carried out on Mekonne. And yet it would appear a valid military stratagem. So, you may do whatever is necessary to plot the downfall of the enemy. If you wish to alter your uniforms, do so. You will report directly to me. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Group Marshal,’ the four new breeds all chorused.

  Stem was above all a soldier and, while he liked nothing better than a frontal assault, he also knew the benefits of having sound military intelligence gathered from reliable sources. So he also saw each of the new Sontarans on their own at random intervals following their initial meeting.

  He sounded them out about how they felt towards the Empire and the home world, towards the Rutan Host, towards their fellow Sontarans and – of course – towards him personally. Being the individuals they had been gene-spliced to be, each gave slightly different answers.

  In the end, he selected the one he thought would see things his way. He wanted the one who would be easily turned, who would understand that the four of them could not have a completely free rein. Naturally, he told the target, you can discuss anything within your unit, but he did not want just the edited highlights when it came to their reports. He wanted – needed – to know all that was going on. As an additional layer of security. His agent had agreed readily. After all, anything else would have been mutiny.

  So, while the Mothership limped around the far-flung systems of the Empire, the group of four unique Sontarans worked hard. They personalised their equipment, each building singular body armour in a slightly different colour. Myre sprayed his a dark, blood green while Promynx favoured blue. Atas adopted a sandy brown colour – almost the same tone as his skin – and Epax went with a matte black. Even Myre thought this made him look too much like a Judoon, but he let it pass.

  They did not move about the ship much because they drew the bigoted stares of their fellow soldiers. Instead, they remained in their quarters and let the world come to them. They went through every Sontaran battle in the Mothership’s database, analysing what went right and how failures could have been avoided. Then they moved on to Rutan strategies. Epax seemed to have the best grasp of the enemy mind; he could see patterns in their movements the others could not.

  After weeks of poring over all the data they could muster, the group of four – now assigned the designation G4 – believed that they had identified a pattern to the Rutan Host’s movement around the galaxy. Even Mekonne had fitted in with this pattern, which was why it seemed plausible as a breeding planet.

  Finally, they had something to report to the Group Marshal; something he would be very happy about. Myre, as their senior officer, made the report but they were all present.

  ‘So my assault on the planet is vindicated,’ Sten said. ‘My actions were not rash and counter to Sontaran stratagem!’ He now paced the floor of his personal quarters, becoming more confident with every footfall. It was as if the G4 had reinvigorated the Group Marshal.

  ‘There is more, sir,’ Myre said.

  ‘We have identified a list of planets on which the Rutan Host might have settled instead of Mekonne,’ Promynx added.

  Sten stopped pacing and regarded the Commander with sparkling eyes. ‘Vengeance?’ he asked.

  Epax confirmed this to be the case. ‘Given time, I am confident we can narrow that list to a handful or even one specific target,’ the Field Major said.

  ‘And a chance to redeem myself to Sontaran High Command,’ breathed Sten. ‘No, more than that! A chance to join their ranks! Imagine being able to say that you were the Sontaran that finally wiped the Rutan scourge from the cosmos!’

  Myre managed a thin smile. ‘I believe that imagining was our purpose, Group Marshal. And we appreciate the glory such an outcome will give us.’

  The hint of a frown flashed across Sten’s burly features. ‘Us?’ he asked quietly. Then he smiled. ‘Yes, of course. We shall all be heroes by Sontar! Ha!’

  The four Sontarans were examining the list they had come up with of possible Rutan Host breeding worlds. They worked in silence for a while, all making notes on datapads, cross-checking references, planetary conditions, distance from the ever-shifting battlefront.

  Epax reached his conclusion fractionally before the others. He put down the datapad he was working on and announced the name of the planetary system. There had been one very good decoy, he said, but there was only one place the breeding planet could be. A min
ute later, Commander Myre concurred with his findings, followed by Atas and Promynx.

  ‘I will double-check our findings,’ Epax said and plucked the computer tablet from the surface once more.

  As he worked the other Sontarans all regarded one another. There was a frisson of tension between them. Then Myre spoke. ‘I will say what we are all feeling,’ he said. ‘The Group Marshal means to take the glory for himself. He is blinded by the need to rebuild his stature within the Sontaran High Command.’

  Epax looked up from his calculations. ‘He is ambitious. It is a Sontaran characteristic.’

  ‘The Sontaran characteristic is for ambition in warfare,’ Atas said. ‘Not personal aggrandisement.’

  ‘He is driven by a desire to correct a military miscalculation,’ Promynx said. ‘Who here would not want to do the same?’

  The G4 considered this for a while before Myre spoke again. ‘No matter what his ambition or what his actions will be in any post-battle situation, one thing is clear: he does not want us to be recognised for our part in the victory.’

  Epax nodded and looked round the group. ‘I agree. It seems obvious he would seek the plaudits solely for himself.’

  ‘As is befitting a Group Marshal,’ Promynx said, his brow deeply furrowed. He was clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was following. ‘Any senior officer will be credited with the actions of his men in a combat situation – especially a victory. I am sure we will be rewarded – promoted.’

  ‘You are naive,’ Atas said. ‘You see how the others of our race look at us when we venture out of these quarters. The fear of the unlike is written in the faces as clearly as the information on these datapads!’ He slammed his down on the table. ‘I believe he knows that the High Command would see any victory achieved against the hated Rutan tainted by our very existence.’

  Epax nodded again. ‘Despite that victory coming due to our unique perspective.’

  Promynx stared at the other three. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘The Group Marshal will have us destroyed once the victory is achieved,’ Myre said, standing up. ‘It is … a sound strategy.’