Ten Little Aliens: 50th Anniversary Edition

by Stephen Cole

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  The Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Collection

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter One: Postern of Fate

  Chapter Two: Appointment with Death

  Chapter Three: Death Comes as the End

  Chapter Four: While the Light Lasts

  Chapter Five: Destination Unknown

  Chapter Six: By the Pricking of my Thumbs

  Chapter Seven: The Burden

  Chapter Eight: Cat Among the Pigeons

  Chapter Nine: Nemesis

  Chapter Ten: The Secret Adversary

  Chapter Eleven: The Road of Dreams

  Chapter Twelve: Murder Is Easy

  Chapter Thirteen: They Do It with Mirrors

  Chapter Fourteen: Spider’s Web

  Chapter Fifteen: Partners in Crime

  Chapter Sixteen: Towards Zero

  Chapter Seventeen: The Unexpected Guest

  Chapter Eighteen: Curtain

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Deep in the heart of a hollowed-out moon the First Doctor finds a chilling secret: ten alien corpses, frozen in time at the moment of their death. They are the empire’s most wanted terrorists, and their discovery could end a war devastating the galaxy. But is the same force that killed them still lurking in the dark? And what are its plans for the people of Earth?

  An adventure featuring the First Doctor as played by William Hartnell and his companions Ben and Polly.

  About the Author

  Stephen Cole liked books, and so went to the University of East Anglia to read more of them. Later on he started writing them too, with more TV and film tie-ins than he cares to admit to along the way. He has been the voice of a Dalek and an editor of fiction and non-fiction book titles for various publishers, including the Doctor Who novels The Feast of the Drowned and The Art of Destruction.

  The Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Collection

  Ten Little Aliens

  Stephen Cole

  Dreams of Empire

  Justin Richards

  Last of the Gaderene

  Mark Gatiss

  Festival of Death

  Jonathan Morris

  Fear of the Dark

  Trevor Baxendale

  Players

  Terrance Dicks

  Remembrance of the Daleks

  Ben Aaronovitch

  Earth World

  Jacqueline Rayner

  Only Human

  Gareth Roberts

  Beautiful Chaos

  Gary Russell

  The Silent Stars Go By

  Dan Abnett

  For Jill, still

  INTRODUCTION

  It’s ironic, I suppose, that as I write an introduction to a novel that celebrates the unreliable narrator, I find I’m one myself.

  More than ten years have passed since I wrote Ten Little Aliens. I’ve written a lot of books since, so I suppose could be forgiven for having hazy memories. But I definitely recall the pitch in a nutshell was ‘Starship Troopers meets Agatha Christie’.

  The Agatha Christie part was inspired by what else was happening in my professional life. For a few freelance months from 2000 to 2001, I was editor of a partwork magazine dedicated to Christie’s works; each issue came with a special edition of one of her books.

  For me, while I’d seen all sorts of Christie adaptations, this was the first time I had actually read the originals. I had to get through an awful lot of crime novels very quickly; and as the magazine analysed many of the stories, so I found myself studying Christie’s style, the way she constructed her baffling crimes and their ingenious solutions. My favourite was her bestselling work, And Then There Were None – formerly known as Ten Little Indians – which I found genuinely creepy.

  Then, one sunny day in early 2001, I met with Rosalind Hicks – Agatha Christie’s charming daughter – at Greenway, the breathtaking family estate on the banks of the River Dart. Rosalind was granting me privileged access to her mother’s early scrapbooks, to peruse and publish photographs that had never before been made public. At one point, our conversation turned to Doctor Who (I can’t think how that happened) and apparently the Christie family used to watch the show in its early days.

  I like to picture Agatha viewing, say, that First Doctor story The Rescue (go and watch the DVD!), and screaming, ‘Oi! Vicki! Koquillion’s a feller in a skin!’ at the screen through a mouthful of cucumber sandwich, little dreaming she’d turn up as a Doctor Who character herself, decades in the future.

  Of course, classic Doctor Who paid homage to the murder-mystery genre’s tropes and tricks in a science-fiction setting once or twice in its long history but, pumped up with so much Christie, I fancied having a fresh go myself.

  Around that time, there was talk of changing And Then There Were None’s spooky setting from Indian Island to Soldier Island. A lot of people assume that all Christie novels took place in the 1920s and 1930s, but in fact she gave her books contemporary settings, right up to the 1970s and her death. The idea of Soldier Island got me thinking that the gear and image of a soldier in 1939 when the novel was written differs somewhat to a 21st-century military type; and as for the soldiers of the future…

  Remember the Starship Troopers part of my original pitch? I suspect you can see where this is going.

  So the clash of futuristic ‘space marines’ with the classic murder-mystery set-up emerged organically. I called the outline Ten Little Aliens as a joke title at first, to signal my intent.

  As the concept developed, there was definitely only one TARDIS team I wanted for the adventure: the First Doctor, accompanied by the brilliant Ben and Polly to add some Swinging Sixties period pluck to the proceedings.

  I say definitely. But that’s because I’m an unreliable narrator.

  I thought it was the case. But looking back over my original emails to range editor Justin Richards, I’ve discovered that the storyline was first intended for the Eighth Doctor with his then companions Fitz and Anji. Justin suggested there was a space in the schedules for a First Doctor adventure; I showed a nominal interest but asked if I could write it for the Second Doctor instead. Doctor Two was mine, Justin assured me, in exchange for a beer. So perhaps it was moths in my wallet that led me to take the First Doctor and friends into the scene.

  It can only have been moths around my brain that led me to title the finished storyline The Penitent Hour. Thank goodness Justin squashed that and we went back to Ten Little Aliens.

  Some people at the time tutted at my telling a new story for this particular TARDIS team – technically, there’s no real narrative gap between their three shared on-screen stories, and it had never been done before. Up to then, the majority of ‘new’ First Doctor novels had been set in the ‘gap’ between The Reign of Terror and Planet of Giants (look them up!) – even though costume and dialogue clearly posit there isn’t one.

  More unreliable narrators?

  Whatever, I love Ben and Polly and to work well with ten little aliens, my story needed two companions. I’m glad we took some gentle liberties with the established facts, though Poirot would surely not approve.

  Certainly, in the telling of Ten Little Aliens I had some fun with the form of the novel; after all, in William Hartnell’s pioneering era, Doctor Who’s format was perhaps at its most elastic. Every chapter title in the book is a Christie title, and early on you’ll find a Who’s Who of the space marines in the style of an electronic news mag. Originally it was just for my own reference, bu
t I figured the reader might appreciate it too. Ordinarily the designer wouldn’t, as this section called for a bit of playing around – but since I was laying out the books myself at this time, I didn’t complain at the extra work. (Apologies now to the designer of this new edition, Steve Tribe, for the extra work I’ve inadvertently given him.)

  Looking back, I was a glutton for that extra work; witness the ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ section of the novel, a chance to get right inside the head of the interlinked characters and pick up clues as to Who-dunnit. Perhaps I shouldn’t have made such a rod for my own back. Perhaps you’ll let me know?

  The creation of Ten Little Aliens spanned a turbulent time in my own little world and in that of the world at large. As I began my tale of terrorists with terrible powers, my thirtieth birthday was buried by the collapse of the Twin Towers on nine-eleven. November 2001 saw chapters written in Miami in the wake of an Anthrax terror-scare. The final sections were written as I moved out of my London flat to the Buckinghamshire countryside, while rewrites wrapped in January during a work trip to a still shell-shocked but defiant New York.

  I can’t believe it was all so long ago… But for me, it’s a happy type of time travel to see Ten Little Aliens back on the shelves for Doctor Who’s 50th anniversary. Best of all, Mike Tucker, who designed and built the Schirr for the front cover as a favour, and Peter Anghelides, who gave advice and notes and checked things worked, and Justin Richards, who commissioned both the original novel and this new introduction are all still my very good friends. How gratifying it is to be able to thank them all over again.

  And to thank you too, for reading, and to thank Agatha for writing, and to thank all those Starship Troopers for going BOOM!

  Curtain.

  Steve Cole

  September 2012

  CHAPTER ONE

  POSTERN OF FATE

  I

  WE’RE GOING TO take the jump.

  The smoky corridor ahead is broken up, a big black gash keeping one end from the other, like a giant’s kicked through it. This whole level is dimly lit, the indifferent white of emergency lighting spread too thin. Behind us we hear the low whine of the Kill-Droid charging up its laser.

  Hear that and you’ve got five seconds.

  We turn, bring the gun to bear. We’re used to something bigger than this pulse cannon, the trigger’s so small we can barely fit our finger round it. Makes little odds – there’s smoke everywhere, generators are on fire, we can’t see.

  We couldn’t stop the Schirr taking the bridge. We couldn’t save the hostages. The Ardent had no choice but to take out the whole ship. Good of Haunt to whack out the top section of the Harbinger first. Gives us five whole minutes to get back out.

  One Kill-Droid floats out of the white mist at last. Cherry-red lasers spew out of its twin barrels. We dive, roll and turn, teetering on the chasm’s edge. Our neck tears on puckered metal. We can feel blood but we’re too charged to feel the pain right now. The Kay-Dee takes the pulse. Its crystal head cracks and shatters like ice under a boot. Clatters to the ground.

  Now we hear footsteps. Reload the pulse barrel, unthinking, just on instinct. Gauge the jump again. We can do it, but we’ll need a run-up. Straight into whatever’s sprinting for us now? If it’s on its feet down here it should be friendly, but –

  A tall, dark shape flies out of the fog. Almost friendly. Denni. Her eyes narrow as she sees us. Cannon raised, blonde dreadlocks flapping as she spins on her heel, she fires. The mist illuminates like sheet lightning’s ripping through it. There’s a huge explosion, we feel the heat, smell oil and burnt-out electrics.

  ‘It’s you that’s drawing the droids here, Shadow,’ she shouts over her shoulder at us. ‘Your damper’s dried out.’

  Jeez, we’re a droid magnet. ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Lindey’s dead.’ Denni’s voice is terse, like it’s all our fault somehow. ‘I don’t know about Joiks.’

  We get up, join her and fire some more into the thick smog. ‘Then I’ll hold them off here,’ we say. ‘Get out of here. Pod’s that way.’

  Denni scoots without another word. She doesn’t get far.

  ‘Shadow,’ she shouts. ‘The ground’s blown out. No one can cross this.’

  ‘Sure they can.’ We hear the whine of a kill-charge building, and criss-cross the corridor with pulse-fire. ‘Look, the pods are just two hundred metres through that smoke. Don’t think about it. Go.’

  ‘You’re crazy. I’ll have to double back.’

  ‘We can do it. The pods are waiting. Follow me.’

  ‘No! If you hold them off, then I –’

  Fine. So stay. We’ve got to take this jump. We’re gonna prove we can do it. Denni won’t take anything on trust from us no more but everyone watching this back on base, every dammed one of them, is going to watch us, feel us clear this gap.

  We push away from the crumpled lip of the floor. In the vids, leaps like this come in slow motion. The thrill stretched out so we can enjoy the long moments of will we, won’t we clear the gap.

  It only takes us a split second to know Denni’s right. We’re not going to make this.

  We reach out for the twisted edge, helplessly, as the jump becomes a fall. Denni’s shouting something, we think maybe she’s hit, but we blank her out. We’ve caught a blackened metal spur projecting from the lip. We’re gonna haul ourselves out of here. Our muscles feel like they’ll split our skin open as we raise ourselves level with the charred floor.

  And we see a Kay-Dee’s glassy head, sparkling blue-grey as it blows out of the smoke ahead of us. It waves the stubs of its twin-barrels at us, a victory dance. The guns swivel into position.

  The charge kicks in, energy builds ready to take our face off.

  Well, we’ve been through that once. This is where thinking we know best always gets us. We’re jinxed. We bellow out curse after curse in frustration. And we drop into the blackness.

  Hitting the force mats a hundred metres below.

  We lie there, panting for breath in the darkness. Eyes screwed up. We’ve screwed up, again. It’s too dark for the webset to function right down here, there’s no image to relay. Thoughts cloud up. We can imagine how it is for them watching back in Debrief as we disassociate from these recorded feelings, start to drift.

  Something crashes down beside us. Hears us holler back up at the distant patch of white smoke high above. A few seconds later it scrambles over. We’re too tired to even react. It’s black down here, we can’t see anything, but we recognise Denni’s breathing from better times in the dark.

  ‘Is your webset off, Shadow?’ she murmurs. ‘There’s something I have to do.’

  It isn’t. We don’t say anything.

  Denni spits in our face.

  Cheers and wolf-whistles cut through the dark silence. Colonel Adam Shade found he was wiping his cheek when the lights went up in the visual debriefing room. He felt exposed. The rest of his team were going wild with laughter, gesturing obscenely, throwing their websets to the floor.

  ‘Nice jump, Shadow,’ jeered Frog, and her pale blue eyes bulged even more grotesquely than normal. ‘Maybe you shoulda asked your lovely pretty Denni to give you a push, huh?’

  Shade gritted his teeth. Frog’s voice synthesiser made her every sentence a fire alarm.

  ‘Or how about a good luck kiss, huh, Shadow?’ She laughed, a metallic buzzing Shade was growing far too used to. ‘For old times’ sake, huh?’

  ‘Shut it, Frog,’ Denni said, shifting uncomfortably in her hard seat, sounding bored. ‘And Shade, get me killed one more time and I will see to it you never walk again, do you get me?’

  Shade smirked at her. ‘Don’t I always?’

  Denni tutted. ‘Those days are long gone, Shadow. Just be grateful I’m still speaking to you.’

  ‘Hey, did you two ever, like, get it together with your websets on?’ This was Joiks. Obvious, fatuous, unfunny, of course it was Joiks. He stooped to pick up Denni’s discarded webset, di
splaying the large bald spot that nestled in his short black hair, and spun the slim metal band round his finger. ‘Man, I’d pay to see that little vid.’

  ‘I did already,’ said Lindey from the row in front of him. She turned to face the audience of twenty or so, her mouth opened in an exaggerated yawn. Shade took a swipe at the tangle of red ringlets that crowned her thin, angular face. She was too quick for him, as usual, bobbing back out of reach.

  She got her laugh from the others in the room. Shade wondered how she’d stayed quiet for so long amid so many opportunities to put him down. He shut his eyes to help him wake up, willing himself to drag his feelings free of the sensor net. It was days since the drop now. His team had failed, failed totally. Meanwhile some new guy fresh out of Academy Intelligence had led his bunch to the pods safely and got away to join Marshal Haunt and second and third AT Elite Corps on Central Ship.

  As if he’d somehow conjured her, Haunt’s face snapped up onto the viewscreen, her salt-and-pepper hair scraped back off her high forehead into a stubby ponytail. She didn’t look happy. That was nothing new.

  ‘So you failed,’ she said flatly. ‘And now you’re all dead. A handful more human sacrifices to rid ourselves of another hundred Schirr.’

  Shade removed his webset, wishing he could crush the flimsy metal construction. He hated the things. You had to wear them in exercises so that everyone could learn from your many, many mistakes. The rest of his team had lived his part in the mission with him, seen it through his eyes, felt the same frustrations and hurts he’d had for real. And of course, when they got back out they killed themselves laughing about the way he’d got killed himself.

  ‘Your suit’s systems were no longer damping your vital signs, Shade,’ Haunt remarked. ‘You were drawing every droid in the place straight to you.’

  ‘Yes, Marshal,’ Shade snapped. His voice didn’t seem quite real after hearing the world inside him for so long. His head was throbbing like an old engine.

  Haunt kept on staring at him, her thin lips pursed. Once, she might’ve been attractive, but anything soft or feminine about her had been ground away by the soldier she had become. Her face was lined, and held a permanent look of fatigue; Shade didn’t like to think too hard about what she had lived through. Now almost forty, she’d had fifteen years’ experience in front line combat before Pent Central had pensioned her off to the training corps.