Doctor Who: The Twin Dilemma (8 page)

As stated, Professor Zarn won the Atral-Freed award for his efforts. Not only did he gain a great deal of prestige, but also a lot of money, which the foolish man insisted on spending on even bigger, longer and more outrageous parties.

One night, while more than usually under the influence of Voxnic, Zarn decided to freshen himself up a little with a session in his revitalising modulator.

Unfortunately, he took into the machine a bottle of Voxnic.

Nowadays the principles governing the modulator are fully understood, but at that time it wasn't known that two things act rather strangely under the influence of Ferrail rays.

The first is Voxnic; the second is glass.

When Zarn had finished his session in the machine, the door opened automatically. But instead of the revitalised Professor, there was nothing to be seen but an enormous bottle of Voxnic.

What had happened was this. When the Professor and Voxnic had been atomised, the Ferrail rays had caused the molecules of the alcoholic beverage to become hostile. Each Voxnic mole'cule had lined up with one of the Professor's, absorbed it and then used the sudden intake of energy to reproduce an exact copy of itself.

Therefore, when the process was completed, there was a great deal of cloned Voxnic and no Zarn.

The bottle had enlarged itself in a similar way.

The saddest thing of all was that the bottle was discovered by a particularly drunken group of the Professor's guests, who drank it dry without a second thought.

This, of course, wouldn't happen to Azmael, partly because he knew about Zarn's unfortunate accident, but mainly because there wasn't any Voxnic in the safe house.

Cautiously, the elderly Time Lord entered the revitalising modulator, sealed the door behind him and set the control for sterilisation. It was vital that the atmosphere in the modulator was free of all foreign bodies, as the presence of an insect, for instance, could prove more devastating than Professor Zarn's liquid experience. To be drunk by your friends is bad enough, but to be ostracised by your social peers because you had suddenly the head and habits of a veedle fly (see Masters and Johnson's Social and Sexual Life of the Veedle Fly for the disgusting details of its behaviour pattern) would be too much.

With the cleansing process complete, Azmael set the timer to four minutes, switched on the master control and listened as the machine purred into life. Then slowly, very slowly, his body began to dissolve into a billion spheres of dancing red and white lights which glittered and sparkled as they swirled around the modulator.

The master control clicked automatically and the bombardment of Ferrail rays began. The relief of Azmael's tired molecules was instant. Although reduced to his component parts, Azmael's conscious mind remained active, allowing him to enjoy the refreshing experience as it occurred.

As the Ferrail rays continued their relaxing work, the elderly Time Lord considered staying in the modulator forever. There were worse ways, he reckoned, of spending life than being gently pummelled and massaged into an oblivion of ecstasy. Outside the machine was only heartache, frustration, anger and disappointment. Why not leave it there? he thought. Inside the modulator he was safe, happy secure.

But he was wrong.

At first he paid no attention to the minute deviation in the purr of the machine. He had no reason to. It had done it many times before. After all, it was quite old and in need of servicing.

Even when he became aware of a strong smell, not unlike that of rotting vegetation, he still paid little attention. It wasn't until the odour had developed into a near stench that he began to worry.

But then it was too late.

Unable to leave the modulator until the timer had run its course, Azmael concentrated with all his effort to eradicate the nauseating sensation. But the harder he tried, the more powerful the presence became.

Then as suddenly as the smell had arrived, it was gone. Slowly, Azmael allowed himself to relax. As he did, he began to feel a familiar but unpleasant sensation - the presence of another consciousness in his own mind.

It was Mestor!

Poor Azmael. The only place he ever felt safe and alone had been violated by the thing he hated most.

'I know you're here,' said the Time Lord nervously.

There was a loud harsh intake of breath and the sickly, sibilant voice of Mestor began to bombard his mind.

The gastropod was, as always, angry. He had expected an all out attack by the Earth authorities, which had not materialised. This delay had meant a waste of vital time and Mestor wanted Azmael to suffer as it was his carelessness that had first led the now destroyed starfighters to Titan Three.

Even though the gastropod now knew that the Earth authorities had been horrified by the sudden loss of six of their finest and deadliest warships, and that they had recalled all their patrols in anticipation of an attack on the planet, he still had to exercise his revenge.

The attack continued until Azmael felt he was about to die.

But Mestor was not a fool. He still needed Azmael in one piece. As he sensed the Time Lord's mind crumbling, he withdrew, leaving what felt like a screaming silence in the old man's head. This was, for a moment, almost as painful as the verbal onslaught.

As the modulator came to the end of its timed cycle. the automatic control clicked once more and the door of the machine slid silently open. Azmael, looking and feeling more wretched than when he had entered, staggered out.

As he lowered himself into an easy chair, Noma and Drak entered.

'We are to return to Jaconda,' he said, trying to hide the strain in his voice.

Noma and Drak exchanged a furtive glance.

'Orders of Mestor. We are to leave at once.'

'But there is importance maintenance to be done on the ship,' said Drak.

'It must be done in flight. Now make the ship ready!'

Drak and Noma bowed, neither of them very pleased at the sudden change of plan, whether the order had come directly from Mestor or not.

Long skeletal shadows stretched across the surface of Titan Three, as the blue star, known as Singos Forty-Two, seemed to perch on its horizon, like an oval Humpty Dumpty on a wall. Soon it would be gone, its duty to spread light and warmth on the far side of the barren planet.

Peri had never seen a blue sun before and wished that the circumstances under which she was watching it were more agreeable.

The hump the Doctor had spotted on the scanner-screen in the TARDIS had proved elusive, and with the light rapidly failing, would probably remain so.

The wind had also grown colder and stronger and had started to whip the grey surface dust into mini dunes.

The thought of spending the night in the open did not appeal to Peri, for she knew that once the sun had set, they would not be able to find their way back to the TARDIS. She crouched down, embraced herself and gave a little shiver. Already the bottom edge of the sun had slipped below the horizon, giving the appearance of having been subjected to the efforts of a massive eraser.

Peri shivered again as a tiny avalanche of grit and pebbles cascaded down a nearby rock face. Cautiously she looked up and saw the Doctor, perched on top of a hillock, scanning the horizon like an Apache warrior.

Since leaving the TARDIS, the Doctor had abandoned his Sherlock Holmes persona, been Hern the Hunter for five minutes, someone called Musk, who Peri gathered was considered to be the greatest explorer in the known universe, and something resembling a country squire on a brisk walk around his estate.

The light continued to fade.

Suddenly there was a loud shout and Peri thought the Doctor had fallen. Frantically her eyes searched the rock face for his broken body, but saw that he was still on his rocky summit, this time statue-like, pointing westward into the fast disappearing sun.

Peri followed the direction in which the finger was pointing, but could see nothing but more rocky outcrops.

With the speed and agility of a practised mountain goat, the Time Lord bounded down from his observation point and set off across the bleak landscape, intent on stalking whatever he had seen.

Brushing the grey surface dust from her clothes, Peri followed.

Although only walking, the Doctor seemed to be covering the ground at an enormous speed. Peri's efforts to catch him up were not helped by the impractical high-heeled boots she was wearing, which were constantly snagged by the uneven terrain.

As the Doctor disappeared around the edge of an outcrop of rock, Peri became a little panicky. She knew that to lose him now could cost her life. Desperately she broke into a run, thoughts of sprained or broken ankles vanished from her mind.

As she rounded the outcrop herself, Peri saw the now stationary Time Lord silhouetted against the receding sun. He seemed transfixed by something ahead of him. It wasn't until Peri drew alongside the Doctor that she saw the enormous freighter half hidden in a ravine. To one side, on higher ground, was the dome they had seen from the TARDIS.

Again, without speaking, the Doctor moved off, but to his companion's surprise, neither towards the ship or dome, but to a point mid-way between.

Peri tottered after him, again cursing her foolish footwear. She wanted to cry out and ask the Doctor for help, but she doubted he would hear her as he had now started to scratch at a pile of rocks, like a dog searching for a buried bone.

Quickly, he demolished the pile and Peri could see there was a metal trap door set into the ground. How the Doctor knew it was there Peri would never know, but what was beneath it she was about to find out.

Brushing the last of the grey dust from a small panel set into the trap door, the Doctor felt round its edge and seemed to flick something. Instantly the tiny panel popped open and the Time Lord pressed a sequence of buttons housed in the cavity beneath it.

Slowly, stiffly, painfully, the heavy metal sheet slid back on rusty runners to reveal a dimly lit passage below.

This time the Doctor waited for his companion, helping her descend the steps into what she could now see was some sort of service duct.

Cautiously, she looked around at the heavy pipes and cables mounted on the walls. If the Doctor had bothered to tell her, she would have learnt that it was a supply tunnel between the dome and the landing pad.

Instead, the Doctor ran off towards the dome, Peri following, her high heeled boots echoing on the concrete floor.

If the Doctor had also bothered to mention the ducting was also a walkway, Peri might have advised caution. Instead, all she could do was scream as Noma and Drak stepped from an alcove, handguns levelled ready to fire.

Surprised, Azmael looked up as the heavy, reinforced door that separated the ducting from the main area of the dome slid open, and the Doctor and Peri were bundled in.

'Hi,' said Peri with a large grin, trying to appear like a lost tourist who had inadvertently wandered onto private property. But inside her head, she was terrified.

On the other hand, the Doctor seemed totally indifferent to his situation. Casually, he gazed around the room until his eye settled on the revitalising modulator. It had been years since he had seen such a machine, and he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to use it.

'Where have you come from?' said Azmael, crossing to the Doctor.

'I've no idea,' he said, distractedly, his eye fixed firmly on the modulator. 'But I'd love a go in your machine.'

A hard blow from Noma's gun diverted the Doctor's attention.

'Where have you come from?' Azmael repeated.

For the first time, since entering the room, the Doctor brought his full attention to bear on his interrogator. Although a thick, swirling bank of fog separated his conscious mind from his memory, a tiny, distant, flashing beacon seemed to penetrate the dense void, telling him there was something rather familiar about the face before him.

'What are you doing here?' said the mouth belonging to the face.

Peri looked at the Doctor, hoping he had an acceptable answer.

'I won't ask you again.'

Noma pressed his gun against the Doctor's head. Even this didn't prompt a reply as he was still trying to decipher what the beacon was trying to tell him.

The Doctor's unwell,' said Peri desperately.

'Then you tell me why you're here.' Azmael now sounded tired rather than stern.

'We're pilgrims...' she said.

Noma sniggered.

'It's true. We're here in search of peace -'

Interrupting, Noma snapped. They're spies. Kill them!'

'What I'm telling you is the truth.' Again Peri looked at the Doctor, praying he would support what she was saying, but he didn't seem interested.

'As I've said, the Doctor isn't a well man. He needs a place to meditate...' Peri cursed herself for sounding so unconvincing. 'We were looking for a suitable cave when we stumbled into your service duct.'

Azmael eyed the Doctor's gawdy jacket, then the blouse and skirt Peri was wearing. He had met many pilgrims in his time. All of them had appeared a little mad, but none had allowed their spiritual exuberance to spill into their sartorial trappings in quite the way these two had.

Perhaps Noma was right, Azmael considered. Perhaps they should die. There was too much at stake to risk keeping them alive.

‘I know you!' the Doctor suddenly blurted. The beacon he had spent so much effort and time deciphering now made sense. 'As I live and breathe -Azmael!' The words trumpeted around the room like a fanfare.

The elderly Time Lord looked both confused and embarrassed as the Doctor bounded forward and grasped his hand.

'You old dog,' he said, shaking Azmael's hand with the same enthusiasm a canine wags it tail. 'What in the name of wonder are you doing here?'

Turning to Peri, he continued. This is my old friend and mentor, the Master of Jaconda!'

Azmael snatched his hand back. ‘I am nothing of the kind! I never saw you in my life!'

The Doctor laughed. 'Forgive me, my dear friend. Of course you don't recognise me. I've regenerated twice since our last meeting.'