Doctor Who: Myths and Legends

by Richard Dinnick

  With resources low and both races close to exhaustion in every sense, Phemoth had come up with a plan he hoped wold give them the military advantage by fooling the Dahensa into making a move. His audacious idea was not to fool them with false intelligence but instead let them believe the evidence of their own eyes.

  Although they had not been able to master time travel, they had a rudimentary understanding of it. Using this theory, Phemoth was attempting to project an image of the Jagaroth fleet into the future. When real time caught up with the projection, it would look to the Dahensa like the Jagaroth fleet had doubled in size. This would cause their computer intelligence to make a strategic move based on this information and any move at that point would be an error, and that was the very thing that would allow the Jagaroth to win.

  Phemoth was acutely aware that he was running out of Dahensa pilots. Only a handful of families remained. He could feel he was close to the solution, and he had found one enemy pilot in particular to be very helpful and insightful.

  ‘Scaljei’Mar!’ Phemoth greeted the Dahensa as he entered the bay. Scaljei waved a pincer in return. ‘How are we getting along?’

  ‘He has suggested a new warp field setting,’ the technician with the larger eye said.

  ‘Really? How interesting.’

  The Dahensa’s proposal was a false one. Due to his work in the holo-game industry during peacetime, Scaljei could programme the ship’s shield to take the form of the ship itself. Then it was a relatively simple matter of programming the emitters to project the shield as a mirror image, sitting beside the original.

  The key was not taking the power from the warp drive, which was what was causing the deaths of his fellow Dahensa. Instead he drew the energy from the atmospheric thrust motors. Scaljei wanted to make the Jagaroth think that their time-shifting project had worked because if they did, he – and the other remaining members of his species – would not be killed.

  He made the final adjustments to the emitter and brought the warp-drive power online. The Jagaroth technicians alongside Phemoth himself stood in awe as the duplicate ship appeared in the hangar. The scientist then left the room in a hurry. Scaljei asked where he was going.

  ‘To tell High Command!’ one of the technicians said.

  ‘You can power down the ship,’ the other added. ‘Then you can join your family.’

  Scaljei clambered from the little ship as quickly as he could and was escorted by a guard up to the viewing room. Krys flung all four of her arms around him.

  ‘Good job!’ she said.

  He smiled at her, and together they hugged the offspring.

  A little later the door to the antechamber opened, and Phemoth came in. He seemed very happy, although with no facial expressions to go by, it was difficult to tell.

  ‘Thank you, Scaljei,’ he said, and his strange, trilling voice sounded light. ‘You have served the Jagaroth very well.’ Then his voice changed. ‘And you have betrayed your entire species. How does it feel?’

  Phemoth put a hand on the Dahensa’s shoulder. ‘Terrible, I imagine. But do not fear. I would never deprive you of witnessing the fruits of your infidelity.’

  The Jagaroth scientist explained that he had sent urgent instructions to the entire fleet to replicate the experiment on their ships. Only Phemoth’s vessel would be immune as they would watch the destruction of the enemy ships from a safe distance. Indeed, everyone would watch it in the main hangar including all the remaining Dahensa.

  They were then escorted down to the hangar and the Mar clutch saw now that there were just four families left – eight adults and six offspring. They were lined up before the bay doors which were used as a screen to display the space battle.

  Of course, there was no battle. The order was issued by the Jagaroth flagship and the entire fleet powered up their warp engines exactly as Phemoth had directed. Just one reported a fault in the engines that would need to be investigated, but the effect would work just as well without one ship. So, they proceeded with the plan.

  Phemoth came up to Scaljei one more. He gave a short, controlled laugh and whispered in the Dahensa’s ear. ‘And afterwards, in a few soneds, we will kill you.’

  Scaljei regarded the Jagaroth coolly. ‘You have always been monsters,’ he said.

  The scientist went to hit him, but on the screen the ships of the Jagaroth fleet began to explode in twos and threes. Phemoth just stood there, rooted to the spot, his hand lifted to strike his captive.

  ‘You have tricked me?’

  Scaljei scanned the hangar. There were only half a dozen troopers on duty. Because of the threat of death that hung over their families the adult Dahensa had never even shown their stings. Until now.

  Krys gave the prearranged signal, and the Dahensa who had edged close to the guards all attacked them at once, taking the enemy completely by surprise.

  Within moments, the guards lay dead on the floor, poisoned. Krys ushered the offspring aboard the transport ship. Now the males had been trained to fly the small Jagaroth fighters, a transport should be easy.

  Scaljei advanced on Phemoth, who now held his arms up in useless defence.

  Later, on the transport ship, he was reunited with Krys, Iggy and Cur.

  ‘We did it,’ Krys said. ‘And all because of that great story from you two!’ She beamed a radiant smile at her two offspring.

  The four of them embraced as the vessel left the hangar of the penultimate Jagaroth ship in the universe just as Dahensa battle craft moved in to destroy it.

  The only warship of the Jagaroth fleet limped away from the battle. It hid in a magnetic cloud and then cruised to a nearby planet that was barely formed, dry and dead. It was the third planet in its solar system.

  The large, round vessel fired its retro rockets as it touched down with its three spider-like legs. The operator, Scaroth, cut the power and examined his instruments. Their atmospheric thrust motors were damaged. He double-checked: inoperable. They would not be able to take off. He knew full well that the ship was the last surviving ship of the fleet; the Jagaroth on board were the last of the species. But he was determined to survive.

  As he sat in the warp-field pit, the voice of his superior officer came over the speaker system. He was suggesting that, as the atmospheric thrust motors were impaired, they might be able to use the warp drive to give them enough power for escape velocity. Scaroth checked his instruments once more. He shook his head. That would never work. They were stranded there and if the Jagaroth ship’s captain ordered him to use the warp thrust, they’d be killed. Or worse …

  THE LABYRINTHINE WEB

  IT WAS A web of traps: a horrifying network of angular turns. This way. That way. Doubling back. Twisting around. Some corridors sloped upwards, others ended abruptly in a gaping hole and ladder. Once inside, there was only one solution for reaching the centre. Some said that there was also no way of getting out again as the Cob-Commander sealed up corridors as you passed. Whether this was true no one knew because no one had come out alive.

  Trakkiney was a dust ball of a planet: dry and hot all year round and with no mineral wealth to speak of. However, it was one of Gallifrey’s first colony worlds and, as such, a strategic outpost for the new members of the Fledgling Empires. These reasons made it an attractive target for the dreaded Racnoss.

  Fysusoidengeus – Fysus to his friends – was a relatively new arrival on the planet when the Racnoss had invaded. Although to use the term ‘invaded’ was to exaggerate what had taken place when the spider-like alien arrived.

  Being a new colony, Trakkiney had no planetary defences to speak of. It certainly had nothing like the transduction barriers that Rassilon had recently installed on Gallifrey. In fact, the only protection it had was a satellite that was meant to detect stray asteroids and meteors that might pose a threat to this on the planet’s surface.

  That was the first warning the settlers had. In the lab block of the shelter, a technician had received a signal from the satellite. All it tol
d him was that a new spatial body had been detected and it seemed to be on a collision course with the planet. It also gave an estimate until impact: 32 hours – less than a day.

  This news had naturally sent the colonists into panic. Governor Gathen had ordered everyone to the stores – the only subterranean part of the prefabricated shelter complex. Everyone sat in the semi-darkness of the ad hoc shelter, gazing upwards even though all they could see was the laser-cut ceiling.

  No impact explosion ripped the planet – or even their settlement – apart, so the small contingent of guards was sent above ground to see what had happened. They never reported back, so the majority had taken a decision that everyone should go and look.

  When they did, they found a Racnoss spacecraft hovering above them. It was grey-white and its eight points twinkled in the sunlight. Fysus knew it was a Webstar. Like everyone else, he’d been briefed before he came that any Time Lord colony could expect assault by any of the myriad enemies the novice race had already made.

  ‘This is Cob-Commander Messothel,’ a voice boomed from the ship. ‘This planet is now under Racnoss control.’ A laugh filled the air that was deep and nasal. It would have been ridiculous had it not been for the bright bolts of energy that shot with no warning from the points of the Webstar. Eight Time Lords lay on the floor. As they began to regenerate, the bolts hit them again, and this time the bodies did not start to glow. They simply lay there, dead, their lives snuffed out. Again, the laugh echoed around the shelter complex.

  There was nothing they could do against such a superior force. Gathen surrendered and ordered the colonists to do whatever the Cob-Commander said. Secretly, the Governor attempted to get messages to Gallifrey but, both times he tried, the Racnoss executed eight more colonists. He stopped after that.

  It did not take long for them to learn that Cob-Commander Messothel was a vicious and ruthless being, even by the standards of his own race. The Webstar planted itself in the soil not far from the shelter, and the colonists were forced to build new structures: the corridors of his labyrinthine web.

  When this was complete, the first consignments arrived from the Empress. Messothel let it be known this would be a day of celebration. He ordered Gathen to make available extra rations and even wine. A feast did take place that day, but it was a sullen affair. None of the Time Lords liked hard, manual labour, and they liked being torn away from their scientific endeavours even less.

  Fysus was a skilled biochemist, although he had no qualification to show. When he’d first arrived and met his superior, Aria, she had questioned him about this. Running a nervous hand through his blond locks, he’d told her that he was a fervent believer that the Time Lords’ destiny was out among the stars, not entrenched on an ever-more isolationist Gallifrey. That’s why he’d jumped at the chance to help start a new world.

  Aria had laughed, and even her normally immaculate long, auburn hair had jumped around. She called him an idealist. She could not have been more than 75 years his senior, so Fysus took little notice. Despite not getting off to the most auspicious of starts, their relationship had become one of mutual admiration. Aria was the cautious one. She not only got results, she recorded and analysed them. She had what the Academy would have deemed ‘good scientific rigour’. Fysus was not like that. He still got results, but he cut certain corners that he saw as unnecessary. He made leaps of intuition and, to make matters worse, he was usually right.

  Now he and Aria were nothing more than glorified drones, building whatever the Cob-Commander said, bowing to his will. Existing. Not living. And, that night at the feast, they discovered that this existence was actually even worse than they had thought. For days, everyone had been speculating as to what consignments the Empress of the Racnoss was sending to this backwater. As they ate their rations and sipped at the beakers of wine, the nasal voice boomed out across the shelter.

  ‘You are privileged, my little lords and ladies of time,’ Messothel said. ‘For the Empress has chosen you to help increase our number. She has sent me eight precious eggs and eight of you will help them grow to adulthood.’ The laugh again. ‘From now on, all Time Lords will be given a special bedtime drink. Huon particle shakes! Enjoy your feast!’

  Fysus looked across the table at Aria. They had both heard of Huon particles, but only in relation to the experiments being conducted on Gallifrey into time travel. One of the few things they knew about them was that that they were highly poisonous. Any long-term exposure to even the amount needed to make a beverage would be fatal.

  They discussed this later that night as the wine took hold and caution became less of a barrier to truth. Aria had concluded that not only were Huon particles not poisonous to the Racnoss, they were in fact necessary to the hatching somehow. Fysus saw the logic. Why else would the Time Lords be dosed with it? But that brought with it an ugly realisation. The Racnoss were voracious feeders. All the Time Lords Messothel had killed had been taken away and spun into cocoons to be kept in his food store at the apex of the grounded Webstar. Whichever eight were chosen to go into the web would be used by the hatchling Racnoss as their first meal.

  ‘And!’ said Aria, brushing a stray auburn strand from her eye. She was sitting on an upturned water drum. ‘We can’t do a thing about it.’

  Fysus was on the floor, cross-legged. He looked up at her. ‘Not yet,’ he said mysteriously.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Aria. Some of the words had become meshed together as she spoke. ‘You and your “not yet”. You think you’re so cryptic, mister idealist!’ She sat back and took another gulp of wine.

  ‘I’m not!’ Fysus said, in a false whisper. ‘But what if he’s listening!’ He pointed behind him at the Webstar. The gesture was meant to be subtle but failed.

  ‘He doesn’t need to listen!’ Aria said loudly. ‘Oooh-oh! Messothel!’ She waved her beaker at the Racnoss ship. Nothing happened. ‘See?’

  Fysus hushed her and scuttled across to sit at her feet. ‘Do you think we could engineer the particles?’

  She tried to repeat the last part of his sentence, failed and laughed. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘I think we could,’ Fysus said. His tone was now so serious that Aria seemed to sober up in a matter of seconds, suddenly sitting up straighter. ‘I think we could reverse their poisonous effect.’

  ‘But we’d still die when the spiders ate us!’ Aria shook her head.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Fysus said and winked. Then he gave a broad smile as Aria stared at him. ‘OK, that was a bit mysterious, I’ll admit.’ He stood up with a little help from Aria. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow at the lab.’

  ‘We don’t work at the lab any more,’ she said. ‘Remember?’

  ‘First rest period,’ Fysus replied. And he sloped off into the night to find his bunk.

  They met in the laboratory the next day for the first time in many months. Fysus presented his theory to Aria and she checked it for factual errors or leaps of logic. She could find none. It seemed a sound plan to her, she said. It still meant they could not help the first eight victims; the ‘tributes’ Messothel was calling them. Nor even the second, but soon they would be able to act.

  At noon, the Cob-Commander gathered all his subjects in the area directly before the Webstar and its newly finished maze. Just under ninety Time Lords remained. They stood in the blistering heat while Messothel made a manic speech about the greatness of the Racnoss Empire and how its children would destroy the Fledgling Empires. It was tedious and long, with the only respite being the prolonged periods of grating laughter that came after every colourful phrase. At the end the Cob-Commander said that he would now take eight Time Lords as tribute.

  They all just stood there. Who should go? How did they decide? They had assumed that Messothel would make the choice for them. Instead it was quickly agreed they should draw lots. Those who occupied certain positions in the colony were to be ruled out as being vital – physicians, hydroponics experts, geo-survey and the like. Gathen put himself into
that category, too, although Fysus wondered if that were strictly necessary.

  Soon enough the eight Time Lords – five male and three female – stood apart from the others near the ground-level entrance to Messothel’s evil web. Hods, the Time Lord whose job it was to add the Huon particles to the shakes and give them to the tribute, approached with a tray of the drinks. Each one took a beaker and drank them down. Some were fast, chugging the liquid in defiance; some were slower, more cautious, as if the liquid would poison them then and there. When all the beakers were empty, a round door slid aside at the base of the Webstar.

  Fysus craned to see inside. He would need to know everything he could if his plan was to work. All he could see were cobwebs covering the walls of a metallic corridor. The tributes went inside and the door closed. Most of the colonists waited for some time before realising that there was nothing else to the ceremony. That was it; they would never see their friends again. They began to drift away in small groups.

  Whenever they could, Fysus and Arial stole away to the lab. They also recruited the help of several other colonists. The first was Hods. He was vital. Luckily he had no love of the Racnoss and was not the type to keep his head down; he wanted to help by doing more than just providing samples for the biochemists to work on. Fysus was all for it. Aria refused. She reasoned that if Hods went around stirring up trouble and was discovered, Messothel would suspect that the Huon particles were being tampered with. Fysus saw her point. As ever, her logic was safer than his gut instinct.

  Another lunar cycle passed before a second Webstar arrived in orbit. Fysus presumed it was taking the hatchlings away and delivering more eggs. He was soon proven correct on the second point, as Messothel announced he would need another eight tributes. Aria was actually more frustrated by this news than Fysus. They had been working hard and were almost ready, but they would need another month for the escape strategy to have any chance of success.