Doctor Who: Planet of Fire (4 page)

Turlough decided the time had come to confess his guilty secret. The Doctor must be stopped from contacting the Trion ship. He coughed nervously. ‘Doctor, there’s something I ought to tell you.’

Peri was dreaming again; the same recurring nightmare.

She was a little girl once more, sent to bed in disgrace.

‘Don’t put out the light!’ she pleaded with her stepfather.

‘Please, Howard. Don’t put out the light!’

Suddenly, there was energy. Kamelion could feel the restorative power in his circuits. ‘Please, Howard... Please, Howard...’ An irresistible force began to transform his now dazzling metal carapace. ‘Howard! Howard!’ The shining silver skin transmuted to a suit of sober cloth.

‘Howard.,. Howard...’

The robot’s burnished head transmogrified into the face of Howard Foster. The robot’s new
alter ego
got to his feet, pulled apart his black jacket and white shirt, and plugged himself into the cable trailing from the computer outlet.

There was a flash and a puff of smoke.

‘Oh, dear,’ said the Doctor, who had been connecting the data core with the TARDIS computer system. ‘Now we’ll never know where the beacon came from.’

Turlough smiled.

‘What was it you wanted to tell me by the way?’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Turlough. much relieved.

The Doctor looked quizzically at his companion. The boy had been worrying about something all day. ‘Anything wrong, Turlough?’

The interrogation got no further for the double doors abruptly, and quite spontaneously, slammed shut.

‘Did you do that?’ asked the Doctor.

‘Of course not,’ said Turlough, just as surprised.

The column began to rise and fall.

‘The TARDIS has dematerialised,’ exclaimed the Doctor.

‘Kamelion!’

‘Impossible. He’s out for the count.’

Any further speculation on the destination of their mystery trip was cut short by the arrival in the control room of a smiling American in a dark, well-cut suit.

‘Doctor, we meet again.’

The Doctor turned to the newcomer in amazement.

‘Professor Foster!’

The robot, perfectly disguised, continued to act out the role of the archaeologist. ‘This has to be the most amazing machine I’ve seen in my life.’ He gazed round the control room in assumed astonishment.

‘How did you get in here?’ protested Turlough.

‘I was following Peri,’ drawled the duplicate professor.

`The girl!’ cried Turlough. ‘I forgot all about her.’

‘What girl?’

‘I was going to explain,’ said a rather shamefaced companion. But he had left it a bit too late as the Doctor was already staring, nonplussed, at the inner doorway where a young lady in blouse and shorts stood blinking, equally amazed, at the mysteries of the TARDIS control room. ‘
That
girl, Doctor!’ hissed Turlough in a loud stage whisper.

4

The sky above Sarn had been dark for seven whole days.

Black rain had fallen on the fields. The earth had began to tremble and shake. A pall of smoke hung over the Fire Mountain. The darkness and the quaking ground had not come to Sarn for nearly a whole generation, and only the old people could recall the last days of endurance. From every corner of the ancient settlement, the citizens were hurrying to hear the wisdom of the Elders and the judgement of their Chosen One.

Timanov stared out past the crumbling columns of the elegant pagoda towards the smouldering mountain. Not for seventy years had he seen such a lowering prospect. At the last crisis he had been hardly more than a child. Now, he was Chief Elder of the Sarns, who would turn to him for guidance in the testing days ahead. Perhaps, he thought gloomily. his own misguided benevolence was in some way to blame for the hardship they were about to endure. He turned to the young boy at his side. ‘Of course, in my father’s time, Unbelievers were sent to the fire.’

‘That was barbaric!’ replied his companion, appalled at the brutal customs of the not so distant past.

The old man smiled. ‘A little over zealous, perhaps. But in those days, Malkon, people did not tolerate dissidents as they do now.’

‘The Unbelievers are harmless, Timanov.’

The Chief Elder looked uneasily at his young protégé.

The boy had picked up too many liberal opinions. ‘It is still a wise precaution to send an occasional freethinker to his death. A burning encourages respect for our traditions.’

The boy seemed nervous. ‘I could never order a burning!’

Timanov sighed. He was fond enough of the child, but a Chosen One should be made of sterner stuff. He put his arm on Malkon’s shoulder. ‘You will be given strength.’

The young man looked sad and frightened, overwhelmed by his responsibilities. ‘Don’t be worried, my boy,’

continued the old man. ‘It can be a most rewarding experience, and a blessed relief for those who are consumed in the flames. Doubters are such unhappy people.’

‘Is it not sometimes good to doubt?’ asked Malkon gravely.

Timanov was near despair. How could Logar have wished on them this milksop for a leader? How could this soft-hearted youth, with his scruples and his cringing sensitivity, be the child who had emerged from the Sacred Fire? He would need to be stronger with the boy. ‘Come, Malkon.’ He pointed towards the Hall of Fire. ‘It is time for you to speak to the people.’

Malkon stared unhappily at the faded mosaic on the floor. ‘Why me?’ he pleaded, as he had pleaded a hundred times and more with his elderly tutor.

‘It is the will of Logar, Lord of the Fire Mountain!’ the old man cried. He drew back a corner of the boy’s white robe and with his gnarled hand grabbed hold of Malkon’s slender arm. The boy could not bear to look at the fateful birth mark, the two overlapping triangles branded into his flesh.

‘You carry his sign,’ the old man reminded him, ‘You, Malkon, and you alone.’

Roskal and Amyand were very frightened. The higher the two men climbed the hotter it grew and the more densely swirled the clouds of choking, sulphurous smoke. The ground trembled, there was an ominous rumbling and the two climbers looked fearfully towards the summit. For a moment they hesitated, appalled by the power that might, at any moment, be released, and in awe of their own audacity; for no man before had dared climb the Mountain of Fire.

‘I can’t breathe,’ gasped Roskal. ‘My feet are burning.’

Amyand was as terrified as his younger companion, but hid his fear. ‘Perhaps Logar will be waiting with a cool drink and new shoes,’ he joked nervously.

Loath to confront what lay above of them in the crown of black, fissile rock, both men rested for a while. The valley stretched beneath them–mile upon parched, grey mile of sterile pumice, calcinated rock and arid clinker.

But it was not an entirely sombre view. In myriad strips of fertile soil, crops awaited harvesting and flowers of every colour bloomed. Across the valley lay the city, with its fine houses, paved streets and grand public buildings, which, though crumbling, had survived the destruction of every other settlement. Yet no one knew who had designed such munificence, least of all Amyand and Roskal, as they clung to the shaking slopes of the Fire Mountain.

‘We must go on,’ said Amyand.

Roskal nodded grimly. If they gave up now. nothing would stop the burnings and the human sacrifices to the Lord of Fire.

The last few yards to the summit were the worst.

Smoking rock seared their feet and blistered their hands as they fought to haul themselves up, up... And on to the very rim of the smoking crater. They stood exhausted, gasping for breath. Before them was a vast saucer of smouldering ash. ‘There’s nothing there!’ cried Roskal triumphantly.

‘There’s nothing there!’ repeated his companion, and began to laugh with pure relief.

The Hall of Fire was one of the finest buildings in Sarn, its fluted columns, vaulted ceilings and marble pavements surviving the many earthquakes miraculously intact. Now it was filled with citizens, perturbed by the trembling earth, the darkness and the rumours of the all-consuming flames. Many of them were angry too, at the edict forbidding them to harvest their crops, and the old protocol that would not allow them to hide and protect themselves from the danger that was to come.

Sorasta looked out through the pillared transept, across the valley to the Fire Mountain. By now Amyand and Roskal should be on their way back to the Hall. Their testimony would bring to an end years of barbarity and superstition. The young woman spoke urgently to a group of men from her own street. ‘Take as much food and water as you can store. We may be under ground for many days.’

‘Unbelievers!’ hissed an old greybeard.

‘We must go to the caves,’ shouted Sorasta defiantly.

The entry of the six Elders onto a raised platform at the end of the Hall silenced the arguments that raged in every corner of the assembly. Behind the six old men came Timanov himself, leading the timid, pale boy.

Malkon felt his mouth go dry as he stared at the sea of faces and tried to remember the lines the old man had rehearsed him. ‘Citizens of Sarn,’ he stammered. ‘You have all seen the smoke from the Fire Mountain and the black rain, and have felt the quaking ground...’ He tried to stop his own hands and feet from shaking, ‘These signs tell us it is the Time of Fire.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Timanov who gave him a curt nod. ‘Logar, the Lord of Fire, is testing our faith,’ continued the reluctant Chosen One.

‘Testing our common sense!’ heckled one of the young men from below. There was a murmur of sympathy from throughout the Hall.

Malkon wished he had words of his own to answer the Unbelievers, but he only knew what the old man had told him. ‘Soon Logar will send a sea of fire from the heart of the mountain,’ he declaimed mechanically.

‘Then we must evacuate the city,’ shouted another Unbeliever to a chorus of agreement.

‘We must follow the tradition of our ancestors. We must show no fear,’ persisted the boy. But the crowd was growing restless and the citizens were beginning to talk amongst themselves. ‘We must not abandon our homes.’

Malkon tried to go on, but angry voices opposed him everywhere. ‘We must do...
nothing
!’ cried the boy, unable to believe his own words.

‘What about our crops!’ shouted one of the men who had been conspiring with Sorasta.

‘Our crops! Our crops!’ chorused the indignant Sarns.

Seeing that the tongue-tied Malkon had no answer, Timanov stepped forward and raised his hand. ‘Leave them unharvested!’ he cried. ‘The fields must burn as an oblation to Logar and a measure of our faith.’

‘We need bread not faith!’ shouted one of the women contemptuously.

‘You shall have both,’ replied their Chief Elder.

The crowd grew silent, impressed by the weight of Timanov’s authority.

‘Once in every generation our faith is put to the test. If we submit to Logar and are not found wanting. we survive and prosper. Then, as our reward, the Outsider will come.’

But there was still much doubt. For those who had grown up in prosperous times, it had been easy to pay lip service to the idea of being saved from the fire by an agency beyond Sarn. Now that they could see the smoke and darkness it was more difficult to accept. Perhaps the Unbelievers were right: that no one would guard them from the danger but themselves.

Timanov smiled. ‘The Outsider will protect us. He will bring an abundance of good things. There will be food and many rich gifts...’

‘No!’

The citizens turned from Timanov to the steps leading up to the columned hall from the street. Amyand and Roskal stood in the entrance. They were breathless and covered with black pumice dust. They were triumphant. ‘It is a lie!’ cried Amyand. ‘There is no Logar!’

‘Heretic! Unbeliever!’ howled Timanov.

‘We have climbed the mountain,’ boasted the young man.

The crowd gasped and the Elders grew pale.

‘It is death to trespass on the Mountain of Fire,’

whispered Timanov.

‘We have climbed and we live!’ declared Amyand. ‘For generations our people have been the slaves of fear. No more.’

Several of the crowd cheered. Amyand pushed his way through the excited citizens until he stood at the base of the stone dias. He stared straight at the Chief Elder. ‘We have seen with our own eyes.’ He turned again to the people. ‘There is no Logar!’ he cried.

There was more applause. The Elders were losing control.

‘If we are to survive on Sarn,’ continued the young Unbeliever, ‘we must learn to believe in ourselves and conquer the power of the Fire Mountain.’

Timanov strode angrily to the edge of the platform.

‘Heretic!’ he thundered at Amyand. ‘You will burn for this!’ But none of the guards moved. There was far too much sympathy for the Unbelievers.

‘We will all burn unless we go to the shelters,’ shouted Roskal from the centre of the assembly, to be answered by a roar of agreement.

‘Citizens!’ cried out Timanov, again. ‘You cannot escape Logar’s anger. He will pour his fire into your hiding places...’

Amyand jumped up to the dais, pushing the Chief Elder roughly aside. ‘The old order is finished,’ he jeered. ‘Now we will live by reason and common sense.’

The Elders looked nervously from one to another, powerless to enforce their authority. Timanov looked around for the boy, but Malkon had reheated to the far end of the platform. It seemed they were lost. For their pride and disobedience, the city would be consumed in the flames that had destroyed all the other habitations. He tinned to the Mountain, raised both arms in supplication and cried in a great voice. ‘Oh, Logar! Send us a sign!’

There was silence throughout the Hall of Fire which was broken by a sudden roar. Flames began to burn behind Timanov’s head. The Elders turned to the cave in the rock wall behind the raised platform. guarded by a rough iron grille. The grotto was filled with a raging fire. As the Elders staggered back from the heat, the ground began to shake, stones clattered hunt the walls and the distant mountain thundered. The mood of the crowd was changed irr an instant.