Four
Clearing away the breakfast plates, Sheriff Aldus readied the kitchen for the twilight shift. Unlike the Guard, Aldus was tired. Fortunately, as Sheriff, he was the man in charge. Sergeant Malthus would be happy to cover for him for a couple of hours. Just so long as he cleared up before the shift began.
The sergeant had been absent from the night's escapade. Family problems. For once the Sheriff was grateful for the absence. The men hadn't got too out of hand, and his hastily concocted plan for the stranger hadn't been questioned in front of the Guard.
Aldus still couldn't figure out how, on a planet sealed away from the rest of the universe, a stranger could possibly turn up. This Doctor must have come from the monastery. Perhaps he abandoned their lifestyle and wanted to return to the city after many years. Perhaps he was a spy, sent by the abbot to report back on the Guard's activities or, more importantly, to report back on the Sheriff's progress.
Opening the door to the cell-block, the big man stepped forward, retrieving the abbot's letter and, with a crispy crunch, crushed poor Toulouse underfoot.
The Sheriff picked up the strange fruit. Its pasty eyes looked pitifully up at him as he sniffed it, and dabbed his tongue onto its pulpy surface, tasting the apple juice. Momentarily intrigued, Aldus decided it must have fallen from the stranger's pockets when they bundled him into the cell. It didn't occur to him that the Doctor had been brought in from the opposite end of the corridor, nor that he had been tied up in a sack at the time.
What did occur to him, however, was how vital it was that this Doctor must not find out that Sheriff Aldus and the Commander of the Honour Guard were, in fact, one and the same.
He tossed the apple, and the abbot's letter, into the waste bin. Closing the door, he returned his attention to the washing up.
The sparking of live electrical circuits drew the attention of the strange denizens of the shanty town. The city was divided by the over city, occupied by land-dwellers, and the under city, where the native K'thellid lived, far beyond the reach of the Honour Guard.
Between the two cities was the waterlogged Portside. In the early days of their co-existence, the land-dwellers had tried to be independent, building a fishing port and planning to sustain themselves on what they found in the sea. Sadly, nine tenths of what they caught was either poisonous, mildly radioactive, or both. Their methods also endangered the K'thellid themselves, who were forced to travel away from the fishing fleets for the few decades they had spent trialling the process. Eventually, it was agreed that the K'thellid would farm and provide edible food in exchange for an end to the fishing fleets. It had been the right choice, but many of the land-dwellers became irrational, complaining that the loss of self-sufficiency somehow made them weaker. They believed that their continued existence would be at the whim of the K'thellid.
Self-sufficiency was an alien concept to the K'thellid. Their entire existence was based upon building symbiotic relationships with other races, and there were many beneath the ocean which formed more than ninety-nine percent of the world's inner surface. The most important of these relationships was with the crab-like landmounts, which spent much more time in and around the humans than their K'thellid riders, who rarely visited the over city and its environs. The K'thellid term for a landmount was m'nch'k, a word not easily pronounced by the fallen, who had chosen to corrupt it into a vulgar contraction which they applied equally to both species. Menk. The fallen had never needed to find a separate word for the landmounts and the K'thellid, because on land these two races were inseparable, physically merging into a single organic unit for the purpose of trade and communication with the humans.
But this special relationship was only required on land, where the cephalopodic K'thellid were unable to walk unaided. The m'nch'k lived close to the surface, ready to bond and serve when the need arose.
When the fallen withdrew from Portside, the landmounts had adopted it as their habitat.
The strange, box-like alien object which lay sparking in the shallow waters of portside drew the attention of the landmounts first. One by one, their carapaces glittering in the twilight, they began to fill the long-abandoned street. Some emerged from underwater boreholes which led up from the under city; some crept out from dank and derelict buildings, long-since converted into shelters from the sea; others had been scavenging along the abandoned portside streets.
Since the arrival of the fallen, the landmounts had developed a row of rudimentary eyes, which lined the forward edge of their exoskeleton. Their similarity to crabs was superficial. They had eight legs, or peraeopods, which they used to scuttle forwards or to sidle, and two much bigger forelimbs. The larger of these was an opposable claw, while the smaller ended with a flat horny blade which resembled an organic scoop or shovel. Like crabs, their torso was protected by a solid, convex exo-skeleton, but there the resemblance ended. They were far more intelligent than a crab, with large deep-set brains, and they were omnivorous, with soft, unprotected bellies and multiple digestive systems leaving their low-slung undersides exposed and vulnerable.
Despite this top-heavy, pot bellied appearance, it was only a matter of a few minutes for dozens of landmounts to completely surround K9.
Uncertain of their discovery, the creatures pushed and prodded. Some recoiled as bolts of mild electrical discharge coursed through their bodies. Others, connecting the pain to the sparks coming from K9's neck, also concluded that the robot was not a native of the sea.
Scooping him up, one of the m'nch'k lifted him from the water, setting him gently into a depression set into the back of another. At the base of this depression, lay a pair of large sphincters, which opened as K9's body was lowered towards them.
The sphincters spewed out thick globs of white mucus, which stuck fast to K9's underside. A pair of tendrils then slid from the sphincters, wrapping around K9 and fixing him tight. The m'nch'k then bowed low. Unable to guarantee the waterproofing process, it waited for its kin to complete the task.
Adjusting K9's head with its scoop, another of the landmounts leaned forward, opening its mouth wide. Again mucus sprayed forwards, completely encasing the robot.
There was a squeal, and another landmount clattered forward. Unlike the other m'nch'k, it had a rider. A squid-like K'thellid perched on top of its mount, its location exactly corresponding to that of K9. Its beak clattered, and its tentacles waved. The m'nch'k beneath it squealed and chittered at K9's mount, which continued the dialogue.
Like K9, the K'thellid was fixed to its landmount by a web of thick mucus. While K9's covering was white and sticky, the K'thellid's bond with its mount had already set, and now formed a transparent shell which held it in place.
The two landmounts bobbed and turned together, sidling towards the sea, where the water level began to rise. By the time they were submerged, K9's protective coating had cleared and solidified. He was completely safe in a watertight cocoon as they slipped into a bolt hole, crawling downwards through a spiralling underground tunnel, taking their discovery deeper and deeper into the caverns which lay far beneath the city's water table.
Time on K'thellid wasn't measured in hours, but by the colour of the sunlight. The twilight cycle was divided into three shifts, blue, yellow, and red, and each shift was further subdivided by the finer colours of the spectrum. The transition from violet to indigo signalled the beginning of the working day.
For Sheriff Aldus, this transition went unnoticed. He was asleep on the job, his head propped up by his arm, still clutching a tea towel as he snoozed at the duty desk whilst waiting to be relieved by his deputy, Sergeant Malthus. It wasn't uncommon for him to snooze when things were quiet, and since the Guard had relaunched its campaign against the K'thellid he was prone to a level of over tiredness which even the morning ale couldn't keep at bay.
The bad dreams hadn't helped. They started on the day after the attacks on the K'thellid began, and had been eating away at his resolve ever since.
First came the light, breaking out of the darkness. It was the white shift of the Oculus, burning brightly. It stared down at him, its pupil wide, and blinking. Beyond the flares of light, the contours of the sun would assume the shape of a great, alien eye.
The eye would grow and grow as it moved ever closer towards him, softening to change from its alien form into that of an elegant human woman.
"What?" Aldus was never quite sure what was happening. The woman before him wore a traditional silver battlesuit over the more formal heliotrope robes of her college. Her hair was tied back and ornately shaped into a glittering bun, encrusted with gemstones mined from deep beneath Mount Madronal.
"Aldus." Her voice was aloof. Regal. Commanding. The woman's appearance was familiar, but not enough that he could instantly place it.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Do you not recognise your Queen?"
"You?" Aldus was confused. "You're not my Queen."
She ignored his protest, and pressed her inquiry. "Why do you continue your war on the K'thellid?"
Aldus shook his head. "If you were truly my Queen, you'd know that it's your war, not mine. You brought us here. It's your name that rallies us."
The phantom Pengallia shook her head sadly. "I made peace with the K'thellid."
"Lies," he denied her word, "religious propaganda."
"Truth," she pressed. "The peace was by my command."
"No." He looked around, but found that he was surrounded by the darkness once more. Except for her face.
"You aren't real," he argued. None of this is real. The menks are behind this."
"I am your Queen."
"No," he continued. "It's the menks playing with my mind." He turned away, addressing the invisible audience he was convinced lay beyond the darkness. "Get out of my head!"
"Not until you leave the K'thellid alone," said Pengallia.
"That will never happen!"
"Then I shall be here every night, Aldus. Watching you. Torturing you."
Aldus backed away, flailing in the dark. As he struggled against her words the Queen's face reared up at him from every direction, oppressing him, and forcing him out of his dream and back into reality.
"Are you alright?" A voice roused him. It was Sergeant Malthus reporting for duty. Aldus blinked. He was shivering, and his face was covered in a thin film of cold sweat.
"Morning, Sheriff," bellowed the sergeant, unsure that his manager was fully awake.
"What? Oh, Malthus. Sorry," he mopped his face with the tea towel. "I must have nodded off."
"No worries, boss. I'll get some tea on." Malthus was a slight man, with thinning hair, thick sideburns and a bushy moustache. Unlike the Sheriff, he was wide awake.
"You managed to get some rest then," said Aldus. "How's Melosa?"
"Not well," said Malthus, sombrely. His wife was dying, her cells slowly breaking down as carcinogens spread through her body. Dr. Tavic had given her only a few days to live, and the sergeant had been maintaining a bedside vigil. "She slept through the night, though. I'm sorry I couldn't join you."
Aldus dismissed the offer. "You had more important things. Although you were sorely missed."
"The lads behave themselves?"
"They were a little over-zealous, as usual, but at least it focuses their energies. Better to have them beating up a menk than causing trouble on my streets. There was," he paused, "just the one complication. We were caught."
"Caught?" Malthus started, "who by?"
"Well that's just it." Aldus was a little embarrassed by the affair, and still couldn't quite come to terms with it. "He was a stranger. Said he was a doctor. We slung him in Cell three until we decided what to do with him."
"He's here? But that's…"
"It's alright Malthus. He didn't see our faces, and he's still wrapped up tight. Can't see a thing. He couldn't possibly know where he is."
"So what's your plan?"
Aldus hadn't been looking forward to this. Whenever he explained an idea to Malthus, he always got the impression that the sergeant would come up with a better one, or else point out the flaws in his plans. "Well, we take him round the block and dump him on the doorstep. You and I help him inside, listen to his story, sympathise, give him a meal and a hot cup of tea, tell him we're dealing with it, and then let him go."
There was a significant pause as Malthus digested the plan. "Just like that?"
"Well, er… I can't see what else we could do short of killing him, and you know my views on that."
"Yes," Malthus agreed, frowning. There were few enough of the fallen left without killing another one. "You said he was a doctor? But it wasn't Dr. Tavic?"
"No. I don't know where he came from."
"Perhaps he could help Melosa?"
Aldus though that suggestion unlikely. Carcinogenesis was the most common cause of death among the fallen. It was invariably fatal. Malthus was obviously clutching at straws. The Sheriff decided to give him a little hope. What harm could it do? "It's possible I suppose," he said. "We can always ask."
"What sort of doctor do you suppose he is?"
Aldus shrugged. "Like I said, he's a complete stranger. His clothes were odd, and he had a robot with him."
"A robot?"
"Yes, a robot with a gun. We destroyed it."
"But how could a stranger and a robot turn up here? Ours is the only settlement outside of the monastery, and between us, you and I must know every citizen on a first-name basis."
It was a good point. Throughout as much of his life as he could remember, Aldus had never seen any outsiders. Ever. The city was, in reality, little more than a big village with a grand name. Everyone knew everyone else, and the only real secret it had kept involved the identities of the Honour Guard, and that had taken years of careful preparation to preserve.
"I have a theory," said Aldus. "I think he must be an ex-monk who decided to leave. He was probably on his way down to join the city when he stumbled across us."
"Hmm." Malthus considered the scenario. "It's possible, I suppose. But they're normally much more formal about it."
"Perhaps he chose to leave on a whim. We can find out when we question him."
"So when were you planning on moving him?"
"I thought the orange shift might be best," suggested Aldus. "We wouldn't want any more witnesses."
"Is that a good idea?"
Aldus winced. He knew there must be a flaw. "What's the problem?"
"He'll need food and water before then," explained the sergeant. "And nobody could mistake your cooking, Sheriff."
"Gods of Profanity, you're right. I'd better deal with him now."
Teyamat had escorted Romana to a private chamber, set in the highest tower of the monastery which, the old woman told her, overlooked the gardens. It was a fairly spacious chamber, which the old crone identified as that used by Pengallia during her brief reign as Regent of K'thellid. At its centre lay a grand four-poster bed, scattered with jewel-encrusted pillows and surrounded by a variety of silver incense and candle stands.
The floor was covered with a plush lilac rug, into which the Patrex Seal had been picked out in a deeper shade of the more traditional heliotrope. The walls were mirrored, reflecting the thing rays of brilliant blue light which crept through the cracks in the shuttered blinds. A cone of light settled directly onto a large wooden desk propped against the far wall. It still held some of the Queen's personal effects. There was a holocube, a data pad, a quill and inkpot, a hairbrush, and a small monitor screen set into the lacquered veneer of the desktop.
"You might as well use this room, my child," she had said. "Brother G'thon will be outside should you need him."
"So I'm a prisoner?" Romana had stated, bluntly.
Teyamat chuckled. "Hardly. You are our guest for now, and in a few short hours you will be much, much more."
"What's that supposed to mean?" But before her question could be answered, the old mother had hurried out of the room.
Toying with the Silver Queen's old hairbrush, Romana sat herself down. She still had the Queen's image in her hand, and held it up so she could compare its features to her own. Even the slightest blemish was replicated by the face which stared back at her from the large mirrored wall.
It couldn't be a coincidence. Physically at least, Romanadvoratrelundar and Pengalliadvoramiel were one and the same. Mentally, the former shuddered at the thought.
While his body was curled up in foetal comfort, the Doctor's mind walked in eternity.
The stars of the universe stretch out to infinity as he walked through the vast conceptual ocean of his mind. A shoal of happy memories swam by, shifting direction to avoid the dark shade of one of his encounters with the Cybermen. Rooted beneath his feet, the well worn cobbles which held his childhood echoed with each footfall, while overhead the distant shade of his future self watched and waited.
Ahead of him, at the end of the path, stood of granite monolith, a conceptual version of the tychomnemonic array he had encountered in the forest. Unlike its real-world counterpart, the Doctor's dream-analogue had a keyhole, located at the centre of the spiral symbols etched into its surface.
Taking the TARDIS key from around his neck, the Doctor reached forward, inserting it into the lock. He gave the key a quarter turn, and the symbols on the block of granite changed shape, shifting into a version of Old High Gallifreyan with which the Doctor was familiar. He scanned the words.
They revealed the knowledge he had already assimilated. The history of K'thellid, the first strike, the War, the coming of the Silver Queen, a record of her treachery, and finally the resolution. There was nothing here he didn't know.
He turned the key again, another quarter turn.
This time, the Doctor felt strong resistance. The key could not complete its action. It was as the Doctor suspected. There was more data hidden away, waiting to be released by a second mnemonic lock. Without knowing, or encountering, the trigger, the Doctor would not find what he was looking for.
The monolith faded. The stars receded and the memory shoals darted away into the distance.
The Doctor was back in his body. He could feel the rub of the sack-cloth, the cut of his bonds, and the movement of his body as it shifted slightly. He sensed that he was mobile again, tied to the back of a similar steed to that which brought him from the forest. It was moving at a gentle canter, hooves clopping against the cobbles.
After several minutes the Doctor felt himself ungraciously dumped onto solid ground. It was a gentle drop, and he gathered he was now lying at the entrance to the City Constabulary, just where Aldus said he would be left. Silently, he started counting. At less than thirty, an unfamiliar voice acknowledged his presence.
"What the…" it said melodramatically. The Doctor felt himself poked, prodded, patted and then dragged across the cobbles and up a set of steps. The stone ridges dug into his back as his 'saviour' hauled him into the entrance hall.
"Sheriff!" Sergeant Malthus bellowed. "Get over here."
The Doctor felt his bonds loosen, and the sack drawn over his body. He stayed as limp as he could, feigning semi-consciousness as the sergeant checked him over.
"What's going on, Malthus?"
"I found this fellow dumped on our doorstep, boss."
"What? That's outrageous!" Aldus, the Time Lord reckoned, was a much worse actor than Malthus.
The Doctor snapped his eyes open wide, flashing a broad and uncompromising grin. "Hello." He beamed cheerily.