The Eleventh Tiger (4 page)

Furniture from various periods of history was dotted around: an ornate ormolu clock, a Louis XIV chair, a gramophone.

At the centre was a large, hexagonal control board - even after two years of living within its sphere of influence Ian was still conscious of the power and mystery it radiated. Six panels of controls and instruments surrounded a glass column filled with strange tubes and filaments, and an energy that Ian could feel even if he could neither see nor name it.

The Doctor was already fussing over the control board.

With his Edwardian frock coat and checked trousers, he looked almost as out of place as his furniture against all the futuristic technology.

Vicki, the other member of the Ship’s company - Ian had never quite decided whether they were crew or passengers -

was already in the console room, lounging on a chaise longue. She was young enough to be one of Ian and Barbara’s pupils, but Ian was glad she wasn’t in his class.

For one thing, she came from five hundred years in his future when the science he could teach would be as out of date as medieval alchemy was to himself.

‘There you are, Chesterton,’ the Doctor said. ‘Barbara, I think we are shortly about to land.’

‘Have you any idea where, or when?’

‘No, I’m sorry, young man. We shall just have to wait until the Ship has landed, and then perhaps we’ll be able to tell.’

As if his words had been an instruction, the centre column slowed to a halt.

Ian stepped out of the Ship into the overgrown remains of an old building. Moonlight picked out pale fungi growing on stones, while the undergrowth wrapped itself in darkness.

The Ship hummed softly behind him, like a purring cat that had found a comfortable nook in which to rest for a while.

‘There’s no-one around,’ Ian called back. ‘It looks like some kind of ruined temple or something.’ He looked up into the night. The familiar constellation of Orion looked back down at him. Ian smiled, greeting this old friend. ‘It’s Earth!’

Barbara emerged, looking hopeful. ‘Earth? Are you sure?’

‘Look at the constellations, Barbara.’ Ian pointed. ‘Orion; there’s the Pole Star; the Plough over there. All constellations as you can see them from Earth.’ He squinted. ‘Mind you, we must be a bit further south than England.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘It’s always nice to be back.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ He turned as Vicki and the Doctor came out, the latter pausing to lock the doors of the TARDIS. ‘It’s Earth,’ he repeated.

‘But of course, dear boy,’ the Doctor crowed. ‘But of course.

This is exactly what I’d hoped for. And, what’s more, with any luck we are in your 1960s.’

Ian’s heart caught in his throat, and he could see that Barbara also looked hopeful. Both of them had heard that particular prediction before, however, and had been let down often enough not to let excitement run away with them. ‘Are you sure?’

The Doctor nodded.

‘But how?’ Ian asked.

‘Well, I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to disappoint you if it didn’t work, but as we left Rome I tried to make the shortest increment - that is to say, the shortest journey - that I could. That way, I hoped we should travel in time only, and not space.’ The Doctor gestured around him with a triumphant smile. ‘And, as you can see, it has worked!’

Ian wanted to believe it had worked perfectly, but simply couldn’t. It just wasn’t in him to do so. ‘You’ll forgive me if I wait to see the morning’s paper. Oh, this is Earth all right, and I’ll take your word for it that we’ve travelled forward in time. But we might just as easily have arrived in 1940, or the twenty-first century.’

The Doctor was slightly deflated. ‘Well, yes, that is true, unfortunately. There’s no way to tell exactly how far forward we’ve travelled. We will just have to go out and meet someone who can tell us the date, won’t we?’

‘And hope it isn’t Hitler, or someone like that.’

‘Oh, don’t fuss so,’ the Doctor snapped. ‘Anyway, it’s far too late at night to go round knocking people up. I suggest we get some rest until dawn, and then explore.’

Vicki looked downcast, but Ian was satisfied with the arrangement. ‘Sounds good to me, Doctor.’ He ushered Vicki back into the TARDIS before she could go off and get herself into trouble. He paused in the doorway and looked back at Barbara. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Yes.’ Barbara stretched her arms, taking a deep breath of the wonderful air. ‘At least it’s peaceful here,’ she said.

‘It does feel that way, doesn’t it?’ Ian admitted. ‘Something in the air perhaps. Or this place.’

‘The place, yes. There’s a sort of... I don’t know...

spirituality about it. You can’t really imagine anything bad happening here.’

Ian stepped back out of the Ship. He didn’t say anything, not wanting to disappoint Barbara by telling her that there was as likely to be unpleasantness in any one place where there were people as in any other. He took her hand instead, and squeezed it. ‘A peaceful place sounds good to me.’

His head felt as if it had burst like a soap bubble, and he was certain that if he could see anything other than blackness it would surely be the shade of blood. The blackness had crushed him and jammed his lungs solid. Every bone in his body burnt inside its sheath of flesh, but his head burnt worst of all.

The blackness rolled around him, then faded above him.

Was this death, allowing him to float up to heaven on a breeze? The stars began to wink, each point of light making his head throb. He could hear things over the din in his head: hooves splashing in mud; screams, and the jarring clash of steel on steel; wood snapping and the crackle of burning. His hands flailed out, slapping against the dry darkness that had broken him, as he tried to pull himself along.

His legs were buried somewhere and he knew he had to exhume them, but whatever grave held him below the waist wasn’t letting go without a fight. A noise was coming from somewhere nearby. ‘Major!’ it called, ‘Sir, where are you?’ He wished the major would hurry up and answer; the repetition was beginning to irritate him. At least there were people around. If he could only breathe, he could shout back to them.

‘There he is,’ another voice called, closer. Then there were bodies around him, stamping on the ground. Random words and phrases emanated from them: ‘... didnae see him... at the double, Sergeant... horse... they come back...’

Then the grave that held him relaxed its grip and he pulled himself free, gorging himself on smoke-scented air until he thought he might be sick with it.

He let himself relax as his breathing steadied. To one side he saw two men standing by his grave. A four-legged, hoofed grave. He coughed, tasting blood, but the tingle in his gums told him it came from there, not further down. The nearest man knelt. He was short and lined, but tough-looking, with a nose that surely hadn’t started its life in the shape it now was. Like the other man, this one wore a uniform: black trousers, dark tunic, and white belt and gloves. His tunic was dirty and torn, his face scratched in several places.

‘Are ye all right, Major?’ the man asked.

So, he was a major. ‘I think so,’ the major said slowly.

The man turned to talk to a younger, leaner man with lighter hair and a Vandyke beard that didn’t belong on someone so baby-faced. ‘Captain Logan, sir,’ he reported, ‘I think the major’s all right.’

‘Very good, Anderson.’

The major rolled over and drew his knees up under him, preparing to stand.

‘Sir,’ Anderson protested, ‘d’ye really think you should be standing up? The way that horse rolled, your legs...’

The major stood. His legs ached, but they supported him.

They weren’t broken, which was good enough for him. In any case, his head felt so bad that he doubted a broken bone would even be noticeable by comparison.

‘Bloody hell,’ Anderson exclaimed. ‘How can you stand up?’

‘I’m all right, Anderson.’ He tried to focus on the bearded officer. ‘Logan, what...?’

‘We broke them, sir,’ the young captain said, quietly and reassuringly. He beamed. ‘You were magnificent, sir. But one of them shot your horse down. When he rolled over on you I feared the worst.’

The major was tempted to ask who ‘they’ were, but some instinct stopped him. He’d said he was all right, and didn’t want to worry these men who were so concerned about him.

‘Well, it isn’t the worst. Not for me, anyway. The horse?’

‘Neck broken, sir,’ Anderson burred.

The major nodded his understanding, though he could barely feel his head move. He could barely feel anything beyond the burning agony that throbbed between his ears.

He might not remember what had just happened, but he knew a concussion when he felt one. He turned, and saw the source of the smoke that tainted his every breath.

The flames were visible several miles from the town, casting an angry glow against the smoke overhead. The smell of burning clay as well as wood smoke was already in the air.

On the gentle slope leading to the town the earth was churned and damp, and a few injured or dead horses were slumped where they had fallen. A number of boxes, baskets and weapons were scattered around, though there was no sign of bodies.

‘Any fatalities?’ the major asked.

‘Only you, we thought,’ Logan said. ‘The bandits decided discretion was the better part of valour, and ran for their lives.’

‘Better than nothing, I suppose. Lucky we were here.’

‘Too late for Qiang-Ling,’ Logan said sadly, indicating the town. ‘God alone knows where their militia was.’

‘Wi’ the bandits, probably,’ Anderson muttered, just loud enough to be heard. ‘Sleekit buggers, they are.’

Logan shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. But they certainly would have been no match for a bandit column that size.’

‘Perhaps we should go and ask them,’ the major suggested.

‘I’ll need a new horse anyway.’

‘You can take mine,’ Logan offered.

‘No, that’s all right. I think the walk will help me get going again.’

Logan nodded curtly and turned to Anderson. ‘Form up the column, and follow us in. I’ll go with the major and find him another horse for the journey back to Kwantung.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Anderson walked back to where the major could now make out two horses. He mounted one and led the other by the reins back into the darkness.

Logan handed the major a conical helmet with a
pagri
wrapped around it, and no plume in the space for one. There was a fist-sized dent in it.

‘It looks like I feel,’ the major said, cracking a slight smile.

It stung to do so. He decided to carry the helmet under his arm, doubting that it would fit well on his head anyway.

A nice soft pillow would fit him better, but he had no idea how many miles it was back to his quarters in Kwantung.

Even before the major and Captain Logan entered the town they could hear the wails of women and children, who were pawing frantically at the rums, over the sound of the fires.

The major had to stop to fashion a rough mask out of cloth and tie it round his mouth and nose. He had no illusions that it would keep the smell of smoke and charred flesh out of his nostrils, but with any luck it should prevent his throat being scorched into uselessness.

The town gates were off their hinges and lying askew on the road. Flames cast enough light for the major to see his way by, but at the same time created dancing shadows among the debris that constantly strove to trick and beguile him into taking a tumble.

A chain of men, women and children was hauling pails of water through the streets to the buildings where the fires still burnt brightest. Some of the men wore the robes and basket-like hats of the town’s militia. They glared at the two British officers as if blaming them. The looks were forceful enough for the major to start feeling guilty, even though he knew his troops hadn’t done anything.

They also hadn’t arrived in time to prevent this happening.

‘It looks as if we didn’t do much good here today, Captain.’

Logan looked uncomfortable. In fact, he looked very much as the major felt. ‘We did drive off the bandits, sir.’

‘Too late.’

‘The town has a militia. One has to wonder where they were.’

‘Protecting their families, like any sensible men,’ the major theorised.

A militiaman wearing a slightly finer uniform than the other men was directing operations, and the major went over to him.

‘Excuse me,’ he began, in the Chinese he’d been learning since he was posted here. He got no further.

‘Where were your troops when these barbarians were burning my town?’

‘We were engaging the bandits outside. This is very much an internal Chinese matter -’

‘Pah,’ the officer spat. ‘
Gwailo
lies and excuses as usual. If you’re going to colonise a country, you might at least make a show of instilling order.’

‘Look, Captain -’ Logan began, but the major cut him off with a gesture.

‘We only want to help,’ he said to the militiaman. ‘We’ve lost some horses, and will need replacements. I have fifty men coming who can help fight these fires in exchange.’

The officer grimaced. He clearly wanted to spurn the offer of help, but was not stupid enough to risk his people’s lives by doing so. ‘All right. There are horses in a corral at the end of that street.’ He pointed. ‘Their stable has burnt down, so we can’t look after them anyway You can take them. Ride them, bury them, eat them, do what you like.’