From: "Clive May" 
Subject: DOF Part 38 - K Young & C May
Date: 30 April 2003 22:36

DESERT OF FEAR

Part 38

By Ken Young & Clive May

Copyright Notes: 'Doctor Who' belongs to the BBC.  'Desert of Fear' and the
original characters therein created by Brad Filippone, BKWillis, Ken Young
and Clive May.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the Avis City Control Room, the Controller was becoming impatient.
"Carla, have you finished plotting the Servii movement yet?"

Carla glanced over her shoulder.  The lanky woman with the cropped blond hair
was leaning forwards in the command chair fixed at the focus of the
hemispherical room.  Carla looked back to the screen; her long pony tail of
brown hair whisked, perfectly expressing her irritation at the way the
Controller was riding her.

"Yes," she snapped.  "It seems like that about ninety percent of the Servii's
fighting strength is heading for the Vale.  Numbers are a problem though.  No
patrol reports indicate how many were in the war bands."

"Never mind...Mora, have we had any response on the landing report yet?"

The dark haired, dumpy woman sitting next to Carla shook her head.  "Her
Majesty said to leave it to Lady Kali.  Lady Kali has not answered her
communicator...So I put it into her message queue at maximum priority."

"Thank you Mora ," the Controller said.  She stabbed at a button on her chair
arm.  There was a tense wait of several seconds before Kali's face came up on
the com screen.  The Overworlder had a preoccupied expression, which lent her
cold beauty a hint of humanity.  Her expression hardened when she recognised
her caller.

"I hope you have an explanation for using the priority override," she asked
sharply.

"Please check your secure message queue," the Controller said, a trifle too
sweetly.

"This had better be important," Kali warned, irritated by the undercurrent of
sarcasm.  Her face went out of focus as she scrolled through the priority
messages.  A moment later, her features leapt back into sharp focus; and she
began to rap out orders.

"Send a patrol to check out the landing immediately!  Mobilise all other
forces we can muster to harry the Servii!  Detailed orders for dispositions
are filed under Kali - exec - phase 3 - contingency 03/AB."

"That might prove difficult," the Controller said.

"And why would that be, Under Commander?" Kali asked.

"I was sitting in on this morning's Commanders Briefing, My Lady, when those
orders were circulated.  The dispositions under the orders would stretch us
to the limit.  If the force estimates are anything like correct, I do not
think we can have enough troops - even if we remove the entire Guard from
here, which would be to risk a riot by the Under-dwellers.  The taking of
such an action, carrying such a risk, would require the Queen's express
permission."

A flash of consternation showed for a second in Kali's green eyes.  She
thrust fingers into her hair, combing them through her tousled coppery locks.
She said distractedly: "Very well.  Send a patrol to check out the
landing...And increase surveillance on the Servii movements for now.  I will
be up shortly."

Kali broke the connection.  She stood for a long moment deep in thought,
seeking a solution to this dangerous development.  Finally, she admitted to
herself that there was only one acceptable solution.  She took up a Regulator
tuned communicator.

"Jathro?"

"Jathro here, Kali."

"How much of the X110 nerve agent do we have to hand?  Do we, for example,
have enough to send say, around ten thousand of those Servii monsters to
commune with the Spirit of their Sacred Land?"

The answer she got made her green eyes flash.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Doctor was already in motion, even before Jo screamed, alerted by the
fear in her face.  His right arm came up, blocking the downward stroke of the
priest's arm.  The Doctor bundled Prak aside, and took a grip on the priest's
wrist.  With a forceful wrench, he spun the man around.  The Doctor continued
to turn.  Bringing up a foot, he planted it in the man's back, and sent the
priest staggering towards the wall.  The man stepped on the hem of his robe,
and went sprawling on the stones.  In an instant, he was up, still clutching
the knife, and dashing for an alcove in a corner of the chamber, which was
almost invisible in the green gloom.

"Really can't have that fellow running around with a knife," the Doctor said.
"Look after Jo for me, Prak, there's a good chap." He took off after the man.

Before the Doctor had taken two steps, the priest had reached the alcove, and
dived inside.  His form appeared to dwindle into an infinite distance.  In a
heartbeat, he had vanished.

The Doctor hesitated at the alcove.  He knew exactly what it was, and that it
might come out anywhere.  For that reason, he was wary about entering; but he
didn't dare let that crazed priest run around loose while the man still had
the knife.

He glanced back at Prak and Jo.  "Wait here," he said, and ducked into the
Translocation Tunnel.  The unsettling sensations of free-fall lasted only a
second.  From previous experience, the Doctor judged that the spatial
dislocation was only a matter of a few hundred feet - straight down.

He ran out of the receiving alcove and found himself in a large rectangular
chamber.  It was lit from a huge orange hemisphere in the high ceiling.
Directly under the light was what appeared to be an antique TARDIS console.
The rotor was moving smoothly up and down.  A low, yet powerful, hum filled
the room.  Along the left wall were four workstations, each with a chair
before it.  The wall above them was taken up with a huge blank screen.  The
surface shone a silvery orange colour.  Facing the screen across the console
was a pair of metal valves.  They were massive steel grey affairs, banded
with bracings of red metal, and adorned with the Seal of Rassilon.  Across
from where the Doctor stood, was another alcove.  Of the priest, there was no
sign.

His curiosity piqued by the console, the Doctor moved warily to Investigate.
As he checked the settings, an uneasy suspicion formed in his mind as to what
the console might be doing.  He paused and peered thoughtfully at the massive
metal valves, then looked to the blank screen.  Something was moving there,
reflected on the shiny surface.  The Doctor flung himself aside.

The Priest lashed at him with the ape knife.  The blade clanged noisily off
the console, which began to emit an urgent beeping.  The rotor shuddered and
slowed.  Lurching upright, the Priest took another swing at the Doctor, which
the Time Lord easily dodged.  A clangorous alarm went off, filling the
chamber with shocking reverberations.  The priest shot one horrified glance
at the metal valves, dropped the knife, and scuttled past the Doctor, who
turned in time to see the man's form dwindling in the second alcove.

The Doctor returned his attention to the console, now certain of the
catastrophe which loomed - unless he could get the ancient equipment
re-started immediately.  His fingers danced over the controls; but nothing he
tried was any use.

The rotor stopped.  The Doctor glanced fearfully at the metal valves.
Already, he could feel the Time Dams loosening.  As he couldn't re- start
them, he had to get out right now!  He took off after the priest, and flung
himself into the alcove.

This time the translocation was far longer.  The Doctor estimated it in
miles, rather than yards, before he plunged out into a smaller room.  He
found himself in an oblong chamber, lit by a dim blue radiance from an
emergency light.  The walls were of corroded metal.  Dust covered
work-benches lined the walls.  He became aware of the strong smell of
humanity living in too close proximity.  Then he felt the unmistakable tingle
of an "out-of-phase" PNPG field; and knew, by a leap of intuition, he was in
the bowels of the flying city.

In the control chamber under the pyramid, the time dams wound down.  The
monstrosity, which they had held in stasis for millennia, began to stir.  The
metal valves began to swing open, allowing a crackling kaleidoscope of light
and fragmented splinters of time to spill into the room.

At that moment, Prak and Jo stepped from the Translocation Tunnel, seeking
the Doctor.  Instantly, their sanity was sliced to ribbons by the out-rush of
jagged edged shards of fractured reality.  Images, impressions, sounds,
lights and all manner of indescribable sensations sleeted through their
recoiling minds, tearing their souls into tattered shreds.  They began to
scream.

To Prak, the hellish experience had a familiar quality - it screamed: PURPOSE
- but Purpose gone completely insane.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vanir un-dogged the hatch and motioned for Siharal to precede her into the
large hanger in the bowels of the city.  He stepped through; she followed,
pulling the door closed.

Siharal gazed around at the vast dim-lit space.  "Why have you brought me
here, Vanie?"

"For your safety."

Siharal raised an eyebrow.  "Really?  So you do still care about me a little
then?"

"I care about the money," Vanir snarled.  "Rhanda said to keep you in one
piece - at least for now.  I can't trust that cur Snile to keep his paws off
you....And if anyone's going to carve your heart out?...I intend it to be
me!"

Siharal regarded her coolly.  " I was rather hoping we could be civilised
about all this?"

"Fine by me - just as long as the money holds out."

Siharal turned to hide the genuine disappointment he could not keep from his
face.  Pretending to study the dark shape crouching in the centre of the vast
space, he said: "Something I have never understood, Vanie, why did you join
Silver Sunrise?  Even if the Spellcaster does return, what good can it do us?
The ancient records are quite unambiguous on the matter - he got our entire
army slaughtered.  Only the Servii losses, and the success of the breeding
program to produce the birds, kept us afloat."

Vanir studied him for a long moment, seeming to consider his question.  Then
she shrugged.  "It doesn't matter why I joined the cult...Not now...Not
anymore."

"But it did at one time?" Siharal pressed, a hint of hope in his voice.

Vanir looked away, unwilling to admit to Siharal the shallowness of her
motives.  It had been nothing more than a wilful pursuit of "forbidden
fruit".  With hindsight, she now understood just what a "silly young thing"
she had been.  Brusquely, she pushed past him.  "Come on," she snapped.

They approached the shape in the middle of the floor.  Close to, it was
revealed as a huge railed platform with weapons emplacements at every corner.
Siharal reached out a reverent hand to stroke the guard rail.  "A war
Platform," he breathed.  "I didn't know about this."

"Not many outside Security do," Vanir said.

"I thought they were all destroyed," Siharal mused.  He became animated, like
a little boy who has just re-discovered a favourite toy.  "Does it work?  We
could reconquer the entire Servii nation with that one platform alone."

Vanir shook her head.  "Two thousand years old, fully functional, and quite
useless.  It's rumoured to be keyed to the Spellcaster's DNA.  Security's
Technical Section gave up attempts to remove the lock fifteen hundred years
ago; and there's no one with the skills necessary to even try and break the
lock now.  It is written in the secret records of Silver Sunrise that this
was what the Spellcaster used to return here after the Binding."

"The Great Betrayal, you mean!" Siharal corrected.

A loud rasping noise made them both start.  As the sound echoed around the
vast space, a door to one of the maintenance shops along the wall opened.
Both spun to see a tall figure with a shock of white hair step onto the
hangar floor.

"Hello there," the man called out, and walked towards them with a purposeful
stride.

"The Doctor," Siharal exclaimed.

"You know him?" Vanir glanced suspiciously at Siharal.

"He's that Overworlder that Kepla's patrol saved from a Servii war band and
brought in for questioning the other day," Siharal said.  His expression
darkened at the memory.  "Security abrogated normal procedure.  For some
twisted reason of their own, they wanted him released on the spot - without
interrogation.  They managed to convince Her Highness to sanction it.  Now
how, by the Third Eye, did he manage to get back onto Avis?"

The man paused a few feet away, eyeing the lump of sharpened metal clutched
in Vanir's hand.  He smiled at them and said: "I need to speak to someone in
authority, right away!" When neither responded, he added: "It is really
rather urgent."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trailing a plume of grey dust, the Servii patrol galloped onwards, following
the course decided by Borad.  The priest was driving the band on without
mercy through the heat of the day.

War Captain Hansaal, who had for some time been unhappy with their rout,
dropped his Gurvuk back to ride alongside Borad, and bellowed over the
thunder of the careering Gurvuks: "Why this way, priest?  There is nothing in
this forsaken Reach save the thrice cursed haunt of the Ghost Eaters.  The
Spellcaster shalt surely not tarry there, and mayhap have gone anywhere?"

Borad waved an arm, signing in the negative.  "No, Hansaal," he affirmed.
"He must either head direct for the Vale or for Serviion.  It will all depend
on how he intends to handle his obligation.  We have to intercept him and
convince him to go to the Vale.  The critical point to remember is that the
Spellcaster is not on our side.  He has his own agenda, which is only in part
to our advantage."

Hansaal flashed his fangs to show his misgivings with the whole expedition.
"I like not this trespass upon the heart-lands of elder day evils!" He loosed
the reins to make the sign of warding off evil before his chest.

Borad said: "But trespass we must; and trust to the Spirit of the Sacred Land
to grant us protection against these ancient evils; for the Seers hath
pronounced that atop the old Kumin fort be the appointed place of HIS
return."

Hansaal snarled: "The Ghost Eaters!  What hath they to do with these doings
of latter ages?"

"Nought, I trust," Borad offered.  "Yet I feel it in my bones that
wheresoever the Spellcaster be bound, this course doth hold the best hopes of
interception."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few miles north of the galloping Servii band, hidden by some high dunes,
Magnus paused his transport.  He produced a communicator, thumbed "send", and
said: "Harmon?  Report boat and situation status?"

"Password?" came the prompt response.

"Thebes."

"Password accepted," responded the ship's AI.  "Boat Status is....Standing by
on medium alert.  Situation status is: probe network is established.  I have
located three Tardis - or whatever the plural is, Sir.  Two are on Avis City.
The third is at the compromised gate of The Edge of the World Fortress.
There is a Servii force on an intercept course for you.  The rest of the
Servii appear to be heading for the Edge, and the location of the third
Tardis."

" Coordinates please, Harmon?"

"Yes sir," said the AI.  "Transmitting now."

Magnus scanned the numbers, which scrolled across the tiny display.  He
frowned, and waved at Varne, who swooped in to perch on his outstretched
wrist.

"We have two problems, Varne.  The most important is a Time Lord has got far
to close to the Lord for comfort.  One drop of his blood and the Lord is
free.  About that, we can do little at the moment.  The second is a party of
Servii that seem to be looking for us.  Find them...And bring them to me.  I
am going straight to the Tardis location."

Screeching assent, the Kite took the location from the communicator screen,
and launched itself into the air.

Magnus turned his attention to the two combat bots.  "Boris?  Igor?  primary
alert."

The two heavily armoured figures brought pulse rifles to the ready position.
Their heads moved from side to side, increasing their arc of scan.

Nearby the ruins, the boat went to high level alert as a target presented.
Servos hummed as weapons were aligned on a small, passing bird, before the
threat assessment came up as negative.  Harmon was just stepping down his
alert status when, in the layers of decision protocols surrounding the core
of the AI, a set of "rapid response" routines fired.  They functioned like a
"reflex action" in organic life forms.

Even before his higher level decision routines had been interrogated, Harmon
had aimed and fired his mid range energy cannon at the spot where, buried
deep underground, "something" had awoken in response to the caress of the
probe net energies.

The stream of energetic wavicles bathed the scattered remnants of what once
must have been a stupendous construction of stone, half buried in the sand.

Nothing happened.

There was no explosion, no spray of red hot rock droplets, no expanding
sphere of incandescent gas, nothing.  The energy simply vanished.

Harmon initiated a second scan of a more esoteric nature.  Instantly, some
unknown kind of time disturbance showed.  The phenomenon seemed to be
funnelling the energy into the earth.  Around two thousand feet down, the
energy was coalescing around some focal point.  The node grew in size with
every passing second.  Suddenly, the pulsing core shot long tentacles through
the surrounding rock.  The radiating tendrils of energy wove themselves into
an intricate pattern, until it seemed some gigantic spider, formed from pure
energy, crouched at the centre of a vast shining web of force.

The ground began to tremble.  Above the ruins, a small whirlwind formed.  In
seconds, it had grown in height and ferocity until it was a two hundred foot
column of rotating air.  Threads of golden energy scintillated and gleamed in
the column.  The madly whirling wind sucked up a great cloud of sand, and
moulded it into a shape, whose form might once have been humanoid; but its
most salient feature now was an overwhelming impression of withered
antiquity.

The thing composed of dust, sand and sentient energy changed, writhing into
other shapes, as though trying on different sets of clothing to see which fit
best.  The chaotic whirling slowed; and the figure of a gigantic Servii
warrior, resplendent in armour, sabre and lance, stabilised in the air.  It
persisted for only a moment before melting back into chaos, only to reform in
the shape of a young human girl with long black hair and a voluminous robe,
which snapped and cracked in the wind.  The figure was a representation of
Xelerina, a slave girl late of Serviion.  The image was perfect, save for the
persistence of a third eye, which sat lugubriously in the centre of her
forehead, and the fact that she stood over two hundred feet tall.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------