But then the thing appeared, and grabbed everyone’s attention. If it was a mincing machine, it was stranger – although less scary – than any Robert could imagine. The thing arrived out of nowhere: a blue box, taller than a man, with a flashing light on top and little windows high up on the sides – sort of like a small blue shed, only it had the words ‘Police Public Call Box’ written on it.
Everyone stood staring at it for what seemed like a very long time, but was really only seconds. Mrs Atalla said to her husband, ‘It’s a police box. Like they used to have,’ and her husband said, ‘I remember.’ They stared at it, standing hand in hand, which was pretty disgusting for people of their age.
Then the doors of the police box opened, and a man stepped out.
He was a tall man who looked a bit like some of the trendier teachers at school – he had really short hair, and was wearing a really cool battered leather jacket that Robert coveted immediately. If Robert’s dad ever did turn up, he’d like him to be a man who looked like that. And, actually, he’d quite like him to be a man who appeared out of nowhere in a blue box as well.
And then the second person came out of the box, and Robert forgot all about the man, and all about Sarah the blonde sneering girl, and about his mum, and even all about Suzie Price, because this was the girl he was going to love for ever. She was totally beautiful and utterly cool and just, well, perfect. She was probably about eighteen or nineteen, but that wouldn’t matter because he was really mature for his age, and she had dark blonde hair past her shoulders and a wide, smiling mouth that was even more desirable than Sarah the blonde sneering girl’s, and as she left the blue box her eyes met his and she smiled, and he knew that she felt it too, the connection between them.
The girl pushed past her companion and headed straight for Robert. She had eyes for no one else. And she held out her hands towards him, and he took them in his, and she said just the one word, ‘Hello,’ and then she grinned at him.
He said breathlessly, ‘I’m Robert.’
She said, ‘I know. We’ve come here for you, Robert. I’ve come here for you. Because you’re special. I’ve been wanting to meet you for so long.’
He said, ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you too, although I hardly dared to believe that there was someone so beautiful in the world.’
She leaned towards him, she was going to take him in her arms, and he stood strong and tall and closed his eyes, and said, ‘I don’t even know your name . . .’
He opened his eyes. The girl was standing behind the tall man, in the doorway of the police box. ‘All right,’ said the man in a northern accent, looking round at everyone, ‘We’re the rescue party.’
And Robert smiled for real.
The room they’d landed in was totally grim, a bleak concrete shell. A group of people were huddled in one corner, staring at the Doctor and Rose: mainly adults, but a couple of kids too, one boy and one girl. They all had small metal discs stuck to their foreheads, like Mrs Hall and the lad they’d seen in the game.
‘We’re gonna take you home,’ said Rose, stepping forward. There were disbelieving smiles from the crowd; one man threw himself on the ground and started weeping.
A moustached man pushed himself to the front of the group. ‘Are you in charge here?’ he said. ‘I have a serious complaint to make!’
Next to him, bizarrely, an elderly woman began to sing, ‘There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover . . .’
‘Don’t think you’ll find any bluebirds in England, love,’ said the Doctor. ‘Now, blue boxes, on the other hand . . .’ He gave an exaggerated, ringmaster’s gesture towards the TARDIS. ‘If I could trouble you all to walk this way . . .’
The door to the room thudded open, and two Quevvils stood in the doorway, with several more behind them. Their heads were down and their quills bristling.
‘Inside, now!’ barked the Doctor, but the instant they sprang towards the TARDIS, before the poor people in the corner had taken even a single step, a barrage of quills soared through the air, tinkling on to the concrete floor at their feet. A few stuck into the sides of the TARDIS.
‘That was just a warning!’ called the lead Quevvil, as they all froze on the spot.
The first two Quevvils slowly came into the room.
And with them was a human. A human Rose recognised. It was Darren Pye.
‘What on Earth is he doing here?’ she cried out to the Doctor. ‘I thought he was dead!’
‘No such luck,’ said the Doctor. ‘He’s the one who was nicking the games and selling them on the Internet.’
And she realised the rest, wondered why she hadn’t worked it out before. They’d heard someone outside, thought it was the person who’d nicked Mickey’s telly. He’d have heard everything they said, about the games, about the holidays, about the aliens. And he went down the stairs and met Jackie and had taken her ticket and her phone. Wouldn’t have used the ticket himself, not knowing what it represented. Sold it straight away, and before you could say Jack Robinson the poor guy who’d bought it had ended up dying here, on this planet.
‘I thought I recognised the voice when he offered to send my unwanted old aunt a winning scratchcard for 500 quid,’ said the Doctor. He raised his voice. ‘Must have been a bummer when you found out how much you could get for them, when you’d already sold Jackie’s ticket – and the phone. What did you get that time? Twenty quid? Thirty?’
Darren Pye just scowled at them. But one of the kids, the boy, started forward. ‘Johnny Deans,’ he cried. ‘He said he’d bought his ticket off someone down the pub for £30, and they threw in a mobile too. He was only here for five minutes before they took him.’ The boy paused, and looked at his watch. ‘That was about two and a half hours ago.’
‘That’d be about right,’ said Rose quietly. She’d known Johnny Deans from school, not properly or anything, but she knew who he was. Darren Pye used to beat him up, she remembered. Ultimate act of bullying, this. Johnny probably wondered why his old enemy was doing him a favour. Now she was thinking of those desperate, dying sounds on the telephone. Thinking of how she hadn’t been able to feel sorry about the death. Now she knew it had been someone else dying, someone she’d no grudge against, her stomach suddenly flipped with guilt.
The remaining Quevvils had entered the room; there were now five in all, far too many for the Doctor or Rose to risk trying anything. The lead Quevvil pointed at Rose. ‘Prepare the human,’ it said. Which didn’t sound good at all.
The Doctor jumped in front of her. ‘You’re not doing anything to her,’ he said.
‘You have no choice,’ replied the Quevvil. He was smiling smugly at the Doctor. ‘You will play the game for us and that human –’ he indicated Rose – ‘will be your carrier. If you resist, we will kill that one, and one of these humans –’ now he pointed at the cowering group in the corner – ‘will act as your carrier instead.’
‘Just take her!’ yelled someone from the group – the young man who’d been sobbing on the floor. Rose developed an instant and overwhelming dislike for him. ‘Leave us alone, please!’
The Doctor hadn’t moved, but the Quevvils’ quills were beginning to bristle again. Better to take her chance with being a ‘carrier’ than a pointed death here and now. Rose stepped forwards, trying not to look nervous. A young, hesitant voice called out, ‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t really hurt.’ She turned to see the boy who’d spoken before pointing at the metal disc in the middle of his forehead. So that’s what they were going to do to her first. She gave the boy a smile, thanking him for the comfort, trying to show she wasn’t afraid.
As she passed the Doctor, he suddenly swept her into a great hug. For a moment it scared her: perhaps he really did think this was goodbye, perhaps he didn’t think he could rescue her . . . But then she felt him pressing something into her hand, and she realised the over-the-top embrace was just a distraction. As the Quevvils shouted at them to stop, and the Doctor drew back from her, Rose hurriedly shoved t
he Doctor’s sonic screwdriver up the left sleeve of her top.
Two of the Quevvils came with her, and led her down a depressingly grey corridor. She made no effort to get away – hard to run from creatures who could spray needle-sharp quills down the length of the corridor, and anyway, where would she run to?
At the end of the corridor was a door, and the Quevvils took her into a room.
The first thing she noticed was the window. She’d known that Toop was a desert planet, and she’d seen bits of it on the screen via Death to Mantodeans, but it was still a shock to come face to face with it. Somehow she’d expected a desert to resemble an enormous version of Southend, only with fewer ice-cream sellers and more oases, but it was nothing like.
The sky . . . the sky wasn’t a glorious holiday blue, it was a dull blue, a grey-blue, so pale as to be almost colourless. The sun was harshly white: glaringly bright, but lifeless. And even the ground disappointed, she could tell it wasn’t deep, soft sand, the sort you’d make castles out of – or even ride a camel across – it was more like dead ground: dusty and yellow and parched. And it was bleak. All she could see in the distance was a single structure, a dull ochre mound that did actually look a bit like someone had upturned a bucket of sand and produced a truncated cone with one tap of their spade. She reckoned that must be the Mantodean place. Only a few kilometres away. A local war.
The Quevvil holding her snarled, and she started. But it was snarling at the view. ‘A world blighted by Mantodeans,’ it said. ‘But not for much longer . . .’
‘Have you ever thought of, you know, just trying to be friends?’ said Rose. The Quevvils ignored that, and the second one grabbed hold of her arm. ‘Ow!’ she said. ‘Or you could just put up curtains so they don’t spoil your view . . .’ They took no notice of that, either.
There were several workbenches in the room, and one Quevvil led – dragged – her over to one on the far side, away from the window. It kept hold of her, as the other picked up a metal disc, and held it to Rose’s head. She instinctively tried to back away, but only succeeded in standing on the foot of the Quevvil holding her. It pushed her forward impatiently, and the second Quevvil then slammed the disc against her forehead.
The disc had little claws sticking out of it on one side, and to her horror it didn’t stick on to her forehead like she’d expected, it stuck into her forehead. She could feel the claws grab hold, push their way into the flesh, and then clench up, as if they were making a fist. It was a horrible experience, but to her surprise the boy had been right, it didn’t really hurt; just a short, sharp shock like having your ears pierced, then a nagging unpleasantness, but no actual lingering pain.
Then one of the Quevvils pressed a button on a small silver box, and the pain began.
Or maybe it wasn’t pain. But it was the most unpleasant sensation. Something was happening inside her. The feeling started at the disc on her forehead and slowly spread throughout her body. It was as if tiny wires were threading themselves along every nerve. Worst of all, she couldn’t react: couldn’t shout or back way; couldn’t move a single muscle.
The Quevvil then picked up a small metal cube. Rose realised what it was doing – this was like the beginning of the game, only she wasn’t in a title sequence, they were preparing her to play for real.
The cube was on a thick metal wire, and the Quevvil hung it around her neck, twisting it so the wire encircled her like a noose. Two more wires, taken under her arms, were attached behind Rose’s back. Without cutting the wire – or removing her head – it would be impossible to get rid of the cube.
She watched the Quevvil who had been holding her go over to a device on the wall, just like one she’d seen on the wall of their underground lair back in London. It spoke into it: ‘Is the controller ready?’
‘The controller is ready,’ a voice confirmed. ‘You will dispatch the carrier.’
‘Understood.’
The Quevvil did something at the control panel. Rose had a split second to register the tang in the air that spoke to her of the Quevvils’ teleportation devices. And then – she was somewhere else.
FOURTEEN
The man had let the wonderful girl be taken by the porcupines. Robert couldn’t believe it. He’d only just met her, and she was being taken from him already.
Mind you, the man really didn’t seem happy about it. He wasn’t doing anything now, but from the way he looked, Robert was pretty sure he wasn’t just going to accept the situation.
The tall man turned to the nearest porcupine. ‘I was planning on just rescuing everyone and, you know, maybe destroying your technology so you wouldn’t do it again,’ he said conversationally, acting totally coolly about it all. ‘If she gets hurt, though, this planet’s dust. Just thought I’d mention it.’
Yeah, thought Robert. Dust. If they hurt her, he’d be there helping this man smash it all up.
The other man, the ugly one who had come in with the porcupines, snorted with laughter. ‘You and whose army?’
The tall man turned to him. ‘You know what, Darren? That thing I said about dust? Applies to you too. If she gets hurt.’ He really looked as if he meant it, and Robert was pleased to see the ugly man – Darren – look a bit nervous.
But the porcupine didn’t seem to care what the man was saying. ‘Your carrier will soon be in place,’ it told the tall man. ‘You will come with us and play the game.’
‘Yeah, you tell him,’ said Darren, rallying.
The tall man actually laughed. ‘If you knew how pathetic you looked!’ he said to Darren. ‘Trying to ally yourself with the Quevvils, cos you think they won’t hurt you that way. Like they think of you as any different from the rest of the humans! You know what they call people who do that, who betray their own species, who do the “every man for himself” thing? They call them chickens.’ And, to Robert’s absolute delight and amazement, he began to do a chicken impression, clucking and flapping his arms.
The man called Darren looked really mad at that. ‘No one calls me a chicken!’ he yelled, and started forward, looking as if he was going to hit the other man. But one of the porcupines – the Quevvils? – put out a paw and stopped him.
‘Be quiet, human,’ it said. It turned, as another Quevvil came in the room.
‘Three more carriers required, Frinel,’ said the new entry. The Quevvil that had been addressed nodded. Robert’s stomach tightened. Three more carriers. Three more of them to be taken away goodness knew where, for goodness knew what.
The new Quevvil came over towards them.
‘Wait!’ yelled the tall man. ‘If I’m going to play your game for you, you don’t need anyone else playing it! Shut down the connections to Earth. Don’t make any more humans play the game.’
But the Quevvil called Frinel looked like he was smirking. ‘Until you succeed, the game will continue to be played,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there is another controller out there as good as you.’
‘There isn’t!’ said the man, sounding frustrated. ‘As I told your friends before, you’re not going to find a human who can play the game to the end! I’m your only chance. So it’s pointless. You’re sending these people to their deaths for nothing!’
There was a wail from George, and gasps from most of the women. All the husbands clasped their wives to them. Sarah’s mother held her tight. But Robert was all alone. They’d all known it really, of course; all known that the people who were taken away were going to die. But they’d never been totally sure; they’d always been able to hope just a tiny bit.
Robert felt tears start to build in the corner of his eyes, an unpleasant, itchy sensation. He blinked hard.
The Quevvil came over to them. Robert tried to stand tall, to not show his fear. George was still wailing, and Robert thought he was so stupid, drawing attention to himself, that he’d be picked for certain. But the Quevvil took Mr and Mrs Nkomo and Mr Snow. The Nkomos held each other’s hands tightly. Mrs Snow grabbed hold of her husband’s arm and began to scream at the Quevv
il, something about it being an outrage, but it was no use. What always happened, happened. The Quevvil pointed a small silver box at their foreheads, and one by one Mr Nkomo, Mrs Nkomo and Mr Snow became rigid, like statues. The discs on their foreheads began to flash red. Then the Quevvil pushed a switch on the silver box, and all three began to walk forward robotically. It would have been funny in other circumstances: the old white man and the young black couple marching stiffly in unison together, they looked as if they were on some silly kids’ programme with those embarrassing presenters who pretend to be talking to you through the screen – ‘Now, everyone pretend to be soldiers. Well done, that’s great!’ But here, no one was finding it entertaining.
Except the ugly man, Darren. He began to chortle, aping their robot walk, his eyes wide and mock-staring, his mouth doing a ‘Duh, duh, duh’ thing. Robert really, really wanted to hit him.
Another Quevvil appeared in the doorway. ‘Toral,’ it called, addressing the Quevvil with the silver box, ‘a fourth carrier is required.’
‘This isn’t very efficient, if you ask me,’ said the tall man. ‘I wondered why you had to build such a long introduction into the game. Still, hopefully it’s worked out for the best. I bet loads of people have switched off in boredom before it’s even started.’
‘Shall I use him?’ said Toral, pointing at the tall man. Robert’s heart leapt in fear.
Over the other side of the room, Darren was laughing, still half mimicking the stiff-armed movements of the three people already chosen. ‘Yeah, use the freak,’ he said. ‘Show him what you do to people who threaten you, right?’
But Frinel was turning to look at the ugly man now. Robert looked at Darren too, and was filled with contempt tinged with horror – he was acting as if he was with the monsters; couldn’t he see that he wasn’t, that they weren’t looking at him any differently to anyone else? He thought he was safe, and he wasn’t.
And Frinel said to the other Quevvil, ‘No. That is the controller who will bring us victory.’ He raised a paw. ‘Use him.’ He was pointing at Darren.
Winner Takes All Page 11