BBC Cult - Printer Friendly Version
Chapter Six - Chapter Six

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Violence

An attendant's voice crackled from Jafrid's earclip. 'Your steam tank is ready, General. The temperature is set at four hundred zinods.'

Jafrid stretched his four limbs to their fullest limits, feeling the hydraulic units inside tense and relax in sympathy. 'Thank you. Just what's needed. Joints are aching.' He lowered his webbing and shuffled out of it, his plastron sagging slightly as he padded towards the door that led from the control room. He passed the Environments Officer and said, 'Tuzelid, keep me informed, I'll be in the hot-tub. Has that Doctor made it over yet?'

'Not yet, sir.' He rubbed the side of his chin and said, 'I'm so glad everything's calmed down again, sir.' He pointed to his screens. All the displays were calm and comparatively empty. 'That's the way I like to see them.'

Jafrid grunted his agreement. A small flashing green dot on one panel caught his attention. 'What's that, then?'

Tuzelid followed his gaze and his posture changed, his rear end lifting in the natural Chelonian display of shock. 'Faf! Sir, that's the First Pilot's life trace!'

Jafrid had never fully understood the machinery and the jargon of the control room. 'What does that mean?'

Tuzelid hunched over his controls and his front feet moved urgently over several of the sense-panels. 'Seskwa. Respond.' There was no reply from the speaker grille above his head, not even a wash of static.

'Has something gone wrong?' Jafrid felt an unpleasant sliding sensation. His world was unbalancing again. 'Patch in to the tank.'

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Tuzelid did some more fiddling with his instruments, and the control room's big screen lost its aerial view of the war zone and went blank. 'No image.'

'Use the satellite, then,' urged Jafrid. 'It's probably only a technical fault.'

As if to contradict him the screen fizzed and sprung back to life with an enhanced satellite image. It was night, and the contours of the zone were picked out in a dull purple. The satellite's roving eye, as directed by Tuzelid, aimed for the last known location of the tank, its field zooming closer and closer in until it was strained to its limits. At the exact centre of the screen was a pulsing green aura. Tuzelid enhanced the image, narrowing the satellite's aperture to filter out the planet's own dingy shine. The aura turned a violent red, and data flowed at the bottom of the screen. 'What is that?' asked Jafrid.

'It's Seskwa's vehicle, sir,' said Tuzelid. 'The energy release contains atrizum and amytol.' These were deposits stored in the fuel tanks of all Chelonian land craft, which became extremely volatile if ignited.

Jafrid's heart sank. Then his alert eyes caught a movement, a flicker not far from the explosion. 'What moves there? Enhance the image, quickly now.'

A grid filled itself in over the image, and the square containing the movement zoomed out. Image magnifiers knocked out as much distortion as they could, and a still picture was formed. It showed an upright, humanoid shape, a long covering wrapped about its top half many times. The Doctor!

Jafrid's throat dried. 'Seskwa, you were right. Why did I not heed your warning?' Distantly he was aware of a collective intake of breath among the control room officers, and abruptly the atmosphere became even more stifling.

'Orders, General?' asked Tuzelid. His tone was forthright, martial.

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Jafrid tried hard to cover his hurt. That Dolne, his old friend, could have sanctioned such a cowardly deceit was almost too much for him to believe. But the old ways were also strong in him, and he felt a surge of hatred for all humans. 'Cancel my steaming session. Ready all launchers, Guzrats included. Strategy: full strike, maximum sweep, no mercy, no prisoners. Ground forces are to act as reinforcements as and when. Bring all satellite guidance on line.' The control room hurried to obey him, and there was a general flurry of activity.

Such was Jafrid's anger - directed mostly at himself for his foolishness in believing the words of the Doctor - he was almost oblivious to it. Slowly he went back to his webbing and hauled himself in.

Cadinot was turning around to make his selection from the tray of fancy cakes being offered round by Hammerschmidt when the door of the Strat Room slid open. Dolne entered. 'Ah,' he said, 'Admiral, I didn't expect you to come back so . . .'

The words dried up as he saw what Dolne carried in one hand. It was the head of Viddeas.

Cadinot stood, knocking the tray of cakes out of Hammerschmidt's hand. 'My God! Sir, what happened?'

Dolne fixed him with a horribly hard stare. 'Sit down, Cadinot. And don't lose your head.' He seemed to realize what he had said. 'I mean, keep calm.' There was a reserve and formality to him that was unusual, and his posture was stiffened. 'We must all keep our wits if we are to survive.' The fact that he was still in his pyjamas gave the scene an added air of unreality.

'But what happened?' Cadinot spluttered.

Dolne lifted the head. Cadinot tried not to look at the ghastly staring eyes, the greenish-tinged skin and the gore trailing from the severed neck. 'You don't have to look too closely. He was killed in a frenzied attack. Killed with this.' Dolne lifted his other hand, showing a blood-soaked blade set in a jewel-encrusted hilt. 'The gift of our good friend General Jafrid.' Dolne set the head down next to the fallen cakes and straightened himself. 'By this act, the Chelonians have declared open war.'

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There was a general murmur of agreement. Cadinot was puzzled. 'But who killed him? Who did that?'

'The Chelonians, obviously', said Dolne.

'But there are none here in the post,' said Cadinot. He was conscious of speaking for all the Strat Room staff. 'We handed all the prisoners back.'

Dolne stalked over. He held the dagger out before him, and its gems seemed to sparkle against his oddly lifeless eyes. 'Are you a traitor, Cadinot?'

'No, sir.'

'Then return to your position and align the satellite systems.' Dolne raised his voice. 'Strategy: full strike, maximum sweep. Aim: total destruction of enemy force. Ground troops will be deployed to reinforce the strike as and when. Begin!'

Harmock was looking out over the city. The giant floodlights had been switched on, criss-crossing the night sky with bright yellow beams, illuminating the emptying walkways. Work was over for them, he thought ruefully.

But he could not rest. The following hours were crucial.

After the unscheduled debate with the dog, Harmock was making sure he would not be caught unprepared again, and was going through a number of stock responses with Liris. She had worked out what questions MNN were most likely to ask, and was grooming his replies.

'... and there will be no quarter given,' he was saying, 'in this, our most difficult hour. No, "our" and "hour", sounds wrong, damn.'

'Our hour of greatest difficulty?' Liris suggested.

'Don't like "our hour" at all. Sounds odd.' He paced around his desk. 'And "difficult" isn't dramatic enough.

How about "The darkest hour in all this planet's days"?' Liris considered. ' "Days" is literal, "hour" figurative.'

'You're right. Then, "On this, perhaps the darkest day in our history". No, too negative. We must give people the sense that at least something is better than it's ever been.'

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The study door swished open, and Galatea entered, bringing with her his opponent and entourage. This small group, Harmock noted with a groan, included Stokes.

The man was a very good artist, but so difficult to deal with.

'Premier,' said Galatea. 'I bring you an audience with your opponent.'

Harmock assumed his smuggest expression. 'Ah. So, the dog himself is here.' He walked across to K9 and nodded a greeting. 'Welcome. Take a good sniff around. It's the only time you'll ever see inside the place so you'd better make the most of it.'

K9 surveyed the room's antique furnishings and his head drooped. 'When I am installed as premier I will dispense with unnecessary trappings such as these.'

'Will you now?' said Harmock, in a tone calculated to show he did not feel at all threatened. He extended a hand to the female. 'And you would be Romana. Charmed.'

'Good evening, Mr Harmock,' she said. Her tone was clear and polite. Wouldn't last long in politics. 'I believe there's a suite being made ready to receive us.' She seemed eager to get away.

'Indeed. Galatea?'

Galatea indicated the door. 'Shall we move along?'

Romana made to follow, but K9 wasn't moving. He came closer to Harmock and said crispy, 'I have studied your manifesto. It is inaccurate on seventeen verifiable points. I will now list these. One: the present situation on Barclow cannot yet be classified as a major incident; two: economic downturn in the long run has been the direct consequence of your own fiscal policy; three: there is -'

'It can wait, K9,' said Romana.

'Yes,' Harmock taunted. 'You'd better give your batteries time to recharge.'

K9 gave an electronic growl and backed away. Interestingly, he seemed to obey Romana without question. They followed Galatea from the room.

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Stokes stepped forward. 'Mr Harmock, I have an urgent request.'

'I wondered when you were going to open your big mouth,' said Harmock. 'Well?'

Stokes indicated one of the antique chairs. 'May I? It's been an arduous journey.' Harmock waved for him to sit down. 'Now, I don't want to appear rude or ungrateful. You Metralubit people have given your generosity and hospitality freely, in a way that quite puts to shame those who consider the universe essentially hostile. But I am a wanderer. As a foreign citizen, and a civilian at that, I would like to take the first available flight out of the system. Would you please arrange it? I shall await notification in my quarters.' He stood up. 'Thank you again for your welcome.' He headed for the door.

'Stokes,' called Harmock.

'Goodbye, goodbye,' said Stokes, without turning round.

Harmock coughed. 'I see no reason why I should be compelled to cut through procedure on your behalf.'

Stokes turned. 'A trifling matter, I'd have thought. Book me on the next export carrier. Comfort is not important.'

'You know very well I can't authorize this.' Harmock spoke without thinking, as he sometimes did, as if the words were just coming into his head.

'Why ever not?' Stokes demanded.

Harmock floundered. 'It's... because it's...' He appealed to Liris. She would know why.

'All outward export flights are governed by strict laws on weight restriction,' she said.

Stokes fumed. 'I weigh less than one cargo crate. It's a piddling thing. Harmock!'

'You heard the lady. It's just not possible.'

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'Do you do everything she tells you?' Stokes threw up his hands. 'When's the next passenger flight?'

Liris answered. 'For which bookings remain? Two months.'

'Pathetic,' said Stokes. He was flushing red. 'How am I supposed to wait two months? Don't you see? The Chelonians are going to pulverize your precious Admiral Dolne and his chums and then come for us. They won't give a flying grub for treaties or negotiations. They've been hoarding their arsenal up there for over a hundred years. You know their history. They'll raze this place, burn us all out, and claim it as their own.'

'That won't happen,' Harmock said confidently. 'We are going to win this war.'

Stokes gave a humourless laugh. 'There is more chance of me growing wings and flying twice around the moon.' Then, at last, he turned and stormed out.

A strange thought appeared in Harmock's head, put there by Stokes's ranting. 'Liris,' he asked, 'if the war does get going, we are going to win it, aren't we?'

She faced him. 'Yes.'

'Good,' said Harmock.

The strange thought disappeared.

The guest suite was on a higher level of the dome, and Romana and K9 were led by the icily polite Galatea through more white corridors, passing more staff dressed in identical plastic coveralls, hurrying about on errands of some kind. Romana was left with an impression of soullessness, and crushing efficiency. Nobody seemed to have the slightest character in this drab environment, least of all the Femdroids.

At last they came to their suite, which was as spacious and well appointed as expected. Galatea stood in the middle of the room and pointed out various items. 'The environment is complete with every convenience. Access to the broadcast network is through this unit.' She indicated a com-screen. 'This base -' she pointed out a computer terminal on a stand, with a chair set before it '- holds a complete menu of all data: historical, political, socio-economic.' She smiled and turned to leave. 'Call me if you require anything further.'

Romana frowned. 'Don't we get any help?'

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'I'm afraid not. The allegiance of all Femdroids is to the Premier. If and when Mr K9 is elected it will be switched to him.'

'But until then, nothing?'

Galatea gave a passable approximation of a human's wince. 'It is improper and unfair, I know, but it is our way.' She told K9, 'Your campaign will be a test of your ability to lead.'

Romana sat down wistfully on one of the large leather beanbags scattered about the room. 'What I really need are repair facilities. Engineers and tools to fix K9.'

'The candidate is damaged?'

K9 replied, 'Certain of my systems, including defensive capacity and evaluation sensors, are impaired beyond my regenerative capacity.'

'Such aid will not contravene the rules of the college,' said Galatea. 'I will see what can be done. Good day.' She departed.

K9 whirred his ears in satisfaction. 'I must prepare my campaign.' He trundled over to the other side of the room, where a wooden box, fastened by ribbons, was waiting. K9's eyestalk extended, and the lid of the box fell open, revealing a cache of tartan rosettes, with K9: THE LOGICAL CHOICE printed at their centre in the same lettering as that on K9's side. 'Please afix a badge to my casing,' he asked Romana.

Romana bent to do so, pinning one to her own jacket as well. As she did so, she caught the first sound of distant cries, corning from the street below. She went to the window. A crowd had gathered, with placards and banners, and, most charmingly, they were calling out, 'What do we want? A K9 administration! When do we want it? As soon as possible!'

'I like the sentiment,' Romana said, 'but it has to be said, their rhetoric owes a lot to your own. Still, it's nice to know you have supporters.'

'It is inevitable,' K9 noted smugly. 'The citizens clamour for a new direction. I must address them.'

Romana tried the catch on the window sill. It wouldn't move. 'It's stuck.'

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K9's antennae whirred again, this time in frustration. 'I will use the public broadcast network,' he concluded, and motored off into a corner.

Romana pushed her hair back over her ear, and settled into a chair before the computer terminal. While K9 whirred and clicked in silent conversation, she accessed a detailed history of the colony.

Stokes entered, glancing at K9 in puzzlement before turning his attention to Romana. 'Harmock is a cretin. I've been trying to impress the truth upon him to no effect. He's spent so much time in politics that he's an adept at self-delusion. He takes every piece of information he gets and twists it to fit his own viewpoint. It's pitiful.'

Romana didn't look up.

'As an example of the dumb patriot's mental workings it could hardly be bettered.' Stokes was pacing feverishly. 'Hah. I've exchanged Dolne for another short-sighted fool.'

Romana looked up, as if she'd only just noticed him. 'Listen.' She read from the screen. '"The civilization of Helducc covered four-tenths of the planet's land mass and endured almost unchanged for nearly two thousand years. Helduccian artefacts have been uncovered from the Urat plates to the Fingle peninsula. By non-technological standards they were an incredibly long-lived and widely travelled society. And yet their mighty civilization tumbled almost overnight. Conflict between Hethros and Gyal, the two greatest leaders on the Helducc Council, escalated, and sparked a series of violent conflicts in which it is estimated two million people, almost three- quarters of Metralubit's population at the time, were slaughtered."

Stokes puffed out his cheeks. 'I don't find that fascinating, no. Particularly when I know that the majority of the planet's current population, including me, is about to follow the same path and -' He raised his arm and looked for something to hit. Unfortunately the only free-standing object in his immediate vicinity was a sad-looking potted fern; but it would have looked even sillier to pull his arm down, so he hit it anyway. 'They won't let me take a flight out!'

Romana pulled a disapproving face. 'The Chelonians won't come here. Why should they? And the Doctor has a way of resolving these things and bringing peace. It's one of his many talents. He's an incredibly resourceful and intelligent person.' She raised a finger in K9's direction. 'Don't ever tell him I said that.'

K9 was engrossed in his work, but spared the time to say, 'Agreed, Mistress. Flattery of the Doctor Master most inadvisable.'

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Stokes huffed. 'The last time we met, as I recall, he brought precious little peace. That little expedition ended with a colossal explosion and mayhem all round. It was a miracle I got out alive.'

Romana had forgotten how irritating Stokes could be.

'It was because of the Doctor you got out alive. You owe him your life.'

He made a sneering noise. 'Yes, me and half the universe, it would appear.'

The comment took Romana by surprise. 'What do you mean by that?' .

'Nothing,' sighed Stokes. 'Oh, what's the point? I'm going for a walk.' He stalked out.

'Suggest Mr Stokes will attempt to leave Metralubit, Mistress,' said K9.

'He can't go soon enough for me,' said Romana. She returned her attention to the screen.

The war zone was living up to its name at last. Bombs and missiles fell with increasing regularity, throwing up huge clouds of grit into the Doctor's face as he hopped from cover to cover. Every few seconds a flash would light up the sky and illuminate the cratered landscape.

The Doctor ducked instinctively as a Chelonian saucer flew over his head, then waved up at it. 'Hello! You're making a terrible mistake!' A series of vivid pink laser blasts strafed the area around him and, with the ease of experience, he hurled himself behind a convenient rock. 'I won't try that again in a hurry. I'll just have to stay put and sit it out.' He sat down and munched on a marzipan shekel. A thought occurred to him and he hunted through his pockets. 'Where did I put that. . . Ah.' He pulled out a pamphlet and started to read. Its title was So You're Caught in a Rocket Attack.

Romana felt a pang of pride as K9 gave his address to planet. His image was visible not only on their suite's communicator unit but on a massive screen suspended above the city centre. His tinny voice boomed around Metron's glittering towers.

'Thanks to calmer heads on both sides of the conflict the tense situation on Barclow is near to being resolved,'he said. 'It is characteristic of Mr Harmock to promise condign action and to deliver nothing. The action of a K9 administration will be to end the debate over Barclow, after careful study of the Phibbs Report, and to free this planet from fear of war.'

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There was a roar of approval from his supporters, and the screen substituted for K9's image a graphic display of current voting intentions. The green block representing the Opposition was growing.'

'Well done, K9,' said Romana. 'You're up another four points already.'

'Congratulations unnecessary, Mistress,' said K9, although his sensor attachments were humming with pleasure.

Again, the image changed. An immaculate Femdroid newscaster appeared, her expression grave. 'We've just received an unconfirmed report from our satellite over. Barclow that full-scale war has broken out and that massive retaliation has begun.' A distorted picture of Barclow from space was flashed up. Green tracer lights could be seen crackling away in the thin strip that contained the war zone. 'A message has also been received from our forces, claiming that Captain Hans Viddeas has been killed.'

Romana's shoulders slumped. 'What went wrong? The Doctor seemed to have it tied up.'

'Difficult to specify, Mistress,' said K9, his tone resigned.

The Doctor was coming to the end of his pamphlet. '"If you have concealed yourself in an area away from tall structures and crouched in the position shown in the diagram above, you should be reasonably safe."' , He scoffed. 'Ha. Reasonably safe? What kind of a guarantee is that?' He squinted at the small print. 'Here we are. "The publishers accept no liability for damage or loss of life or property. NB: the above guidelines apply only against an enemy not equipped with heat-seeking tracker missiles. If yours have got them, goodbye and good luck."

The Doctor looked up at the approach of another low flying Chelonian saucer. 'Ah,' he said as a section of its underside cracked apart and a viciously crooked launcher containing three small, red-tipped missiles swung out.

A moment later, all three missiles were heading straight towards him, their ends glowing fiercely. He put his fingers in his ears and prepared for the worst.

Harmock felt equal proportions of pleasure and displeasure at the news from Barclow. The fresh outbreak of aggression was another stick with which to beat K9, but there was little point in returning to power if it would mean having to take horrible, life-or-death decisions. That wasn't what he was in politics for.

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As these thoughts ran through his mind he was giving another address. 'We can now see where Mr K9's defence policies - what might be termed waving a white flag under the national one - will lead us. Our boys on Barclow are risking their lives to save all of ours, to protect a way of life that allows Mr K9 to pontificate in his unusual manner.' He thumped his desk. 'Let us stand squarely behind them.'

The red light above the com-unit flicked off and he relaxed. 'There, that should do it.' He turned to Galatea, who had been standing nearby throughout the speech. 'Let's watch the rating shoot up, Galatea, my dear.'

But the Femdroid was not listening. Her fingers were on her amulet, receiving a message. When she looked up her face looked pinched and perturbed. 'Disturbing news, Premier. Rioting has broken out in some of the outlying settlements. And there is unrest in Sector 6 of the city.'

Harmock flinched. 'Unrest?'

'Some looting and damage to property. The security forces are trying to contain it.'

Harmock looked out over the night city, his mind struggling to contain the information. 'But - but what does this mean?'

'Public panic, Premier,' said Galatea. 'The citizens fear that the Chelonians will win the war and then come here.'

'But that isn't going to happen, is it?'

'No,' said Galatea.

The fear vanished from Harmock's mind. 'Then everything's all right, isn't it, really? Dispatch a statement condemning the unrest anyway. Still no link with Barclow?'

'My technicians are trying as best they can,' said Galatea.

Harmock stood and looked out at the night sky from his large window. 'I wish I knew what was going on up there.'

In spite of her mechanical status, the Femdroid newscaster was starting to show signs of alarm. Her hand was held constantly over the amulet at her neck, which buzzed and flickered constantly, and her voice contained a tinge of disquiet. 'Rioting is starting to spread through the city as night goes on. I've just heard that over two hundred citizens have been killed in an explosion at the gas refinery in Section 5, and there are many more injured...'

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The glow thrown out by the explosion made the sky above the city burnt orange. K9 turned ruefully from the window. 'The humans are behaving irrationally.'

Romana glanced up from her keyboard and shook her head. 'A throwback to their primate ancestry.' There was another distant rumble of an explosion. 'Although mass hysteria normally requires a much greater stimulus. They must be terrified,'

K9 crossed to the com-unit. 'I will use my status to appeal for calm.'

But Romana barely noticed him. She was staring at her screen, which had scrolled up to reveal a new section of information on Metralubit's troubled history. '"The Yelphaj civilization,"' , she read aloud, '"which endured plague, flood and famine over nearly two thousand years, fell in less than a month."' She looked out at the city with new fear in her eyes.

The Doctor shook the grit out of his eyes and sat up, and immediately found that he couldn't see. He remembered the missiles bearing down on him, and a terrible sound, a cross between a groan and a creak, as the ground below him shuddered and gave way, and then recollection petered out. Consciousness brought only a throbbing bruise on the back of his head, darkness, and an impression that he was in some sort of enclosed cavity.

He took a box of big kitchen matches from his pocket and struck one. It illuminated the close rock walls of a narrow underground passage, not really large enough to be called either a cave or a tunnel. He looked up and saw the opening, a good twenty feet above, down which he must have tumbled. The continued rumblings of the war zone echoed down oddly. A quick examination of the walls was enough to crush any hope of making an escape the same way, so he turned the light to bear on possible exits from the cavity. The back way closed up to a width of inches; the forward direction opened out a little. The Doctor chewed his thumbnail and considered. 'Well, I can't go back. And one more underground passage can't make that much difference.'

And so he went on, navigating the confines with a vague hope that an exit would present itself. As he walked his thoughts turned to Seskwa. The poor fellow must have been under the enemy's thumb all along, and through him they'd had access to the Chelonian weapons systems. It was no wonder he'd tried to stir up trouble the moment they'd met. And his second death had fuelled his masters' plan beautifully. The Doctor thought again of the flies. If they were the enemy, how was he to fight them? His opponents were normally of a more solid, identifiable nature. It would be very difficult to punch a fly on the nose, more difficult still to engage it in debate.

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His thoughts were interrupted by a strange echoing cry from up ahead. Immediately he threw himself into a corner, shook his match out and stood absolutely still. He could still see himself, very vaguely. There was another light source nearby.

Carefully he crept out of hiding and walked towards it. After only a few seconds the passage widened out into a cave proper, which was lit by a couple of phosphor lamps jammed into crevices in the walls. Their weak light revealed a number of suspicious-looking objects. There was a dishevelled mattress jammed in one comer, with a half-zipped sleeping bag and an electric blanket thrown over it. Next to this was an open tin with a spoon poking out from under the lid, and a stack of magazines. A believer in the maxim that a person's choice of reading matter will reveal much about them, the Doctor crept over and flicked through the pile.

He put them down again very quickly, blushing, and turning his attention to the other belongings. There was a clothes horse on which a set of drab grey fatigues was drying, a small refrigerator, a photocopier, and a table on which were set out, as if on a stall, a range of books and pamphlets. He was making his way across to examine these when the strange echoing cry suddenly got louder and clearer, and there came footsteps. The regular rhythm of the call made it sound like a religious chant.

The Doctor looked around, but there was nowhere to hide, and no time to escape the way he had come.

He looked to the far exit and waited as the cry resolved itself, and a shape began to form. 'Rebel Labourer!' it was chanting. 'Rebel Labourer!' Stop the dirty war.

Galatea smiled as more news came in.

'...it is believed that up to a thousand people have died in the explosions in Sector 5,' said the newscaster, her image filling the big screen. 'Many more have been critically injured. The local medicentre was one of the blocks to be wiped out in the blast, and there are reports that casualties are being left on the streets to die...' "

She turned as Liris entered. 'It is all falling into place.'

But Liris was frowning. 'Galatea. The tracker shows Stokes is trying to leave the dome.' She touched her amulet and the big screen changed to show Stokes wandering aimlessly through the reception lounge, nudging past the dome's milling admin staff.

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Galatea sighed. 'I had hoped retraining would not be necessary. But his is a particularly obstinate character, resistant to peer disapproval and thus resistant to psychotronic imaging.' She shook her head and motioned Liris to follow her out. 'Come. We shall go to him.'

Stokes had set out for the spaceport with a definite step, making his way back through the blank white corridors of the Parliament Dome with impatience and a confident swagger. The spaceport was the way out. He'd find a cargo trader, one of the frequent flyers to the colony worlds, and bribe himself a place aboard a flight. A matter of ease.

It was only as he neared the reception lounge, with its cosy leather sofas, its softly tinkling music, and its little duty-free shop, that his memory began to fail him. This was the place where people waited to catch Fastspace flights to the planet's other cities, the place where pilots of the cargo flights could be found. But there was nobody here. The place was empty.

He stood in the middle of the lounge and turned slowly. There was the door leading back into the dome; there was the door leading to the landing pads; there was the big window looking out on the city. He looked out at the greenspaces and towers and recalled the many happy hours he had spent there and the wonderful friends he had made. So many friends, charming and fashionable, who appreciated his work and his wit as never before. He had always known it, of course, that somewhere, someday, he would find good friends who understood him, would rise above the humdrum and the banal, elevate himself to the exclusive plane he so deserved. Now, things were falling from his grasp again, with this stupid war. Perhaps he should call on his good friends, seek shelter. Yes, good idea. He'd slip out of the dome and meet up with the gang, and together they could hatch a way to get out. He looked out over the city and shook his head.

His lip juddered. He knew he had friends, he knew he was appreciated. But when he tried to remember a particular place or name he could not. There was a horrible blank patch where his life should have been. In fact, when he tried to recall his experiences prior to leaving for Barclow a strange ache began to poke at his head.

Dimly he was aware that his legs had stopped working. He was lying on the floor, in a heap, with his mouth open. And people were walking towards him. Two sets of feet, slim and feminine, encased in moulded, metallic blue slippers.

'Mr Stokes,' said the voice of Galatea. 'Metralubit is a beautiful and hospitable place.'

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Stokes raised his head and caught her gaze. It was calculating, emotionless, the blue eyes perfectly level and clear. This was enough to dislodge the blankness in his mind, and for a second he recollected everything.

The deal. The crystal. Then the long sleep. And Galatea's face, hard and cold. And the shining orange light, and the voice pummelling at his mind.

He felt Liris's hands go under his arms, and he was lifted up. He raised his hands as Galatea advanced on him. 'No. Not you... again... keep away...'

She held up her left hand. The fingers were curled tightly around a flat disc that was pulsing softly with an orange glow. 'It is a beautiful place,' she said. 'A beautiful place. A beautiful place. A beautiful place. A beautiful place. A beautiful place...' The glow pulsed in time to her words.

Stokes smiled and started to believe it again.