Independence Day

by P. Darvill-Evans

  He stayed at his post until the last of the prisoners had collected a beaker of soup. It was Nam-Gar, a metal worker from Porgum whom Bep-Wor knew slightly. Nam-Gar had been last in the queue because he was lame in his left leg.

  Bep-Wor supported him and half-carried him into the darkness towards the Doctor.

  Wherever he peered into the gloom Bep-Wor saw prisoners drinking from beakers. As he approached the darkest corner, where the Doctor had found a drainage hole and had decreed that it should be reserved for the prisoners’ waste, he put his hand over his face in an attempt to lessen the stench.

  He saw the Doctor, standing next to the drain and apparently unaffected by the noxious smell. The last few prisoners were with him. He took the beaker from each of them, and poured its contents into the drain. Then he turned his back, and when he turned again he presented the prisoner with a full beaker. To the prisoners this seemed like magic, and although Bep-Wor knew that the sustenance came from the Doctor’s flask he was as perplexed as they were about the original never-ending source of the Doctor’s bounty.

  The Doctor urged the prisoners to move away, and to act as if they were eating the soup that the soldiers had provided.

  When Nam-Gar’s soup, and Bep-Wor’s, had been disposed of and replaced with the Doctor’s delicious broth, the Doctor led Bep-Wor towards the centre of the chamber. The prisoners they passed, still amazed that the Doctor had poured away all the soup and had replenished all the beakers as if by magic, stared at him as he passed. ‘The Doctor,’ they muttered under their breath. ‘Praise the Doctor.’

  ‘But why did they give us poison, Doctor?’ Bep-Wor asked.

  ‘Do they want to kill us?’

  The Doctor sniffed his beaker, which was still full of the soup that the guards had provided. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a narcotic of some kind. Did we manage to stop everyone from eating it?’

  Bep-Wor shook his head. ‘No, Doctor. There were a few who had eaten before I found them, and a few others who wouldn’t listen to our warnings.’

  ‘They were very hungry, Bep-Wor,’ the Doctor said. ‘We can’t blame them. And,’ he added, with a grim smile, ‘they’ll be useful. The guards will be watching us, to make sure we behave as they expect. We’ll have to copy the actions of those who ate the soup.’

  ‘It makes them sleepy,’ Bep-Wor said. ‘They just want to lie down.’

  The Doctor’s look of disappointment was almost comical.

  ‘Well, that’s not very interesting,’ he said. ‘However, everyone must do the same. Spread the word: copy the behaviour of those who ate the soup.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor,’ Bep-Wor said. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to perform a crude analysis of the drug in this soup,’ the Doctor announced, ‘and without the facilities of the TARDIS I’ll have to do it the basic way.’ Before Bep-Wor could stop him, the Doctor had put the beaker to his lips and drained its contents.

  ‘Very good,’ the Doctor said, wiping his lips with a large patterned handkerchief. ‘But a little heavy on the black pepper.’

  He collapsed to the floor and lay with his eyes closed.

  Bep-Wor knelt beside the Doctor and shook him. ‘Doctor!

  Doctor! Wake up!’

  The Doctor opened one eye. ‘Do you mind?’ he said. ‘I’m pretending to be asleep. Now go and tell everyone else to do the same.’

  Later, as he lay on his back, listening to the breathing of the hundreds of prisoners lying all around him across the floor of the chamber, Bep-Wor heard booted feet approaching. The soldiers were walking among the prisoners.

  He reckoned there were at least six of them.

  If we rise up and attack them now, Bep-Wor thought, we will overcome them easily. He dismissed the idea. There were more soldiers - many more - and they had guns and swords.

  ‘Is that the lot?’ one of the soldiers shouted.

  ‘Every beaker accounted for,’ another shouted back. ‘And they’re all empty. No troublemakers in this consignment.’

  A soldier standing close to Bep-Wor spoke under his breath. ‘The poor bastards,’ he murmured. ‘No one deserves what we’re doing to them.’

  The gleaming white circle grew larger with each minute. Now Madok could see the corona of atmosphere, and the swirls of cloud within it; he could make out the shapes of the continents around the planet’s central belt. Once again he was on his way home.

  He had plenty of time to think during these trips to and from the space station. He was becoming used to the feeling of weightlessness: it seemed to free his mind. Unlike most of Kedin’s pilots Madok preferred to fly the scout ships, rather than the cumbersome cargo pods and transports. He didn’t mind flying solo. In the black, spangled gulf between worlds a scout’s metal shell seemed negligible, and Madok could fancy himself alone with the stars; once within a planet’s atmosphere the small ship was almost reminiscent of the fragile aircraft, prototypes made of wooden panels held together with wire, in which Madok had learnt to fly on Kedin’s summer estates.

  It all seemed so long ago.

  Everything had been simpler then.

  Madok was not a native of one of Kedin’s estates. He was from County Vandorn, a small, insignificant domain, three-fifths desert and scrub. As the family’s second son he had had no expectation of owning land, and had entered the military academy because he had few options. But he had found that a soldier’s life suited him, and as the academy’s most promising cadet he had been offered, and had enthusiastically accepted, opportunities to travel and to train with cadets from other lands.

  He had graduated, with the rank of lieutenant, while he was seconded to the army of the Duke of Brann. He had seen active service, at the head of a cavalry troop, during the border conflict between Brann and Gonfallon, and he had seen for himself the proficiency of Vethran’s disciplined, well-equipped army. His troop had done well to withstand the whirlwind charge of the Gonfallon cavalry, led by the youthful and charismatic Kedin Ashar. The rest of the wing had been swept away and had fled from the field. The Duke of Brann had surrendered, had been assured of his rights and privileges, and had nonetheless seen his duchy sequestered by Vethran and parcelled out to Vethran’s minions.

  Madok had returned to Vandorn when the County’s army was mustered to defend the land: frontier conflicts were erupting across every continent. But Vandorn was surrendered without a battle being fought. The Count died without an heir, and due to Vethran’s influence the County was gifted to Vethran’s military genius, the newly created Duke of Jerrissar, the dashing Kedin Ashar.

  Madok had expected to dislike his new lord. Kedin Ashar was from a family of no particular note; he had a reputation as a womaniser and a rakehell; he seemed reckless in battle, and his unbroken succession of military successes was ascribed to luck, or to reliance on new and frankly ungentlemanly gadgets and tricks.

  They had met on the battlements of Castle Vandorn. Madok had gone outside, hoping to avoid being presented to the new Count. Kedin had come looking for him.

  Madok had heard his name being called, and had turned from the view of dusty Vandorn town to see a tall, slim figure striding towards him along the walkway. He had recognised Kedin Ashar immediately, and knelt on one knee with his head bowed.

  ‘Get up, Madok,’ Kedin had said. ‘On your feet, man. Let me shake your hand. If the Duke of Brann had had three more cavalry officers with just half your spirit, the battle would have gone the other way.’

  Shocked in equal measure by Kedin s friendliness and informality, Madok had been able only to mutter a few words of thanks. He had been struck by Kedin’s youth: he was no older than Madok himself.

  ‘I want you on my staff, Madok,’ Kedin had declared. ‘I’ve seen your record as a cadet and an officer. Come with me to what I suppose I will have to get used to calling Jerrissar -

  pompous name for a duchy, don’t you think? Vethran’s idea, of course. I’ve got people working on a new de
sign for a musket. Yet another idea inspired by reading the old books.

  You load in the breech, not the muzzle. It’ll change the way we wage war.’

  They had walked together then around the circumference of Vandorn’s walls. By the time they had returned to the main hall, where the county’s notables were waiting to introduce themselves to their new lord, Madok had decided to throw in his lot with Kedin. The Duke of Jerrissar was excitable, talkative, indiscreet - and made it clear that promoting Vethran’s ambitions was merely incidental to transforming the world.

  Kedin Ashar had been an idealist even then. Once he had met Tevana Roslod, he had become a crusader and an inspiration.

  And he still was, Madok thought.

  A burst of light against the browns and greens of the world’s central belt caught Madok’s attention. It was the transport ship that had left the station the day before Madok had set out: his scout had almost caught up with it. It was firing its engines in preparation for entering the atmosphere.

  Another consignment of wretched prisoners from Mendeb Two. They represented funds for Kedin’s war chest. They represented cheap, disposable labour for the more ruthless owners of mines and farms and factories; entertainment for the jaded appetites at Vethran’s court; cannon fodder for Vethran’s armies.

  Ace had been in the previous consignment. She had been on the planet for several days already. Madok tried not to think about what might be happening to her.

  Madok was close enough to the planet now to discern the dark green heartland of the largest landmass: the equatorial forest, within which lay Gonfallon, Vethran’s home domain, the source of the canker that had contaminated the entire world.

  To begin with the pace of change had been exhilarating.

  Then they had all been young: Vethran, whose ambition and drive had seemed admirable; Kedin and Tevana, so brilliant and so in love; Madok himself, volunteering to experiment with each new weapon and vehicle that Kedin’s technicians created.

  Looking back, it seemed that not a day passed without some new discovery or adventure: the serendipitous understanding of an arcane diagram in one of the old books; the testing of a prototype engine; dousing the fires that were the inevitable result of most of Tevana’s experiments with new fuels.

  Now, in the serene silence of space, Madok could see that Kedin had become swept up in the hurricane of innovation that he had himself created. And he, and Tevana, and everyone around them, had underestimated Vethran.

  Kedin had had the ideas, and the workshops, and the new machines. Vethran had had the money and the soldiers and the guns, and an appetite for power that increased as it was fed.

  It was not until Kedin had taken the space station that he finally became aware that Vethran’s desires were insatiable.

  Newly crowned King, Vethran had sent a new strategic plan to each of his generals and advisers, including Kedin. Madok had brought the document by scout ship to the space station, and had been present when Kedin broke the seal and read aloud Vethran’s intentions. Madok would never forget the silence that had settled on everyone in the control room when Kedin finished reading.

  They had thought that once Vethran controlled the world, his ambitions would cease; instead, his orders to Kedin were to transport an invasion army to Mendeb Two. They had thought that Kedin and Tevana had recruited all the most brilliant technicians and mechanics; now they discovered that Vethran had his own teams of specialists, including chemists who had distilled essences of terrifying potency which Kedin was instructed to use.

  From that moment Kedin Ashar resolved to resist Vethran’s plans. Kedin had the space station; he had some technological advances that he had not yet supplied to the Gonfallon army; he had all the pilots who knew how to fly between the worlds.

  But Vethran had Tevana.

  It was a stalemate. Kedin continued to manifest an allegiance to Vethran, to transport Vethran’s troops, and to supply the vile trade from the conquered planet to the home world - but he didn’t take the risk of going to the royal court.

  The King continued to pay Kedin, to use Kedin’s space ships and pilots, and to load Kedin with honours - but he didn’t allow Tevana to leave her residence.

  The deadlock would break soon. The end game was about to begin. Madok smiled grimly. He hated to be inactive.

  On the space station Neroda, Jerol and Tered, Kedin’s ablest physicians, had succeeded in analysing SS10, the dreadful potion supplied by Vethran’s chemists. They knew how to alter its composition. Soon, when the physicians knew how long the effects of the new formula lasted, it would be given to every man and woman captured on Mendeb Three instead of SS10.

  And some time later Vethran would realise that Kedin had crossed him. Then, at the latest, Kedin would have to move against Vethran - before Vethran could harm Tevana.

  There was still much to organise. From the space station Kedin kept in contact with his scattered domains by radio but, no matter how often the frequency and the code were changed, there was the possibility that one of the few other receivers on the planet would pick up a transmission.

  So Madok travelled back and forth in person, holding in his memory the latest plans and codes.

  Mendeb Three filled the forward window. Madok leant forward and pushed the button marked MANUAL. Soon he would be in Jerrissar.

  The floor vibrated, and the humming that had been so consistent that Bep-Wor had ceased to notice it suddenly increased in volume.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Bep-Wor whispered to the Doctor.

  ‘We’ll be landing soon,’ the Doctor said quietly. ‘On Mendeb Three, I imagine. Have the sleepers woken yet?’

  Bep-Wor lifted his head and looked across the sea of recumbent prisoners. ‘If they have, they’re not moving,’ he said.

  The Doctor pondered for a while. ‘How many do you think we saved from taking the narcotic?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps only half,’ Bep-Wor replied. ‘Some ate the soup knowing it was poisoned. They were very hungry.’

  ‘We did what we could,’ the Doctor said gently. ‘And we don’t know what’s in store for us. Perhaps they’ll be better off than us.’ He sighed in the darkness. ‘We have to try to be ready for anything,’ he whispered. ‘Spread the word to everyone. When the ship lands, we must try to ensure that the ones who took the drug are taken off first. Then we can see how they behave, and copy them. I don’t want the guards to know that we’re not affected.’

  ‘I understand, Doctor,’ Bep-Wor said. ‘Everyone will do as you say. They know you will care for us.’

  Bep-Wor gave the Doctor’s instructions to those around him who were merely pretending to be asleep, and urged them to pass on the message. As he lay on his back, staring at the monstrous girders and panels that disappeared into the blackness above him, he was surprised to find that he felt no fear. He was a captive on an unknown world, but he was intrigued rather than terrified.

  It was the Doctor’s presence that made the difference. The Doctor was a man of power. He revived the dead; he sniffed out poison; he fed the hungry; he was immune to sleeping draughts. The Doctor would keep everyone safe.

  The vibration stopped after a while, although the noise remained loud. The sleepers continued to sleep. Then the floor began to shudder, and the noise became a shriek. Bep-Wor covered his ears and tried to prevent his body bouncing up and down. He heard several loud bangs, felt a couple of violent shocks, and then the noise and the shuddering gradually quietened. ‘We’ve landed,’ the Doctor whispered.

  In the eerie silence that ensued Bep-Wor received whispered communications from across the floor of the chamber. ‘Some of the sleepers have woken,’ he told the Doctor, ‘but they’re not stirring. Our people have moved away from the door. The soldiers will find the sleepers first.’

  The door slid open. Fresh air flooded through it. Bep-Wor thought that he could see slanting rays of sunlight in the corridor beyond, and had to fight an urge to jump up and shout with relief.

  Sol
diers stood in the doorway. Bep-Wor squinted at them.

  ‘Different uniforms,’ he told the Doctor.

  ‘Come on, sleepy-heads,’ one of the soldiers shouted. ‘Wake up. Stand up. Don’t speak. You Twos are slaves. You will do as I say. Walk slowly to the door. Walk through the door.

  Follow the Two in front of you.’

  Bep-Wor gave the Doctor a mystified glance. Why was the soldier addressing the prisoners in such a strange manner?

  ‘The chemical in the soup was a complex organic molecule,’

  the Doctor whispered. ‘I believe it acts on the hypothalamus.

  Watch.’

  Near the door men and women were beginning to stand up.

  They were among those who had eaten the soup and had fallen asleep afterwards. Bep-Wor noticed that there was something strange about their behaviour. They didn’t talk to each other as they rose; they didn’t even glance at each other. They didn’t stretch, or scratch, or yawn. They walked towards the door; one of the soldiers pulled the nearest prisoner through the doorway and the others followed, one at a time, exactly as they had been instructed. They looked straight ahead.

  ‘They’ve become suggestible,’ the Doctor said. ‘It’s as if they have no will of their own.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Well, we know what we’ve got to do. Stand up, Bep-Wor.’

  The Doctor stood up, as if unrolling himself from the floor, and began to walk slowly towards the door. Bep-Wor copied him, and stole a glance backwards to make sure that all the others were beginning to follow the Doctor’s lead. They were.

  Bep-Wor concentrated on keeping his steps regular and his face expressionless.

  The prisoners threaded along a corridor, down a ramp and out of the vast metal container. Bep-Wor felt sunlight and a fresh breeze on his face. Plodding forwards, keeping two paces behind the Doctor, he peered from the corners of his eyes to inspect the world of his captors.

  The line of prisoners snaked back and forth, slowly filling a flat square of packed earth. Around the edges of the square were carriages and carts, some drawn by strange beasts and the others, Bep-Wor supposed, propelled by machines. Men sat in the vehicles and stood between them, watching the prisoners. Some wore military uniforms similar to those worn by the soldiers who had invaded Bep-Wor’s world; the remainder were in a bewildering variety of costumes. Beyond the vehicles there were tents and pavilions, with pennants fluttering above them. And beyond the tents there was countryside: meadows, and then woodland, and then hills.