Doctor Who: Terror of the Vervoids (12 page)

The result was inevitable. Bruchner’s death wish was about to be fulfilled...

Negotiating swaying corridors, Rudge attained the antechamber just as the laser lance completed a circular incision in the barrier.

At a nod from the Commodore, the lock was punched out. Immediately, fetid fumes spewed through. With commendable presence of mind, the Duty Officer stuffed his jacket into the hole, blocking off the rancid gas.

The minuscule quantity of fumes had reduced all in the antechamber to incoherent spluttering and choking.

Bruchner, however, was beyond that.

Lungs corrupted by the vapour, he lay lifelessly across the control console. The Vervoids had succeeded in killing him, but they had failed to abort his objective: the pilotless
Hyperion III
was unwaveringly plunging to destruction.

‘Marsh gas?’ gasped the Doctor, the first to recover breath.

‘A methane derivative.’ Coughing or not, Lasky was going to be precise.

‘Marsh gas!’ exploded the Commodore. ‘Where the devil’s that come from? What is it you two know that I don’t?’

A din of groaning metal punctuated his demand as the ship’s superstructure was taxed by stress.

‘Explanations later.’ For the Doctor to eschew debate was a measure of their peril. ‘Would smoke masks protect?’

he asked Lasky.

‘No, they’d be completely inadequate.’

‘Are you saying none of us can go in there?’

‘It’d be suicidal.’

Obdurately, the Commodore, nursing his injured arm, lurched towards the barrier.

No. Let me, Commodore.’ Quixotic gestures were the Doctor’s prerogative.

‘It’s my ship. If there’s a risk to be taken, I’ll take it!’

Coolly, Rudge resolved the argument. ‘There’s no need for heroics from either of you.’

His blandness puzzled them. So did his next action. He switched on his communicator and contacted the lounge.

20

A cacophony of protesting metal heralded the bucking tremor that toppled Bruchner from the console.

Through the dense pall of Vervoid gas enveloping the bridge, two figures began to take shape. They wore protective silver suits topped by begoggled helmets.

Astutely, Rudge had sent for the only individuals aboard equipped to deal with the crisis. The Mogarians.

Grasping the command chairs for support, Atza and Ortezo began trying feverishly to override the instructions Bruchner had fed into the guidance system.

‘If they make a hash of it in there, we’re finished!’

Stating the obvious was a measure of the Commodore’s sense of impotence.

‘Oh, I doubt that will happen, sir,’ replied Rudge in the bland tone he had adopted since his arrival in the antechamber. He smiled confidently at Lasky.

The Security Officer’s self-assurance perplexed the Doctor. That Rudge was a weak person, he had no doubt, yet, with catastrophe a hair’s breadth away, the man was relaxed and lacking in fear.

Helmets uplifted, the Mogarians watched the malignant whirlpool filling the window to space. They had done everything possible. All they could do now was wait and hope that it was not too late.

The unabating racket assumed a deafening volume as the great ship’s fabric bore the brunt of the stresses imposed by the change of course. Gradually, agonisingly so, the prow of the
Hyperion III
angled away from Tartarus and the plunge into the swirling void was reversed.

Gloating equanimity oozed from Rudge. His optimism regarding the skill of the Mogarians had been confirmed.

While sharing the general relief, the Doctor was nevertheless still troubled by the attitude of the Security Officer. Was there more to the overweening smugness?

How did he know so much about the two aliens?

The answers would come when the barriers to the bridge were unsealed. This already eventful voyage was far from calm waters...

The Valeyard, too, was ruffling troubled waters. ‘The mortality rate that attends your meddling, Doctor, is appalling.’

‘You hold me responsible for Bruchner’s death?’

‘Can you nominate a single incident where your presence has stemmed the tide of disaster?’

The Inquisitor interrupted. ‘Are you arguing that the submission for the defence should be curtailed?’

‘A sentence of guilty can be the only conclusion.’

‘Sit down, Valeyard! In my Court, I decide the verdict!’

Contritely, the prosecutor obeyed. Antagonising the Inquisitor would have been maladroit. She must get the impression it was the Doctor who was abusing her indulgence. Undermining the defence must be the game plan.

‘The quick thinking of the man Rudge seemed to disturb you, Doctor.’

The Doctor nodded as he reviewed, in his mind, the events that were to come. ‘Yes, my Lady. Unfortunately my misgivings were justified...’

Fussing unnecessarily, she adjusted her crimson sash: a habit that indicated a lapse into introspection. She pondered the Doctor’s assertion. Did that mean Rudge was the murderer? He was on her list of suspects. But then, so, also, was Lasky. Despite her solemn responsibility to the case before her, the Inquisitor had become intrigued with the whodunnit aspect of the Doctor’s story.

Having steered the
Hyperion
back on course and cleared the bridge of the lethal fumes, Atza and Ortezo disengaged the sealed panels.

‘I’m grateful to you both,’ said the Commodore coming forward to greet them. ‘Now, if the air is breathable, I’ll resume command.’

‘I’m afraid that isn’t going to be possible, Commodore.’

Rudge underlined his announcement by levelling his phaser.

‘What Rudge is stating, in the usual devious manner of humans, is that we are taking over the ship,’ informed Atza.

‘A hijack?’ Rudge’s
volte-face
came as less of a surprise to the Doctor than did the participation of the Mogarians.

‘You Mogarians are a peace-loving race. Violence is repugnant to you.’

‘No-one will be harmed if they obey orders.’ Atza’s pledge was genuine.

So was the Commodore’s: ‘Rudge, I’ll personally see to it that you rot in jail!’

Civility vanished: the frustration that had been festering in Rudge erupted. ‘I should restrain that tongue of yours, Commodore,’ he sneered. ‘The Mogarians may shun violence, but I don’t share their qualms. All my life there’s been someone like you patronizing me. Treating me with contempt. I’d welcome the opportunity of settling the score!’

Before the Commodore could accept the challenge, Atza intervened. ‘Mister Rudge, take the hostages to the passenger lounge!’

Unaware that her domain was about to become a prison, Janet busied herself salvaging the beakers and plates littering the floor of the lounge.

His usual imperturbability absent, Doland fretted impatiently. ‘Surely you can contact the bridge now!’

‘They’re not responding, Mister Doland. I’ve just tried.’

Now the maelstrom had abated, Mel, less supine than the stewardess, was seeking the Doctor. She may not have recovered the audio tape but she had quite a tale to tell.

Trotting along a corridor, she breezed round a corner and spotted the captive party at the other end.

Reacting with commendable nimbleness, the Doctor, in the van of the group, spun about and flung his arms wide.

‘Hold on, Rudge!’ His remonstration was needlessly loud.

‘If we’re being hijacked, we deserve an explanation.’

‘Any more unexpected moves and it won’t be an explanation you’ll get!’ Rudge, in the rear, phaser at the ready, had not seen Mel.

‘I wouldn’t’ve thought I was being unreasonable.’ The Doctor’s ‘protest’ achieved the desired result: undetected, Mel beat a mercurial retreat.

‘We’re being hijacked!’ Mel’s dramatic arrival in the lounge momentarily disorientated Janet and Doland. ‘If you don’t want to be caught, come on!’ All said without pause as she hared through the far exit.

The appeal to self-preservation prevailed: Janet and Doland thrust aside their confused doubts and followed.

As one door shut, another opened.

The Doctor, leading the hostages into the lounge, attempted to take up a position near the far exit.

‘No, Doctor. That end.’ Patronisingly Rudge indicated mid-room, away from the door. ‘Then you won’t be tempted to try anything stupid.’ He held out his hand to the Commodore. ‘I’ll have the keys to the vault.’

‘The blazes you will –’

With an alacrity that suggested this was what he had been longing to do, Rudge clubbed the injured Commodore and knocked him to the ground. ‘Stay back!’

He flourished the phaser at the Doctor and the Duty Officer, then spoke to Lasky. ‘Reach into the Commodore’s pocket and take the keys out... carefully...’

‘What is it you want from the vault?’ The Doctor had been studying Rudge keenly.

‘Me? Not a thing.’ Magnanimously, the Security Officer was prepared to humour his captives. ‘The Mogarians are after the consignment of precious metals. Got this quaint notion it’s been plundered from their planet. They’re just recovering stolen property.’

‘That can’t be your motive,’ ventured the Doctor.

‘It’s greed!’ Lasky flung the keys she had gently extricated from the Commodore’s pocket at Rudge. She was not intimidated by the volatile situation.

‘Not completely,’ replied Rudge. ‘Pride as well. After this voyage I was being written off as a has-been and put out to grass. I decided to arrange a more comfortable retirement.’

‘Pay attention!’ The admonition from the loudspeaker was in Atza’s guttural tones. ‘The
Hyperion III
is no longer under the command of Commodore Travers. He is our prisoner together with three other hostages. All personnel must remain at their posts.’

In the crew’s quarters, the pulveriser, the galley, throughout the ship, people had stopped whatever they were doing to listen to Atza’s message.

‘If there is any attempt to approach the lounge or the bridge, the hostages will be killed!’

The Doctor tousled his hair impatiently. ‘Rudge, this hijack’s a side show. There’s a much greater menace –’

‘Not my problem, Doctor,’ dismissed his captor. ‘In less than an hour, we rendezvous with our pick-up.’

Clutching his wrist, the befuddled Commodore pulled himself upright.

‘If you’ve any decency left, you’ll get this man medical treatment,’ boomed Lasky, appreciating the intense pain the throbbing, scarlet weal must be causing the Commodore.

‘There’s a First Aid kit in the cabinet,’ Rudge informed the Duty Officer.

‘Let me.’ The Doctor collected the First Aid kit and crouched beside the Commodore.

Lasky regarded her captor with disgust. ‘You’re nothing more than a squalid criminal!’

‘If I am – what does that make you, Professor?’ He was not going to allow this condescending academic to get the better of him. Nor had his small, greedy eyes missed the fact that the Duty Officer had used the exchange to manoeuvre into a position from which he could attack.

‘We’ve already got one wounded hero,’ he reminded, menacingly. ‘Don’t let’s add another. Get over there where I can see you.’ Despite the bravado, Rudge moved to a wall, protecting his back and distancing himself from his captives.

This provided the opportunity for a hushed conversation between the Commodore and the Doctor.

‘What was that performance about?’ asked the Commodore quietly as the Doctor dressed his wound. ‘In the corridor.’

‘To warn Mel. She won’t wait around and do nothing.

Not in her character.’

Quite true. She had just burst into the communications room intending to send a Mayday call for help.

An abrupt halt. Aghast, she surveyed the wrecked equipment. ‘Oh, great!’ She turned to her companions.

‘Millions of miles from anywhere and we’re completely isolated!’

‘Can you organise a squad of guards?’ Doland asked Janet, his voice echoing as they returned into the long deserted corridor.

‘But you heard what the Mogarian said. They’ll kill the hostages!’ Janet’s reluctance aroused Doland’s ire.

‘What makes you think they won’t anyway? You’re surely not naïve enough to accept the word of a hijacker!’

‘He’s right. We can’t just do nothing.’ Mel’s brain was computing the possibilities: the Doctor had to be rescued!

Janet was adamant. ‘If the guards go blundering in, they’ll be signing four death warrants.’

‘Not if we can find a way of warning the hostages...’

Mel’s apprehensive gaze was on the air vent...

On the navigational screen, the Black Hole had been replaced by an aspect of distant stars and remote galaxies.

Atza and Ortezo were diligently scanning through a hundred and eighty degrees, seeking another vessel.

The intercom buzzed. Rudge’s voice. ‘Have you got a sighting yet?’

Switching on his translator, Atza thrust his begoggled helmet closer to the microphone. ‘No. But we are on schedule for our rendezvous. We should complete the mission as planned providing your humans refrain from interference.’

One human, however, was not refraining.

Mel.

On elbows and knees, exuding trepidation lest she bump into a prowling Vervoid, she was squirming along the air duct...

‘You don’t believe Rudge is behind the killings, do you?’

The Commodore spoke softly to the Doctor who was bandaging his wound.

‘No, he’s just a weak man gone rogue.’

‘So whatever the outcome of this blasted hijack, we’re still at the mercy of a murderer.’

‘Or murderers...’ The Doctor contemplated Lasky.

Sitting apart, reading a book, Sarah Lasky appeared to be in a world of her own.

‘Doctor.’

Startled, the Doctor looked about trying to locate the urgent whisper. It sounded like Mel.

‘The air duct.’ It
was
Mel!

Assuming bored nonchalance in order not to alert Rudge at the far end of the lounge, the Doctor wandered aimlessly towards the air duct. ‘What’re you doing in there?’ He kept his voice very low. ‘Don’t you know how dangerous it is?’

‘Shall I join you!’ Whispered it might be, but the tone was tart. ‘There’s going to be an attack on the lounge.