by Doctor Who
‘The sooner this thing is chained up and fully secured, the better,’
Haleston commented aloud.
‘It’s a sick animal,’ said the Doctor from the back of the car. ‘It needs medical help.’
‘Help? That brute?’ Haleston shook his head, marvelling at its size, at its sheer power.
‘It is a truly remarkable specimen, no?’ Romand chimed in. ‘Worthy of preserving on film for all time. . . ’
Haleston considered. ‘You may have something there.’
‘Can’t you speed up a little?’ Martha enquired, as the gradient of the road steepened. ‘That thing will be able to keep up with us.’
Haleston was about to agree gladly when the Doctor jumped in.
‘No, keep at this speed.’ He held up his curious device. ‘The vibration of the engine is already threatening to interfere with the diastellic signal.’ He glared at Haleston: ‘If you want to stay alive – we keep at this speed.’
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Something in his tone made Martha shiver, and Lord Haleston went very quiet too. Then she remembered that the Doctor had come up against angry Skarasens before. She could imagine it wasn’t an experience he was keen to repeat.
They reached the crest of the hill. Behind the Beast, following at a safe distance, Haleston could see the convoy of carriages trailing in single file along the road. It was a reassuring sight.
‘Lord Haleston, I wish to make a small confession,’ Romand announced. ‘Though I am happy to help you in this matter, my services are not given from purely noble motives.’
‘Oh?’
Romand smiled. ‘I understand from Mr Meredith that His Royal Majesty is soon to arrive in the area, and that he is interested in this Beast, yes?’
Haleston frowned. ‘You understand correctly. What of it?’
‘I was wondering if I might be allowed to capture the King’s first inspection of this remarkable animal with my camera?’
Romand
shrugged. ‘Think of the newsreels – the most sensational royal visit in all history!’
Lord Haleston frowned. ‘I am not sure the world is ready to view such a scene.’ he said. ‘We may need to hush all this up, you know.’
He turned to look again at the remarkable creature stomping slowly after them, and felt a small rush of pride. Such a gargantuan beast
– and yet he had overseen its capture. His work as a naturalist had never won him much attention up till now. But this. . .
He eyed Romand thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, sir. While this matter may not yet be fit for the public. . . might you accept a private commission?’
‘Please explain, your grace?’
‘The King will be holding a ceremonial dinner at Stormsby Castle, where he will award medals to certain men of service in this brave endeavour.’ Lord Haleston cleared his throat. ‘I thought perhaps it would be meet to immortalise the occasion in moving pictures for future generations. . . ’
‘Yes, for future generations.’ said Martha lightly. ‘Of course.’
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‘Let’s just hope I can keep the Skarasen under control.’ said the Doctor. ‘Or else the only small, private ceremonies you’ll be attending are your own funeral.’
Ian and Victor had spent a fruitless hour searching the grounds for Zygons. The only remotely sinister sighting was that the gate to the paddock was open and there were no horses in the field.
‘Can’t imagine a Zygon on horseback.’
Victor reflected as they
walked back round to the front of the house. ‘Perhaps the horses were taken so we couldn’t ride them to escape an attack.’ worried Ian.
‘In that case, perhaps we should be grateful they’ve spared us the sight of Mrs Chisholm galloping away bareback.’ joked Victor, jogging up the steps to the door and ringing the bell.
Ian noticed a piece of paper lying at the foot of the steps and bent to retrieve it. ‘Hey, Victor.’
‘What do you have there?’
‘Looks to be a telegram, sent by Lord Haleston.’ His gaze flicked over the neatly typed message. ‘Confidential. To the Prime Minister!’
‘Give it here.’ said Victor. He plucked the paper from Ian’s fingers and read aloud. ‘Most urgent I see you. Nature and motives of Beast must be discussed. . . Delicate matter. . . ’
‘He’s invited half the Cabinet here!’ blurted Ian.
‘Keep mum, my young buck. This wasn’t meant for your eyes.’ Victor cautioned him. ‘What I don’t understand is, what’s it doing out here? It’s dated today, but Lord Haleston’s been leading the troops at Wolvenlath and your mother said the telegraph lines weren’t working.
So how did he send such a message?’
Ian frowned. ‘Perhaps. . . no, that doesn’t make sense.’
‘What?’
‘I was just supposing. . . ’ He looked at Victor. ‘Perhaps it fell from Mother’s basket.’
As he spoke he heard the door creak. As if summoned by his very mention, his mother now stood watching them. She looked startled and pale.
‘Cynthia?’ Victor looked puzzled. ‘Where’s Chivvers?’
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‘Indisposed, I imagine. I was just passing the door, when. . . ’ She looked at the floor. ‘Victor, would you mind awfully seeing where Chivvers has got to?’
‘No, of course not.’ Victor muttered, stuffing the note in his pocket and marching away.
Ian felt his stomach pinch. ‘Is Father all right?’
‘He’s been asking after you.’ she said, and offered him a brave smile.
‘Would you like to see him?’
Feeling suddenly very grown up, Ian nodded and followed her inside. She ushered him up the stairs. The butterflies in his belly were tickling every nerve as he walked along the landing to his father’s door.
‘Father?’ he murmured. No reply. He looked to his mother, who wore a tight smile and nodded her head encouragingly.
Inside the bedroom, the deep red richness of the sunset was blocked by velvet drapes. It was gloomy and oppressively hot. His father was hunched up in the four-poster bed.
‘How are you feeling, sir?’ Ian ventured. The figure in the bed shifted.
‘I’m afraid he’s taken a turn for the worse, Ian.’ said his mother softly.
Suddenly the figure sat up. Ian felt the hairs on his neck prickle and rise, felt his heart stand still as he looked into the narrowed eyes of a Zygon.
‘Mother, get back!’ he gasped, stumbling backwards. A low groaning sound rattled in the back of his mother’s throat. He turned to find her engulfed in a haze of red light, blocking the door, her pretty face shrinking and puckering, her head ballooning, the skin spiking with thick, fleshy growths.
Ian screamed, though as the Zygon hiding in his mother reached out for him he knew it was already far, far too late.
Victor cautiously opened the door to Lord Haleston’s study. Since Chivvers was absent from his quarters, he thought the man might be assessing repairs to the broken window.
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But Chivvers was lying dead on the carpet, his face hideously marked and swollen.
‘Oh my God,’ Victor murmured. He made a half-hearted attempt to close the man’s staring eyes, but the lids wouldn’t budge. He rose quickly. Whatever did this, he thought, it could still be around. . .
Then he heard the terrified scream.
‘Ian?’ He dashed back out into the corridor, ready to run to the lad’s aid – when a loud bark sounded behind him.
He turned in surprise and alarm. ‘Teazel! The noble Teazel, thank heavens!’ The English Mastiffs huge dark muzzle was flecked with white froth, and he was panting fit to burst – he must have been running for miles. ‘Alas, no rest yet,’ Victor muttered, sprinting down the corridor. ‘Your young master needs us. Come on, boy.’
The large dog bounded after him – and then locked his fearsome jaws around Victor’s leg.
With a gasp, Victor stumbled and fell, twisting round so he f
ell on his back in the middle of the passage. ‘What the deuce. . . ?’ Teazel’s heavy paws pressed down on his chest, his teeth were bared, eyes narrowed and fierce.
Then suddenly, a halo of light surrounded the Mastiff. Victor whimpered as the dog’s limbs began to stretch and warp. The animal’s body glowed orange-red as the fawn fur burned away. Alien flesh crazed with veins arid nodules thickened round the bones. The canine jaws retracted even as the face fattened and spread.
‘No,’ croaked Victor, struggling even to draw breath with the weight of the creature on his chest. ‘You. . . you can’t be one of them.’
‘I am Brelarn, human,’ the monster hissed, its breath rank in Victor’s nostrils as the light faded from his form. ‘Warlord of the Zygons.’
‘Then. . . Teazel. . . ?’
‘The animal was captured and brought back to our ship for service.
The body of such a beast is most practical, is it not?’ Brelarn snorted.
‘Swift and powerful, it gains me access to the heart of human affairs and leaves me free to roam outside as I choose.’
‘But. . . ’ Victor stared helplessly into the alien eyes. ‘I saw you attack those Zygons. . . Kill them. . . ’
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Brelarn hissed.
‘They were committing an act of mutiny.
The
penalty is death; the sentence mine to impose as I choose.’ The Zygon pressed his fingers to Victor’s throat and gave a gloating chuckle.
‘You humans will beg for the same penalty, once I have enslaved your miserable world.’
Victor couldn’t breathe. His skin burned beneath the creature’s touch. He heard Ian scream again but the corridor was spinning now, blackness was brushing away his thoughts.
He heard the inhuman, gurgling voice of Brelarn close in his ear.’
‘Soon, all humanity will be yoked to the will of the Zygons.’
The Skarasen had tripped sleepily through the countryside, oblivious to the convoy of horse and carriages trailing it to Templewell, or the sheep and cattle watching curiously from fields by the roadside. For Martha, the long minutes had passed tensely.
As they neared the site, Lord Haleston bellowed at people to make way, to prepare the machinery.
‘Don’t start any engines,’ the Doctor warned them. ‘Not till I’ve put this thing deep, deep under.’ He started to explain how, since the Skarasen had now reached its destination, he could start to close down those areas of its brain that controlled movement and response to stimulus. But Martha was too busy imagining what the creature could do if he messed up to worry much about the technical explanation.
If the Skarasen cared about the presence of its dead fellow, or even noticed, it showed no outward sign. It simply lay obediently down beside it, hindquarters sinking down into the muddy lakeshore.
Martha stared down at it now from a hillock within the cordoned-off area. The Skarasen looked for all the world like a huge dog curled up in sleep, heedless of the hectic rush and din all about it as hunters, naturalists and police swarmed over the site. It did not stir as men hurled steel netting over its head, as a crane haltingly lowered huge boulders onto either side of the metal web to secure it. The dark sheets of its eyelids didn’t twitch as the ditch-digger gouged a deep pit out of the shore. More men toiled close by, looping lengths of heavy 126
chain about the Skarasen’s talons and fitting them to a hoist. Soon that hoist would lower one of the monster’s massive paws into the pit, where it would be secured with more chains and buried beneath tons of earth.
Martha found herself feeling almost sorry for the thing.
The Doctor had been bossing people around, telling them how best to secure the Skarasen, pointing out potential pitfalls, probably annoying the hell out of most of the hunting party. He really seemed an expert. Now he came and slumped down beside her. His characteristic manic energy seemed finally to have deserted him.
‘That should slow the Skarasen down for a couple of seconds if things go wrong during the brainwave therapy,’ he said moodily.
‘So you’ve done what the Zygons wanted,’ said Martha. ‘Can’t you quickly make the Skarasen push off to the Arctic or wherever before they come to get you?’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Well, let’s make a quick getaway back to Goldspur – surely we can warn everyone about the Zygons now?’
‘We should plan our next moves, definitely.’ The Doctor stood up.
‘Away from prying eyes. Come on.’
‘Oh yeah?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Clandestine rendezvous, is it?’
‘Lord Haleston has had a hut built for his personal use.’
‘You been spying on him?’
‘Of course.’
He led the way up a rocky slope and Martha saw it – a small wooden shack built into a small copse, some way off from the bustle of the lakeshore.
Once inside, Martha found it smelt of pipe smoke.
There was a desk and a chair and a cluttered bookshelf. A thinking space, she decided.
‘That’s better,’ said the Doctor, closing the door behind her. ‘Bit of privacy, just what I was after.’ He grinned. ‘Because, you see. . . I can’t sting you in this form.’
‘What?’ Martha felt a shudder go through her. ‘That’s not funny.’
Still smiling, the Doctor took a step towards her. . .
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Martha tried to push past the Doctor to get to, the door, but his hands caught hold of her wrists. ‘Get off me,’ she hissed, pulling free, backing away. But she soon came up against the desk. There was nowhere to hide or run.
‘No wonder you didn’t want me telling anyone about Zygons,’ said Martha, her cheeks feeling hot.
‘You were very obliging,’ he said, still smiling. ‘It wouldn’t be very convenient, a lot of men with guns running round Goldspur.’
‘Where’s the real Doctor?’ she demanded
The doppelganger shook his head. ‘You’ll never see him again.’
‘I should have guessed when you didn’t know who Clara was,’ she said. ‘You may have got the moves and mannerisms, but the real Doctor would never have forgotten her.’
‘Oh, I figured it out in the end,’ the fake assured her. ‘She was the young girl who lived at the house we converted into a supply station, right?’
‘So that carriage that crashed was the same one I saw at the Lodge
– or should I say, the Zygon drop-in centre?’
‘That is correct.’ He took a step towards her. ‘A forward base.’
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‘And your Mrs Unswick was running the local milk round, right?
Sending out the rations to your poor starving spies in the countryside.’
As she spoke, Martha was feeling behind her on the desk for any kind of weapon. Must keep him talking. ‘So – what made you kill Clara?
Saw you as you really are, did she?’
The Doctor’s smile looked more of a grimace now she knew what lay behind it. ‘Like this, you mean?’
Martha suddenly had that familiar nightmare feeling – when you know something awful is going to take place but you can’t stop it happening. As she watched, the Doctor’s bony features began to warp, to scrunch up into the centre of a huge, blood-red head. He shrank in height but swelled in size, piling on pounds of red-orange flesh.
‘The female died when she surprised two of our foot soldiers searching for the supply of lactic fluid.’ The Doctor’s voice was changing into a deep and sinister whisper. ‘The ration was secure, of course. Vulner-able only when in transit.’
‘So today they had a go at the carriage,’ said Martha, her fingers closing on a large paperweight. ‘And this time they killed themselves.’
‘Desperation. Days without rest. Hunger. These things weaken the mind as well as the body.’ The voice had become as inhuman and vile as the rest of him. ‘I, however, am Felic, of the analyst caste. I am better fed. Strong enough to maintain a complex
impersonation. And strong enough to kill you. . . ’
‘Please. . . ’ Martha turned her back on him, clutched the paperweight tight in her shaking hands. ‘Just make it quick.’ She braced herself for the scuffle of its claw-like feet on the floorboards, praying she had enough time to react when-But already Felic was rushing forward. She turned round, swinging the paperweight with all her strength. The smooth white stone cracked against the Zygon’s fleshy temple. It hissed in pain, the blow making it stagger and fall off balance into the bookshelf. Martha tried to run past it, but it raised its foot to trip her. She fell to the floor with a hoarse yell, tried to clamber away out of reach, but now Felic had hold of her foot. She writhed in its grip, shouted out, trying to pull free. . .
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And then the door swung open. ‘Before you go, Henry. . . ?’ Martha looked up to find a man with a shovel staring at the Zygon in shocked disbelief. ‘Saints preserve us. . . ’
Martha was about to scream for him to help her. But she didn’t need to. The man raised his shovel and brought it down on the Zygon’s arm. The creature gasped with pain and Martha finally twisted free of its gnarled fingers. She heard hard, metallic blows rain down on her attacker, awful grunts and scrapes and gurgles.
Then the sounds stopped.
Martha got up, and helped her rescuer stagger back out through the door. Despite his exertions, his face was sickly white, his black moustaches trembling with every heaving breath.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and closed the hut door. ‘Mr. . . ?’
‘Chisholm. Howard Chisholm.’ He turned back to the hut. ‘I thought that was Lord Haleston crashing about in there. What was that thing?’
‘Clever.’ She secured the door with both its bolts. ‘And nasty.’
‘Never saw a beast like it.’
‘Early days yet.’ Martha looked up at him. ‘There are more of them.
Lots more. And it sounds like they’re planning something over at Goldspur.’