Azmael's thoughts were interrupted by the scuff of a boot against the metal deck of the ship. It was Noma. The twins have been secured,' he said.

The Time Lord nodded, then watched as the Jacondan made his way to the ship's galley. Azmael had never trusted Noma, not even before the Sectoms had arrived. He was too sly and often wore a smile that verged on a leer. Now that he was a captain in Mestor's special squad, he couldn't be trusted at all.

On the other hand, Drak, his lieutenant, was quite different. On a security monitor Azmael could see him tucking the twins into their bunks. The domesticity of the scene was almost incongruous aboard a warship, especially as Drak was taking such an obvious fatherly pleasure from his task.

Azmael flicked a switch and the screen went blank. He was too tough and too old to be unduly affected by sentiment, but the feelings he had experienced on Gallifrey, just prior to 'executing'

the High Council, were beginning to stir again.

Mestor must die, he thought. Whatever the cost!

What's more, Azmael knew he would have to kill him soon.

As soon as Drak had left the room, Romulus and Remus climbed out of bed. The drug they had been given to restore parts of their memory had worked rapidly. They were still confused and a little disorientated, but one thing was clear - they were prisoners aboard a s.p.a.ce ship and they weren't at all pleased about it.

The twins speculated as to how soon their absence from Earth would be noticed and what their drunken father and academically s.p.a.ced-out mother would do about it.

Romulus cursed the f.e.c.klessness of his parents, while Remus was a little more practical. Quickly, his nimble fingers undipped a wall panel to reveal a ma.s.s of wires and printed circuits. Desperately trying to remember the intergalactic colour code, he started to disconnect several of the cables from a junction box.

'What are you doing?' asked Romulus.

'Trying to rig some sort of distress call.'

Romulus scoffed, highly suspicious as to whether anyone would hear, even if his brother proved successful.

Undeterred, though, Remus worked on.

It had taken the Intergalactic Task Force thirty seconds to scramble a squadron of star fighters. It had taken them even less time to locate Azmael's freighter. Whether through tiredness, or a subconscious desire to be followed, Azmael had inadvertently switched off the deflector shield and his ship had become visible to the tracking stations on Earth.

At the head of the 'V formation of star fighters was Lieutenant Hugo Lang. He was a tall, slim, good-looking man in his mid-twenties. He had graduated top of his year from Star Fighter pilot school and it was believed he was destined for great things. In fact, Hugo was every inch a hero in the making, and all it now required was combat experience to confirm it, which his present mission would provide. Although his a.s.signment was fairly routine, and therefore quite safe, the kidnapping of the Sylvest twins would generate a lot of publicity. All Hugo had to do was bring them safely back to be declared a hero. At least, that is what those who were stage-managing his career thought. Unfortunately they didn't know they were sending an inexperienced pilot up against one of the most ruthless leaders in the universe. Mestor may have somewhat theatrically billed himself as 'The Magnificent', but it would have been more accurate if he had called himself 'The Merciless'.

As the squadron made visual contact, the onboard computers automatically started to scan the freighter, transmitting the information back to Control on Earth for a.n.a.lysis.

Everything seemed to be going well. All that Hugo had to do now was challenge the freighter and order it to return to Earth. If its captain refused, then he was allowed, under intergalactic law, to open fire and disable the ship. The freighter would then be towed back to Earth.

At least, that was the theory.

As the squadron took up its attack formation, Hugo's radio started to crackle with an urgent message from Intergalactic Control. It stated he was about to arrest a freighter that had been lost, believed destroyed, eight months earlier.

Momentarily confused, Hugo peered out of his c.o.c.kpit and read off the registration number emblazoned on the side of the ship's hull - XV 733. Confirmation was immediate - it was the lost freighter. Hugo smiled. Not only would he become a hero, but he would also pick up a fat salvage fee.

As he calculated how he might spend his new-found wealth, an irregular pulsing broke in on his headphone. Quickly the noise settled down and become an intergalactic distress call. Remus's fiddling had worked, but, alas, too late. A moment later the freighter went into warp drive and disappeared down a crack in time. Unless Hugo acted quickly, his chance of promotion and wealth would follow a similar descending spiral to the bottom of nowhere.

To become the sort of hero Hugo desired to be isn't a difficult thing. It doesn't require great intelligence or courage, wit or humour, or any of the other attributes prized so much by human beings. Hugo's sort of heroism, that is political heroism, simply requires two things: to be in the right place at the right time; and for the act to receive public approbation, backed, of course, by those holding social and political authority. Sometimes, especially if the act of heroism is particularly stupid, it helps if the perpetuator dies. True heroism, like saving someone from a burning s.p.a.ce shuttle, requires enormous courage, presence of mind and compa.s.sion for your own species, especially if you don't know the person you're saving. True heroism cannot be overpraised. Political heroism is a shabby imitation of the real thing and is best left to those with shabby, mediocre ambitions.

Hugo Lang, starfighter pilot, was not only politically motivated, but was also greedy for salvage money. He was also aware that if both fame and fortune were not to allude him, his next move had to be a bold one. It also had to be the right one.

Rapidly, Hugo barked orders into his radio, then flicked an override switch on his control column. A moment later, followed by his squadron, he disappeared down the same hole in time the freighter had taken.

Perhaps it was his lack of experience, or simply his desire for success, but no-one at Intergalactic Control could understand why the obvious had not occurred to Hugo - the XV cla.s.s of freighter was incapable of warp drive.

Azmael paced up and down the bridge of his ship annoyed with his own stupidity. It had been his intention to take the twins to a safe house on t.i.tan Three where he would be able to fulfill his plan.

Now he was being pursued by six starfighters, with little chance of escape. To engage them in battle would be suicide. Even though the heavy armaments of his craft could outgun most ships in the universe, a concentrated attack of six starfighters would prove too much for the freighter's defensive force shield.

Angrily, Azmael slapped the console in front of him. It had taken him weeks to convince Mestor of the viability of his plan. Even if the freighter could destroy the fighters, Mestor wouldn't allow him to stay at the safe house.

Rapidly, the Time Lord pressed a series of b.u.t.tons on the flight computer and the freighter, shuddering slightly as the warp engines were disengaged, slowed to sub-light speed.

Ahead lay t.i.tan Three.

Once more Azmael manipulated the controls and the freighter slipped into orbit around the tiny planet. With a little luck, the Time Lord reasoned, he might be able to use its ma.s.s to play hide and seek, thereby giving him the chance to pick the fighters off one at a time.

Hugo Lang thought otherwise. As his squadron emerged from warp drive, their tracking instruments immediately pinpointed Azmael's ship as it slipped over the horizon of the planet before him. Confidently, Hugo spoke into his radio and the starfighters manoeuvred effortlessly into battle formation.

As the squadron sped towards t.i.tan Three, the flight divided, half skirting the eastern rim of the planet, while the remainder, led by Hugo, turned westward. Seconds later the pincer movement was complete and the hapless freighter trapped. Azmael responded with a half-hearted flight of missiles which the starfighters easily avoided.

As Hugo was about to give his final instructions for their attack, his ship started to pitch and toss as though caught in a pocket of turbulence. Hugo checked his flight computer, but the instrument was unable to provide an answer.

One by one, the other starfighters reported similar problems, so Hugo ordered the squadron to withdraw while they reconsidered the situation.

If Hugo Lang had been a more experienced pilot, possibly less arrogant, and certainly less concerned with his own glory, he would have realised much sooner that the further his squadron distanced itself from the freighter, the worse the turbulence grew.

So, instead of pondering on the more immediate problem, Hugo spent the last few seconds of his squadron's existence asking his flight computer questions it couldn't answer. He was still shouting at the confused machine when the cause of the turbulence appeared over the rim of the planet.

At first sight, it was not unlike a ma.s.sive aurora borealis, except that the whirling mists of colour were contained in a blue haze that undulated like a balletic amoeba. For a moment, the phenomenon seemed to hover, as though studying the starfighters. Hugo gazed back, as much impressed by its beauty as confused why the ma.s.s still didn't register on his ship's sensors. Even at this late stage, Hugo did not realise the enormous danger he faced.

Suddenly a finger of blue mist shot towards the nearest fighter and, on contact, the ship vaporised.

'Scramble!' Hugo screamed into his radio.

Instantly the squadron broke formation and built up speed ready to enter warp drive. As they did, a ma.s.sive blue fist emerged from the main body of the cloud and enveloped three of the fighters. They, too, vaporised.

Realising they couldn't outrun the cloud, the two remaining fighters turned in a steep arc and, with laser cannons firing, flew at battle speed towards the swirl of colour. For good measure, Hugo also fired a full broadside of missiles, but all to little effect. The cloud simply absorbed the energy with an almost graceful ease.

Undeterred, the fighters flew on, this time firing Baston torpedoes.

Under normal circ.u.mstances, one torpedo would have been sufficient to destroy a small moon. Two, a planet the size of Earth.

Yet the cloud took four without seeming to disturb an atom of its structure.

As the fighters drew nearer to the mist, Hugo could see a small black irregular shape at its heart. Sensing this was some sort of control centre, he lined up his laser cannons and fired, scoring a direct hit.

Suddenly the soft, Turneresque colouring of the cloud turned harsh and livid. Hugo gave a small, boyish cheer, but his celebration was short lived. Instead of its destruction, the cloud launched a ball of blue fire which rapidly moved towards the second fighter.

Although the pilot took evasive action, twisting, diving, wriggling everyway possible, the ball found its target with ease and the burning fighter silently exploded in the vacuum of s.p.a.ce.

Again, the cloud launched another fireball. Determined not to meet the same fate as his command, Hugo thrust his craft into a ma.s.sive power drive towards t.i.tan Three. His intention was to pull out of vertical descent just before hitting its atmosphere. With luck, the following fireball would be travelling too fast to do the same and would enter the atmosphere and disintegrate.

But it wasn't to be.

Such was the speed and force of the dive, plus the gravitational pull of the planet, that Hugo was unable to correct his descent in time, and the ship hit the thin atmosphere with a sickening thud.

Although the ship remained in one piece, there was little its pilot could do to correct its rapid fall. In a last desperate attempt. Hugo fired the main retro rockets, but the fighter continued to plummet towards the surface of the planet.

Aboard the freighter, Azmael watched in amazement. Although impressed by the cloud's performance, he was more than a little concerned as to whether it would prove as hostile towards him.

Azmael lowered himself into the pilot's chair and slipped on the safety harness. Like the crew of the starfighters, he wasn't going to give up without a fight.

As he snapped the fastener of the harness shut, the bridge suddenly filled with a misty red light which then wrapped itself around the trapped Time Lord. At the same moment, his head was filled with a slurping, sibilant voice he knew only too well - Mestor's!

Deliberately, angrily, hatefully, the voice began to slash at Azmael's tired mind, d.a.m.ning the Time Lord for his incompetence, for endangering the mission and for causing him to waste so much energy and effort.

Mestor continued his mental attack until the Time Lord thought his mind would explode. Then as suddenly as it had started, the a.s.sault stopped and the red mist evaporated. At the same moment, the cloud which had destroyed the starfighters also dissolved.

Azmael collapsed back into his chair, his body rigid and his mind raw. As the pain eased, he slowly opened his eyes and saw the sneering face of Noma. 'You never did understand the Lord Mestor's power,' he said. 'He's everywhere. Can do anything.'

Azmael was reluctant to concede that Mestor had the power of a deity, but he could not deny he had destroyed six fighters with little apparent effort. It also made him wonder how regularly Mestor monitored his thoughts and how much he knew of his plans to destroy the hateful gastropod.

Azmael watched as Noma operated the controls of the ship - he was preparing to land. It seemed that the Time Lord would be allowed to continue his work on t.i.tan Three. This surprised him.

Perhaps Mestor wasn't as all-seeing as Noma thought.

It didn't occur to Azmael that Mestor knew precisely what he was up to and didn't care. He didn't need to. He had the power to kill the Time Lord any time, any place, he wanted.

5.

t.i.tAN THREE.

It is strange how coincidence can seem to conspire. t.i.tan Three has the reputation of being the most desolate and unvisited planet in the universe. Yet all of a sudden, disparate events had caused several parties to arrive more or less simultaneously.

First had been the Doctor and his highly distraught companion, Peri.

Nearby, and as yet unknown to the Doctor, Azmael's ship was making a controlled landing.

Closer still was Hugo Lang. His ship was far from controlled. But the firing of the retro rockets had had far more effect than he had dared hoped for.

On the ground, the Doctor and Peri emerged from the TARDIS and surveyed the bleak horizon. In spite of Peri's gallant attempt to persuade the Doctor to the contrary, he still wanted to be a hermit.

Worse still, he had decided that the TARDIS was too comfortable a place to live and that a dank, draughty cave would be much more suitable.

Like a Victorian explorer, his hand shielding his eyes against the dull, watery sun, the Doctor continued to scan the horizon. A cold wind had started to blow, disturbing the powdery, grey dust that covered the surface of the planet. Peri began to cough as she inhaled the dusty air and then started to shiver. The thought of spending the rest of her life in such an unpleasant environment did not please her at all and she felt as though she wanted to cry and cry.

What the Doctor felt at that particular moment was a mystery, even to himself. Although he still maintained his David Livingstone stance, his hand on his forehead like the peak of a cap, his mind, in fact, had gone blank. Even the deafening sound of screaming engines, like those of a starfighter falling out of control, couldn't penetrate the inner sanctum of his conscious mind.

It wasn't until the fighter crashed and exploded that his mind slipped back into gear.

Picking himself up from where he had been blown, the Doctor looked eagerly around. Some distance away he could see a burning wreck and was puzzled as to how it had got there. Peri, who had thrown herself flat on the ground the instant the fighter had appeared, also scrambled to her feet.

Without a word, the Doctor leapt forward towards the wreck.

Suddenly he wanted to be a hero. A ship had crashed. Lives were in danger. He must go to the rescue. With mightly bounds, he dashed across the rough terrain with Peri in pursuit.

As they approached the fighter, there was a small explosion sending up a column of flame and black smoke. This seemed to delight and excite the Doctor even more. In his mind this was real danger. Peri wished he still wanted to be a hermit.

As they arrived, they saw the body of Hugo lying near the wreck.

Fortunately he had been thrown clear before his ship had burst into flames. Quickly the Doctor felt for the young man's pulse. It was still there, weak, but still pumping.

With effortless ease, and much to Peri's amazement, the Doctor scooped up the unconscious pilot and ran back to the TARDIS.

While Peri searched for the medical kit, the Doctor examined Hugo for broken bones. Apart from the odd cut, a little bruising and a few burns, he seemed otherwise undamaged.

As Peri carried the medical kit into the console room, the TARDIS shuddered slightly. The wreckage of the fighter had given up and exploded.

Peri noticed that once more the Doctor's expression had changed and wondered who he thought he was now. Christian Barnard?

Pasteur? Alexander Fleming? Madame Curie? Whoever he fancied himself to be, Peri hoped he had stopped being a hero and had forgotten about being a hermit.

As the Doctor dressed Hugo's wounds, the young man started to regain consciousness. The children...' he muttered, 'my ship ... my squadron!'

Suddenly Hugo's eyes were wide open. With unexpected speed, he pulled out a small gun from a holster at his waist. Using both hands to steady it, he pointed it at the Doctor. 'Murderer!' he screamed.

'You destroyed my whole command!'

Quickly, the Doctor s.n.a.t.c.hed the gun and simultaneously chopped Hugo across the side of the neck. Instantly the pilot was rendered unconscious.

'He was going to kill me.' The Doctor's voice was squeaky with a mixture of outrage and fear.

'Poor guy... Think what he must have suffered.'

That is quite beside the point. For all you seem to care, I could be lying dead at your feet this very moment.'

'But you're not. You're safe, Doc.' She stressed the word Doc, knowing how much he hated the diminutive. 'The point is, can you save him?