DANCING THE CODE.

by Paul Leonard.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost thanks must go to Jim Mortimore for: 1. getting me involved in Doctor Who books in the first place; 2. loan of videos and books; 3. sketches of Xarax (see front cover); 4. editing, plot suggestions; 5. moral support. At least three-fifths of the enjoyment you may get out of this book is due to Jim. Secondly, thanks to Barb Drummond for sterling efforts in reading through the text and correcting innumerable bits of unworkable prose (any that remain are strictly my fault!). Two-fifths of your enjoyment is due to Barb - and watch out for her novel, it's going to be good. Then there's Craig, who once again made many useful suggestions on Doctor Who continuity. One-fifth of your reading pleasure is down to the eponymous Mr Hinton, I believe. And one-fifth to be split between: my mother, for use of telly and much needed moral support; Bex and Andy at Virgin, for editorial support and general chumminess; Chris Lake, Nick Walters and Mark Leyland of the writer's circle (comments, suggestions and encouragement); Dr Richard Spence (telling me I wasn't going to die just yet); Peter-Fred, Richard, Tim, Matthew and Steve of the Bristol SF group (enthusiasm); Pat and Martine, Anita and Joe, Anna, Ann H, Helen, Nadia (friendship and support).

And if anyone noticed that without all those people, their reading pleasure would have been minus two-fifths - well, that just about says it all, doesn't it?

For Anna and Philip may you travel far together

Prologue.

- sweet sweet honey honey - - sweet sweet good good honey dancing to be dancing honey - Can you speak?

- sweet dancing honey dancing good good sweet sweet - Do you understand me?

- dancing understanding honey dancing sweet sweet sweet honey to be understanding to be dancing - I am human. What are you?

- human dancing honey dancing to be sweet sweet honey to be dancing human to be honey - I came here to help to find peace. Tell me, how do I find peace?

- peace to be dancing peace to be honey peace to be good good honey sweet to be making nest to be good sweet honey dancing - They told me you could bring peace!

- peace to be human to be honey dancing peace to be honey dancing - I might be able to bring more humans to you - - more humans to be dancing to be sweet sweet honey honey - - but first there are some things you have to do for me.

- dancing to be human to be honey to be - Do you understand? I'm making a bargain. I bring you people - humans. You bring me peace. YOU BRING ME PEACE, YOU UNDERSTAND?.

- peace to be dancing honey to be dancing peace to be 'dancing the code - Yes. Peace. At last.

- honey dancing sweet sweet peace honey honey - - dancing the code dancing the code - - dancing the code -

Book One

War Dancing

URGENT MEMORANDUM.

FROM: R.COM Z OFFICE.

TO: R.COM C-IN-C.

SECURITY CLa.s.sIFICATION: R.COM STAFF ONLY.

RE: DANCERS.

PROJECT NOW READY TO PROCEED. NEED 1000 REPEAT.

1000 PERSONNEL *URGENT* *URGENT* TO SUPPLY DANCERS. TO SUPPLY DANCERS.

SCHEDULE OPERATION COUNTERSTRIKE FOR 1230.

TUESDAY REPEAT 1230 TUESDAY. I WILL BE READY.

One.

The fire was almost out, no more than a pile of ashes and softly glowing charcoal. Its dim red light gleamed on the enamel teapot that stood warming on the brazier, shone more faintly on the guns stacked by the closed flap of the tent. Catriona Talliser closed her eyes for a moment, let herself feel the warmth and comfort, the spice and smoke-laden smell of the air.

'You are tired? We could speak in the morning, if you prefer it.'

Catriona opened her eyes again, fixed them on the shadowy shape of her host, the gleaming eyes in the dark, fire-lit face, the grey, pointed beard. The white shirt and Levis he was wearing seemed somehow out of place on him; he looked as if he should have been wearing a traditional burnous, like Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Lawrence of Arabia Arabia. He probably had done, she thought, when he was younger.

'I have to leave early in the morning,' she said. 'I need -' I need to be back in Kebir City by two-thirty tomorrow, to interview Khalil Benari, the leader of your enemies. But she couldn't very well say that. 'My editor needs my story in before eleven,' she lied.

The Sakir Sakir Mohammad nodded. 'More tea, then?' Mohammad nodded. 'More tea, then?'

Catriona almost said no - she found the strong, sweet, minty tea of the Giltaz all but undrinkable - but she knew it would help her stay awake, so she nodded.

The Sakir Sakir clapped his hands. 'Tahir! Light the torch!' clapped his hands. 'Tahir! Light the torch!'

There was a movement in the near-darkness. For a moment, Catriona imagined that Mohammad's son was going to light a real torch, a wooden brand dipped in sheep's fat, like the ones she'd seen in the flicks when she was a kid. But there was a disappointing metallic click, and ordinary electric light filled the tent, throwing sharp, swiftly moving shadows against the grimy camel-wool walls.

She saw that there were more guns than she had noticed at first: as well as the Kalashnikovs stacked by the entrance, the light caught a rack of hand guns, and a leather belt hung with small, black grenades.

She made a mental note for her report: 'The Giltean Separatists are well armed, and their equipment is modern.'

Tahir put the torch down, and Catriona saw that it was in fact a battered bicycle lamp, emblazoned with the logo 'EVER READY'.

Tahir sat cross-legged in front of the fire, poured the tea from the enamel pot into the tiny gla.s.ses; poured it back again, and out again, then examined the decanted fluid by the light of the torch. He added some sugar to the gla.s.ses, some tea to the pot, poured back and forth a few more times, examined the results once more, then, satisfied, pa.s.sed one of the gla.s.ses to Catriona.

She sipped the tea - too sweet, too strong, too hot - and smiled.

'It's wonderful.' She was conscious of her own awkward, English politeness.

Tahir drank his own tea in one gulp, said nothing.

Catriona looked at him: broad nose and lips, narrow black moustache, dark, watchful eyes. She wondered for a moment if it was Tahir that she should be interviewing, rather than his father. The young man of action, rather than the Old Man of the Desert.

Tahir caught her eye and smiled slightly. Catriona had the unnerving sensation that he knew exactly what she had been thinking.

She turned her gaze quickly back to Mohammad.

' Sakir Sakir,' she said, 'may we begin now? I'll use the ca.s.sette recorder if you don't mind.'

The old man waved a hand, murmured, 'Of course, Monsieur.'

Catriona frowned at the 'monsieur', then remembered the little ceremony Mohammad had insisted on making before she could enter the tent with them, when he had declared her to be an honorary man.

That had happened to her before in her dealings with desert Arabs; but she hadn't expected Mohammad to take it literally, to the extent of calling her 'monsieur'. The feminist in her - the woman who had quite literally burned her bra, on a hot day in London in the crazy summer of '69 - resented it bitterly. Why couldn't the Giltaz let her into their tents as a woman woman? Why couldn't they treat her as what she was - a human being, who happened to be female?

With an effort she suppressed her annoyance, turned away and unshipped the ca.s.sette recorder from her rucksack. She held the microphone a foot from her lips, and rather self-consciously tested the level. The miniature VU meter flicked back and forth with a series of faint clicks.

'Three - two - one - go.' She took a breath. 'I'm in the secret desert headquarters of the Giltean Separatist movement, the FLNG.

With me are the Sakir Sakir Mohammad Al-Naemi, acknowledged leader of the resistance movement, and his son Tahir.' There would be no audience for the recording except herself, when she typed up her story in Kebir City tomorrow, but Catriona liked to keep her tapes clearly labelled. Mohammad Al-Naemi, acknowledged leader of the resistance movement, and his son Tahir.' There would be no audience for the recording except herself, when she typed up her story in Kebir City tomorrow, but Catriona liked to keep her tapes clearly labelled.

She paused, then looked the old man in the eye and began.

' Sakir Sakir. You were known as the leader of the political opposition in Kebiria for many years. You partic.i.p.ated in debates with Khalil Benari in the National a.s.sembly. Why do you feel it necessary now to take up arms against the government?'

She knew what the answer would be, of course: and it came immediately, well-rehea.r.s.ed.

'Mr Benari began this struggle. He imprisoned my son; he executed my friends. Now he bombs our children, the children of the Giltaz.

What choice do we have but to fight back?'

There was a hollow sadness in his voice, an emptiness in his eyes as he spoke. Catriona wished she could capture it for her report. She decided to try moving away from her planned line of questioning.

'But you aren't happy with having to fight?'

The Sakir Sakir glanced at his son, a sharp, sidelong glance. Catriona risked following it, saw that the tense, watchful look on the younger man's face had intensified. glanced at his son, a sharp, sidelong glance. Catriona risked following it, saw that the tense, watchful look on the younger man's face had intensified.

But it was Mohammad who spoke. 'We do what we need to do.'

Back to the interview plan then, thought Catriona. She took another sip of the tea. It was cooler, but didn't taste any better.

'But surely you must know that you can't hope to force the Kebirian government to grant independence to Giltea? They have a large modern army and an air force; you have a few hundred soldiers in the desert.'

There was a short pause. The electric torch dimmed, then brightened again.

'Our cause is just,' said Mohammad simply. 'Allah Himself fights with us.' Again he glanced at his son. This time the young man frowned, looked away.

He doesn't believe in Allah, Catriona decided. She wondered what he did believe in. Marx? Mao? The power of the gun?

Tahir caught her glance, and his lips curled into a slight smile.

Mohammad rubbed his hands together above the fire, as if warming them.

'You see,' he went on, 'we intend to set up a democratic state - a Muslim state - whereas Mr Benari runs a dictatorship. Furthermore, we make no claim to the territory of the Kebiriz. We merely wish for the Giltaz to have self-government in their traditional lands.' He paused, still rubbing his hands together; Catriona wondered if he really felt cold. The tent was warm, stuffy. 'I cannot understand,' the old man said, with a note of genuine puzzlement in his voice, 'why the people of England, and France and America, do not support us, when our cause is just.'

He fell silent, closed his eyes. Catriona hesitated, unsure as to whether she should ask the next question. Perhaps the old man had fallen asleep. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that Tahir's smile had broadened. He was drumming his fingers on the camel-wool matting that covered the floor of the tent.

Suddenly he leaned forward.

'"Monsieur" Talliser,' he said quietly. 'Would you like to have a talk with me - "off the record", as you say? Outside? Man to - "man"?'

She glanced at him sharply, was met by cool, amused eyes. Let's Let's try your courage, then try your courage, then, they seemed to say.

Okay, thought Catriona. Let's.

She nodded at Mohammad. 'If the Sakir Sakir permits - ' permits - '

The old man opened his eyes, frowned, looked from one to the other of them. Catriona had the impression that he really had been asleep.

'Very well,' he said, waving a hand.

Tahir turned without a word, grabbed his boots and dived out through the flap of the tent. Catriona followed, stopping only to pull on her own boots and lace them, and check that her ca.s.sette recorder was still running. She didn't want to miss anything, 'off the record' or not; and she couldn't risk fiddling with the microphone switch when Tahir was within earshot. She clipped the microphone to her pocket, and hoped that he wouldn't hear the motor running.

Outside, it was cold. The air was brittle and still, the stars overbright. There was no moon, the landscape around was little more than shadow, broken by the dim lights from within the tents of the encampment. Tahir was just visible, his face a pale shape in the faint light from the tent behind them. A star burned near his lips; he was smoking a cigarette. Silently, he offered Catriona one. She shook her head.

'I've given up. Smoking's bad for you.'

Tahir said nothing for a while, then suddenly set off at a fast walk.

Catriona followed, tripping once or twice on the rocky, uneven ground. After a while, her eyes adjusted, and she could make out ahead of them the dim shape of the Hatar Ma.s.sif, the mountain range which divided the desert - and the territory of the FLNG - from the scrublands held by the Kebirian government.