Doctor Who_ The Infinity Doctors - Lance Parkin [22]
More likely, she was ashamed that her mistress reeked of sweat, dust and anointing incense in roughly equal measure.
Vrayto hadn’t given any sign that she had noticed, but how could she not have? The dirt offended Larna, The oil and water shower responded to her presence, now, activating automatically. It was embarrassing that she enjoyed such a purely sensual pleasure, but she lingered, let the thousand tiny jets of hot water pummel her, kneading the muscle oil into her skin and caressing shampoo into her scalp. The thought that Vrayto would disapprove of such hedonism made it all the more appealing. The shower had a limited degree of sentience, but Larna’s hair was too long for it to wash, so she worked the foam down using her hands. That done, she straightened, her eyes closed, her arms by her sides, emptying her mind of anything and everything except the whoosh of the water and the feel of it as it swept away the grime that had come away from her robes to cover her skin.
The Doctor was right to try to end the war, Larna knew that. No: more than that, she felt it, at the base of each heart.
The alternative was to do what the other Time Lords would do: observe the war, quantify it. Many of the students believed as the Doctor did. Perhaps hers would be the generation with ambitions that reached further than the roof of the Dome. They could be men and women who went out into the universe in an attempt to find the truth, make contact and spread science and light. Larna had her doubts. Each generation felt this way, each thought that they would usher in an age of revolution and a better way of doing things.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, the dust and cobwebs and routines got into the blood, the desire always cooled.
What had been energetic had always become ossifted.
Worse still, those who retained their fervour into adult life had become tyrants, intent on power whatever the cost. There were those who placed the Doctor in that category, as no better than Pengallia, Marnal or Morbius.
She gasped in frustration, before remembering where she was or that Vrayto might have heard her. The mere idea that the Doctor could be thought of as a tyrant made Larna burn inside, it provoked an anger that she felt ashamed she couldn’t control. They knew the Doctor, they’d heard the sincerity in his voice as he argued his case at Council, at fringe meetings and in his lectures. Hadn’t they looked into those sad eyes, seen his soul laid bare?
The water massaged her shoulders like strong hands, it played over her face and chest. The things she had said today in front of the High Council… if she had given them a moment’s consideration she couldn’t have said them. But all those acolytes around her had thought the same. In the safety of their common rooms and dorms, she’d heard them all denounce the Public Record broadcasts that mocked the Doctor’s plans and misrepresented his aims. If she was to be damned, then at least it would be for something in which she believed. She saw the Doctor smiling at her. His gratitude meant more than anything else to her, that smile was worth a hundred professorships.
Larna could sense the shower’s impatience, and set it to dry and powder her. That done, she stepped out. Vrayto should have been waiting for her. Instead Larna was alone, her nightshirt over the back of a chair, the hairbrush still in its case.
She wriggled into the crisp cotton shirt, found some slippers and pushed on her hairband. Her hair needed cutting again: her fringe was barely above her eyes.
Vrayto came into the room, carrying a card.
‘Have we got guests?’ Larna asked, wondering who it could