Doctor Who_ Combat Rock - Mick Lewis [103]
‘Stopped decomposition from setting in too...’ the Doctor mused aloud. ‘And the sheer concentration of fungus explains the extent of the animation compared to that of the Mumis.
Hello, what’s this?’ A tiny metallic object could just be detected, attached inside the open mouth of the missionary head. ‘Well, well, well: a minute microphone speaker, of course. Telepathically activated, I shouldn’t wonder.
Extraordinary. Much more effective than the tape recordings in the Mumis. A wonderfully ghastly puppet... but where’s the puppetmaster?’
The Doctor placed the head gravely back on the shoulders and turned to face the little group, his fingers templed in front of him, eyes shrewd and expectant. ‘You might as well come forward now, Kepennis. Or should I say... the Krallik?’
Kepennis seemed to relax for the first time in days. ‘Was it that obvious?’ he asked, smiling thinly.
‘Not really, no. But you did give yourself away with little things. Speaking a little too emotively about your homeland being spiritually raped, for instance. And then there was your dramatic fainting fit – I take it that was necessary to focus all your concentration on mobilising the Krallik here.’ The Doctor glanced at the corpse of the young Papul rebel, Wayun.
‘Looks like the Krallik defended itself only too well. All the same, it must have been hard on your mental energies, all that long-distance ventriloquism. But I first began to suspect you long before then, of course. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the burning Mumi at Akima. It was rather puzzling why you had to be first on the scene to inspect it. Destroying the evidence of your little devices, perhaps?’ He blinked at the ‘guide’
reproachfully. ‘Well, you certainly fooled Tigus all this time.
But I must confess I’m rather surprised you managed to keep it from your best friend for so long, though...’ He inclined his head towards Wemus.
Wemus was shaking his head slowly, as if struggling to understand.
Kepennis took a step towards him. Wemus put out a hand to stop him, still unable to speak.
‘Surprised, my friend? But then how long have you known me? Three years, maybe four? Before you knew me I was a hunted figure. You could not understand the horrors I experienced. My family, Wemus...’ His face was hard with the memory of his own suffering. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to return home to find your wife and child dead? My baby son’s head was burned away, Wemus. My wife naked and strangled.’ He turned away from his friend, who still had not uttered a word.
‘I evaded them for months.’ There was a shuddering sigh, almost lost in the crackling from outside as flames drew nearer to the temple. ‘Hiding in the jungles near my home. Soldiers tortured and killed my relatives, my friends. Not one of them betrayed me. Can you believe their loyalty? They died for me.
The Indoni knew I was dangerous, that I had sabotaged their mining equipment, destroyed their logging tools. But they didn’t know how dangerous I would become...’
The torture. Carried in a metal box too short for him, his legs folded, arms cramped, neck squashed at an angle. They kept him like that for days, without food, without water. The only air sucked in through one small hole in the lid. Lying in his own waste, suffocated by his own fear. Then the interrogation: who were his accomplices, did he have foreign allies? Laughing, laughing madly at that of course.
Accomplices all dead, you bastards: you killed them when you murdered my brothers, my cousins. Foreign allies...? No-one outside of Papul cared, some governments even supplied weapons to Sabit. More torture. Then his escape. Away from his spiritual home in the west. South. And East.
Into the cannibal swamps.
The purple lake.
The fungus.