A DEVICE OF DEATH.

by Christopher Bulis.

Prologue.

Timequake.

Time cracked down the middle.

Opposing realities ground together like shifting continental plates. The probability rift ran through the ages, widening and branching, forming myriad tendrils that insinuated themselves into the timelines of a dozen galaxies, threatening to unravel the tapestry of the past, to turn tomorrow on its head and make fiction out of a trillion history texts as it pa.s.sed.

Which was exactly what they expected would happen.

The score or so temporal engineers and causality monitors seated at their consoles in the Parachronistic Chamber, buried deep under the Capitol of Gallifrey, continued with their a.s.signed tasks unperturbed. It would have been unseemly to show any signs of doubt or apprehension, even in the shadow of the vast forces that had just been unleashed. After all they were Time Lords. They had learnt to master such crises before half the civilizations in the galaxy had invented the wheel.

Brastall, Senior Monitor and Cardinal of the Arcalian Chapter, studied the great fifth-dimensional hyperglobe display that hung in the centre of the chamber. It showed the rift, colour-coded a particularly intense scarlet, spreading into futurity like spilled blood. 'Magnitude?' he enquired mildly.

'Four point six on the Ra.s.silon scale, your Grace,' came the steady reply. 'Within projected parameters.'

'Initiate dampening sequence delta three.'

Hands moved rapidly across the controls, releasing the total power of disintegrating matter from the depths of a collapsed star. Invisible time fields arrayed in hypers.p.a.ce about the s.p.a.ce-time coordinates of the planet Skaro contracted. Chronic resonance dampers slammed into place. Time dams and tachyon mirrors controlled and redirected the flow as the probability bow wave washed out into the universe, diluting and slowing the change to manageable proportions. In the depths of the globe the scarlet tide began to thin and disperse as reality absorbed the surge and closed in on itself once more to form a stable, if slightly modified, configuration. On a thousand worlds the Dalek wars would become a fading memory, then a myth, then nothing. They would never have occurred.

'Temporal flux diminishing,' a monitor announced.

'Damping now at eighty-seven per cent and rising.'

Brastall sat back in his chair and allowed a slight smile of satisfaction to cross his lips. You do not attempt to deflect the destiny of an entire race without being prepared to manage the consequences, of both success or failure, for those their malign influence had affected. It was just a pity they had only partially succeeded. Due to the efforts of their agent and his companions the expansion of the Dalek empire had been delayed, but not halted. Perhaps a thousand worlds had been saved for now, but it should have been millions. It was a poor workman who blamed his tools of course, but he couldn't help wondering if the Doctor had been the right choice, despite his past experience of the Daleks. A Prydonian after all, and hardly an outstanding one at that. More of a troublemaker than anything else from his record, even if he did seem to have a knack of a.s.sociating with primitive races. Still, the decision to use him had been made by the High Council, and it was Brastall's duty to carry out their wishes despite any personal reservations.

'Monitor Taxos,' Brastall said, 'have you a fix on the Time Ring?'

'Yes, your Grace. On screen.' A green trace like a tiny comet appeared within the globe, its head pointing away from Skaro and towards the future. 'Replacement TT capsule programmed and awaiting dispatch.'

'Begin rendezvous sequence.'

Taxos bent over his controls and Brastall smiled again.

They were not finished with the Doctor yet.

The first monitor continued his count. The red threads had almost vanished from the display. 'Damping now at ninety-nine point seven eight per cent...point eight three...point eight eight...and holding.'

Brastall frowned. 'Holding? The counter damping must be total.'

The monitor spoke again, a slight edge to his words. 'Your Grace, one energy filament has escaped the containment fields and is folding in on itself. It's forming loose vortex scale seven.'

'Display location and trajectory.'

The globe showed the new vortex picked out by a halo of pulsing blue light. Even as Brastall watched it converged with the green comet, the only other moving trace in the globe.

'It's following the Time Ring's artron trail,' said Taxos.

The two traces merged and sparkled. Then the red was gone, leaving only the green now motionless and flickering unsteadily.

'Vortex energy absorbed. Damping now one hundred per cent,' the first monitor said quietly.

'And the Ring?' Brastall demanded.

'Projected time path disrupted.' Taxos scanned his instruments anxiously. 'They will materialize short of planned coordinates.' In the globe the green spot of light broke into three. 'The Time Ring is overloading. Fail-safe has come into operation. Dividing to bleed off excess energy. Two ring pseudo-elements and pa.s.sengers now materializing. Estimated eighty-five and fifty-one per cent chance of survival, respectively. Losing prime element. Estimated survival factor three per cent and falling.'

'Reprogram the replacement capsule. Set discrimination for homing in on the Doctor's time trace.'

Taxos's hands flew over the controls. 'Capsule dispatched.'

He turned a concerned face to Brastall. 'But, Your Grace, what about the Doctor's companions?'

'The Doctor's safety must take priority for the moment.'

Brastall sighed heavily. 'I believe humans place great store in luck. Let us hope for their sakes it is justified.'

1.

Trooper.

6025D scanned the rugged stretch of rising ground before 3 it and compared the results with its previous map, updating details of changes where necessary and noting the position of new enemy emplacements. It was quite dark, except for a scattering of stars, but that did not hinder its survey in the least. Neither did the almost continuous explosions of the ballistic barrage currently sweeping across the hillside. Survey completed, it consulted its internal timebase. The barrage was due to end in twenty-eight seconds and then the advance would begin.

It was aware of the other troopers preparing to lead their columns into battle, and of the ma.s.sed ranks of the local Alliance forces in the dugouts behind them. From the signs it interpolated anxiety in the Tarracosian ranks. This was perfectly normal and it projected this condition would soon be alleviated. One of 36025D's subtler functions was to instil courage by example.

'Come on, men,' section leaders would shout just before they went into action, 'show me you've got as much chezz chezz as that machine!' as that machine!'

' Chezz Chezz', 36025D had learnt, was a local colloquialism for courage and bravery, therefore the rationale behind the statement was strictly speaking illogical. Since 36025D was not designed to experience fear, except as an abstract concept, it could not therefore be brave. But its presence combined with similar if more lurid exhortations seemed to produce the desired results, which in turn satisfied its programming.

Beyond that 36025D had no curiosity, doubt or desire. It was the perfect fighting machine.

Exactly on time the barrage ceased with a round of smoke sh.e.l.ls. The suspension within the thick clouds dispersed thermal, optical and micro wavelengths. Effectively it reduced visibility to a couple of metres. 36025D started forward into the murk. Tarracosians swarmed out of foxholes and trenches behind it and followed on.

Enemy beams stabbed at random through the smoke, several impacting on 36025D's body sh.e.l.l. It a.s.sessed the damage inflicted as minor and acceptable and continued on, dropping its visor to protect its optical system and main sensors. This left it without long-range senses except acoustic.

However, it continued firing its semi-portable cannon in precise blasts, targeting the suspected Garvantine positions it had identified earlier by inertial guidance and geometric computation.

There were cries of pain from the ranks behind it as men fell, but 36025D continued on up the hill as it had been ordered. Then a solid projectile struck its chest and exploded.

It staggered backwards for a moment, a.s.sessed the gross damage, bypa.s.sed critical systems, and continued on. Ten steps later sensory feedback from its lower limbs vanished. Its legs began to jerk erratically and it had to cut motive power to them. 36025D sank to its knees.

Check for secondary damage to sensor circuits.

Its arms grew numb, and the semi-portable clattered to the ground.

No secondary damage. Progressive sensory and motor control failure unrelated to any single injury. control failure unrelated to any single injury.

Its stabilizer sensor cut out and its internal gyro disengaged.

It toppled forward.

System failure spreading a.n.a.lyse possible causes.

Its visual receptors started to fail. Faintly it heard somebody shout, 'The synth is down.'

Its a.n.a.lysis revealed a theoretical explanation for the spreading corruption of its systems. It a.s.sessed the situation with its rapidly failing faculties and took the only logical action. Blackness closed in and all sensory input faded. But in that moment as the power that sustained its higher functions drained away and its processors shut down, 36025D experienced irrationality for the first time in its existence. And it asked a question of itself for which there was no programmed response.

Was it going to die?

2.

Deepcity.

irector Kambril's voice boomed from the lab's monitor Dscreen on which his compact, solid features were presently framed: '...and confirm that the pressures are within tolerance levels. Lab five: where is that new interface configuration? Well, get it on line, man! Lab three.'

A bun of grey hair tilted back as Academ Cara Tarron looked up from her console. 'Yes, Director?'

'Is that universal pivot-bearing sheath modification ready yet?'

'Any moment now, Director,' Tarron said, glancing across the arc of consoles to a test bench where a huddle of technicians were taking readings from a wired-up prototype.

One of them looked up and made an optimistic circle with thumb and forefinger. 'In fact its specifications are just being entered now.'

'Thank you, Cara,' Kambril said. 'That completes your lab's schedule. You may stand down.' His head turned to one side as he glanced at another monitor. 'Lab five, Academ Farris! That interface...' The sound muted.

The personnel in Tarron's lab sat back from their consoles, stretched and yawned and exchanged trivial comments.

Individual consoles were powered down and screens went dark. Somebody opened the blinds, the slats turning with a dry rattle, letting afternoon sun pour in through the lab's long windows to catch the dust motes in their slow sparkling dance.

Outside a purple haze was already filling the shadows on the far side of the Valley, but the chequerwork of the testing grounds was still brightly illuminated. A thread of smoke was rising from zone Desert Two, Cara noticed, and wondered what unit was under trial. She made the rounds, dispensing words of approval and encouragement to her team as appropriate.

Gradually the chatter died away as all eyes shifted to the big screen beside the Director's monitor, where the slowly rotating tri-dee schematic showed the final a.s.sembly. At the top of the screen was the legend:

M.I.C.A./VERSION 1.0/PROVISIONAL INTEGRATION.

One by one, driven by the Director's hectoring insistence, each laboratory finished its particular tasks, and the various components slotted into place on the display. The monitor volume swelled again.

'All labs have now completed their programs,' Kambril announced. 'a.s.sembly is now concluded. Awaiting confirmation from Central Computer.'

Even after all these years, Tarron could still feel the antic.i.p.ation rising until it was as tangible as the haze in the Valley, and she realized guiltily that she had been holding her breath. On the monitor Kambril's broad mouth suddenly widened and his square jaw lifted. 'We have validation. MICA has been provisionally accepted for trial production.'

The rest of his words were drowned by the cheering and applause, distant echoes of which were audible from the other laboratories on the open sound channel. In Tarron's laboratory, backs were slapped and hands shaken, and a few exchanged comradely hugs of delight. On the monitor Kambril could be seen smiling and nodding. After a few moments he raised his hands for calm, and spoke gravely.

'I think it is a suitable moment to remind ourselves of the great purpose behind the work we have done today. Please stand.'

There was a sc.r.a.ping of chairs as they did so, and Tarron knew the action was being repeated in every laboratory on the link. In contrast to the noisy exuberance of the previous minutes the solemn silence ached to be filled. Her heart beat unsteadily for a moment as she felt the old memories stirring.

'We all share and acknowledge our greatest loss,' Kambril continued. 'In remembrance of our beloved home and in the name of justice, we seek rebalance. By whatever means, and at whatever cost, we of Deepcity know our purpose: to end the war, to break the Union, and bring death to Averon!'

And as always Kambril's simple words seemed to trigger some sort of catharsis within Tarron. The bleakness of the past was overwhelmed by a growing sense of pride in their struggle and a fierce unquenchable anger. All doubts were cast aside as everybody in the lab was caught up in a tide of wild emotion.

Not the satisfaction in overcoming the abstract problems involved in creating MICA that they had expressed earlier.

Now they were giving voice to a darker, more basic need: vengeance. And Cara, a composed and temperate scientist of middle years, was pounding the air with her fist and repeating the chant with the rest of her colleagues: 'Death to Averon! Death to Averon!'

That evening Cara Tarron was working alone in laboratory three, and the room was in darkness except for a single light burning over her console. The heavy inner lab door swung open and Elyze Brant bustled in clutching her familiar and well-worn memory pad. Brant was a small energetic woman a couple of years older than Tarron. She ran Deepcity's Supply Department with legendary efficiency.

'Sorry I'm calling late, Cara. But I was just checking if there are any special items you want. There'll be a cargo ship calling soon and I know you scientists forget to put in requisitions on time then complain later when you run short.'

Tarron smiled, rubbing her eyes. 'You know us too well.

Yes, there was something: more of those N5 crystal units. I've got the specs note somewhere.' She rummaged amongst a stack of paper notes on her desk, squinting tiredly.

Brant frowned at her old friend. 'Why are you working so late? I thought MICA had just pa.s.sed on to the next stage?'

'It has,' agreed Tarron, finding the required slip at last and handing it over, 'but that just means another set of headaches to come. I was just planning a test program. MICA works in theory and in lab tests, but we've been rushed into full-scale production because they need it badly out in the field. The first prototypes will have to be checked as they come off the line and there are bound to be modifications required '

'Cara!' Brant spoke firmly. 'No weapon is worth our best designer cracking up through overwork. If you don't stop right now I'll speak to the Director and he'll order you to rest.

When is your next leave due?'