Doctor Who: The Devil Goblins From Neptune (4 page)

Mark led the way into the sitting room, flicking off the kitchen light as he went. Liz followed, sipping her tea. '1 did hate it. But... Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I'm learning that there are important things going on, beyond the dusty halls of academia.'

Mark snorted, sprawling in a large armchair. Foam leaked on to the brown carpet. 'You were the one who used to disagree with me when I said there's more to life than books.'

'I was joking.'

'I'm not so sure.'

'Times change. People change.' Liz tried to get herself comfortable. 'It's like I said in my last letter. I suppose it's as simple as that.'

Mark smiled again. 'Same old Liz. You were saying that when I first got to know you.'

'I remember saying to Wellington one day - "Nosey," I said...'

John Benton would normally have allowed the mistake to go uncorrected. His respect and admiration for the Doctor knew no bounds, and he realised that, as with all good storytellers, many of the Doctor's tales were at best apocryphal and at worst utterly fabricated. But Benton felt curiously liberated by the wind rushing through his hair and the sun that painted the landscape on one of the first cloudless days of summer.

'Napoleon,' he interjected quickly.

'I beg your pardon?' said the Doctor, clearly annoyed at being contradicted in mid-sentence.

'Last time you told me this story, it was Napoleon,' said Benton sheepishly. He knew the Brigadier wouldn't have tolerated such an interjection, but then he didn't share the Doctor's fully developed sense of humour. Actually, that wasn't really fair on the Brig. Some time ago it had dawned on Benton that - underneath their vastly different exteriors - the Doctor and the Brigadier were remarkably similar in temperament and outlook. Both were men of integrity, passion and honour, and Benton would willingly have walked into a withering barrage of gunfire for either.

'Really,' said the Doctor huffily. He paused for a moment and Benton held his breath, fearing that he had caused offence. But the Doctor was just changing gears on his yellow roadster Bessie, the road having flattened out again. He dabbed the accelerator and turned to face Benton with a beaming smile. 'My dear fellow, I spent a considerable length of time in the Peninsula. I was with a British rifle brigade when I met Sir Arthur Wellesley. And I was a prisoner of the French at Salamanca - 1812 I think it was. I always find it's best to see both sides of both sides, if you see what I mean'

'I didn't really think you approved of war, sir,' said Benton.

The Doctor turned his attention back to the twisting country lane. He sighed as he changed gear for another sharp corner.

Sometimes it's inevitable,' he noted with genuine sadness. 'I'm a man of peace, but I seem to spend much of my time caught up in conflict. The central paradox of my life, perhaps.'

Benton leant back in the seat. 'What's the central paradox of mine?' he asked, fascinated.

'You're far too intelligent for your role in life, Sergeant Benton.'

Benton smiled. 'I'm not so sure, Doctor. I like to know where I stand, and what's expected of me. The army offers me that. Or at least it
did,
until I first bumped into you.'

The Doctor missed the last comment, his eyes far away.

'You know, I'm reminded of the time I met Puccini in Milan...'

Something flickered to their left, a bright light through the shadows of the hedgerows. Probably just the sun glinting off a greenhouse or a wing mirror, thought Benton.

The noise of gunfire came a moment later.

Liz sat on the bed and unpacked her suitcase, deep in thought. The spare room was right at the top of the terrace, the only room on the third storey. It reminded her of a suburban Rapunzel's tower, the roof rising to a mock turret just above the window. The house was as quiet as when she had first arrived, but Mark's new friends would be back soon. For the moment Liz welcomed the peace.

Mark Wilson had moved house soon after Liz had left Cambridge to begin working for UNIT: it was strange to see him in an unfamiliar location, stranger still when so much water had passed under the bridge. Or had it? Mark clearly seemed to think that she was just the same old Liz, and certainly their conversation had been as complex as ever. It was so difficult to tell when Mark was using humour to make a serious point and when he was just trying to make her laugh. Their relationship - such as it was - had always been like that, as if they communicated in two different versions of the same basic code. Their inability to be truly honest with each other had finally scuppered any hint of something more serious and intimate, but, much as Liz would like to think otherwise, she still felt an attraction towards the man, for all his faults.

And it's not like you're little Miss Perfect, she reminded herself.

Still, it was good to be back in Cambridge, but she felt a certain melancholy that the place and the people she had once known so well had so successfully continued without her. She was an alien in a land made strange by the merest shift of time; perhaps that was how the Doctor always felt.

She left her suitcase half unpacked on the bed, and descended the two flights of stairs. Mark was watching the television in the gloom, a childlike expression on his face. He hadn't heard her come down, despite the creaking floorboards of the hallway. She watched him for a moment, his strong features standing out in profile, and wondered what would have happened if she had stayed.

She coughed self-consciously and walked into the room, returning to the uncomfortable sofa.

'Nice room, eh?' said Mark, still watching the television -

one of his more annoying habits. 'We all agreed that the guest room should always be tidy and ready for use. And because we hardly ever go in there it is.'

A face appeared on the television, a face Liz recognised.

'Ah, I see now why you're so interested. Bernard's looking well,' she said.

'Indeed. He's changed a lot since you left.'

'I notice he's still dodging the questions about British Rocket Group's latest unmanned mission to Neptune.'

'You can't blame him, can you? He wants to make sure that everyone comes to the press conference he's organised.

Anyway, we haven't finished analysing the data yet'

'And you're clearly rushed off your feet' Liz's comment sounded a little more sarcastic than she had intended.

'They owe me far more than an afternoon off,' replied Mark, oblivious to anything but the news report. 'Anyway, you can only look at so many figures and blurred photographs in one day.' The newsreader's face appeared, and Mark got to his feet, walking over to the television to turn down the sound. 'I wish we could afford one of those new IE remote-controlled TVs,' he said, returning to his seat and looking at Liz for the first time.

'But then think of all that exercise you'd miss, she said, smiling sweetly.

Four rapid shots took out Bessie's far-side tyres.

'Holy cow.' shouted Benton as the little car howled its own protest amid the squeal of punctured rubber. 'We're under attack!'

'So it seems,' said the Doctor without a hint of irony as he fought to control the car's steering. 'Brace yourself!' The Doctor swung the car towards the nearest hedgerow, gritting his teeth against the pull to one side. The steering wheel shuddered under his hands. He worked at the brakes, deftly avoiding locking the wheels, and Bessie skidded through the hedge. Both Benton and the Doctor were thrown forward as the car ground to a halt, the yellow bonnet wedged firmly into a freshly ploughed field.

'Damn it!' said Benton. 'My rifle's back at HQ. The Brigadier will give me hell about this malarkey.'

The Doctor glanced towards Benton and gave him an infuriating grin. 'Good job you haven't got it. Terrible things, guns. You look as if you've been dragged through a hedge backwards, Sergeant Benton.' He jumped from Bessie, patting the side of the car affectionately. 'There, there, old girl,' worse things happen at sea.'

Benton went to step down on to the field, but the Doctor stopped him. 'No, Sergeant, you stay and get on the radio.'

With that the Doctor disappeared through the hole in the hedge and stepped out on to the road. He brushed dirt from his

velvet jacket as his eyes scanned the hedgerows.

He saw his attackers a moment before they emerged from their foxholes in the undergrowth. There were four of them, dressed completely in black, with boot-polished faces and balaclavas. Only one carried a rifle; the other three seemed to be unarmed. The Doctor watched with a mixture of curiosity, understanding, and anger as the dark figures came closer, their movements precise and balletic.

'Do I take it that you gentlemen were attempting to attract my attention?' the Doctor asked reasonably. There was no reply. 'I notice that your large friend is carrying a Simonov SKS automatic machine gun,' he said conspiratorially towards the closest attacker. 'In which case I assume you are members of the Spetsnaz. My congratulations, gentlemen, an almost textbook ambush.' Again there was no response.

The Doctor tried again, this time in Russian. The flicker of recognition in their eyes indicated that they understood him, but still they said nothing.

The man closest to the Doctor stepped forward, then, with catlike elegance, assumed an attacking posture, feet wide apart, one arm outstretched.

'You seem to be a martial-arts expert of some description,' the Doctor said, barely suppressing a smile. 'I should warn you that I am a tenth dan master in all of the major disciplines: Venusian aikido, Saturnian kung-fu. I trained as a Ninja on Quinnis in Galaxy Four. I'm not boasting, you understand. But I don't believe a physical confrontation is in either of our interests'

No sooner had the words left his lips than the man attacked. It was a classic frontal karate assault, step-kick-grab, practised on a parade ground until the moves were automatic. The man's hands were doubtless considered deadly weapons in his homeland but the Doctor parried the move easily, chopping the man to the ground with an exaggerated cry of 'Haiii!'

The other men looked stunned by the ease with which the Doctor had dealt with their colleague, but before another could take his place they were distracted by a cry from further down the road. Benton had emerged with a large tree branch in his hands to use as a weapon. The attackers turned, and the man with the rifle raised it quickly to his shoulder.

'No!' the Doctor shouted. 'There's no need for anyone to die, gentlemen,' he added quickly. The two unarmed men turned back towards the Doctor, their companion continuing to train his gun on Benton. 'Sergeant,' the Doctor said with a resigned smile, ‘you really do have the most irritating habit of doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Drop the weapon and stay very still. We can sort this out peacefully.'

Benton complied. Although the gun remained on him, the armed man lowered it slightly.

The Doctor spoke to his attackers in Russian. 'You realise, of course, that the sergeant will have contacted the military by now. Within minutes this entire area will be crawling with jackbooted bully boys who fire first and ask questions later. UNIT are known for their shoot-to-kill policy.

And you wouldn't want to die on a nice day like this for no good reason, would you?' As his voice trailed away, he could hear the distant sounds of a helicopter engine. He pointed to the sky. 'You've got two minutes. Run.'

The three men looked at each other, then back towards the Doctor. As one, they sprinted into the shadows of the road, and out on to the fields.

Benton stood rooted to the spot, watching the Doctor walk towards him as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 'What was all that about?' asked the soldier.

'Part rationalism, part hypnotic suggestion. I've always been quite good at that sort of thing. As I am at saving your life, seemingly.' His final words were drowned by the noise of the incoming helicopter. A tall, dark-moustached soldier dropped to the ground just before the helicopter landed. He carried a Browning 9mm pistol in one hand, and was followed by four heavily armed UNIT soldiers.

'Ah, Lethbridge-Stewart,' said the Doctor amicably. 'I'd appreciate it if you could have a few of your stout fellows get my car out of that field. Poor old thing.'

'Doctor, what on Earth happened?'

'A minor incident, Brigadier, nothing more.' said the Doctor.

'Sergeant Benton!' barked the Brigadier. 'Report!'

'Sir,' said Benton, snapping to attention. 'Some five minutes beyond the base we were attacked by four men, one of them armed. He shot at the car, hitting the tyres. The Doctor fought off this man' - he pointed to the prone figure of the Doctor's first attacker - 'and the other three... escaped, sir.'

The Brigadier inspected the man on the ground, and then stood up, shaking his head. 'We won't get much out of him, I'm afraid. He's dead!'

'That's impossible,' said the Doctor, horrified. 'I barely touched the man.' He knelt down, checked for a pulse, and then stared closely at the man's face and lips. 'Cyanide capsule,' he said flatly. 'He'd rather die than be captured.' He felt a moment's anger and slapped his palm on to the ground next to the body. 'I abhor needless death, Brigadier!'

'I agree, Doctor. And your death would have been particularly unnecessary.' replied the Brigadier.

'Don't be a fool, Lethbridge-Stewart. If they had wanted me dead they could have killed me at any stage. They could have shot me, instead of Bessie's tyres. No, they were trying to kidnap me. ‘The Doctor paused and looked into the shadows of the road as if the answers lay there. 'I wonder why...'

'I for one don't intend to give them a chance to satisfy your curiosity, Doctor. From now on you will be accompanied at all times by at least three armed men.'

'That's ridiculous!' protested the Doctor.

'You say that about most of my decisions, Doctor,' said Lethbridge-Stewart, turning back towards the helicopter as if the

conversation was at an end.

'And I'm usually right,' commented the Doctor under his breath