Doctor How and the Illegal Aliens

by Mark Speed

  A couple of firemen wearing breathing apparatus lifted off the inspection hatch.

  "Right, here we go," said Steve. He put on his breathing equipment and walked forward twenty feet to join the other two men. He lowered himself onto the concrete beside the inspection hatch. One of his men handed him a heavy duty flashlight. He put it into the tank and leaned his head inside. He let out a muffled yell and dropped the light. There was an echoing bang as it hit the bottom of the tank, and a scuffling noise from inside. Steve jumped to his feet and ripped off his mask.

  "Get back!" he yelled. From inside the tank came the unmistakable sound of masonry hitting concrete, then something that sounded like earth being thrown onto the floor of the chamber. All four men froze, listening to the sounds. After a few seconds, there was silence.

  "What was that?" asked Sergeant Hughes.

  "No idea," said Steve, shaking. "I could swear there was..." He shook himself. "Let's take another look. Roy, you want to have a butcher's too?" He took another torch, and he and Roy crept forward to the inspection hatch. Steve poked his head cautiously over the side of the hatch and flashed the torch around, keeping his hand at ground level. He then put his head into the hole, reached in and shone the light around. He pulled his head back out and indicated to his colleague to do the same. Hughes couldn't hear what they were saying.

  They got back to their feet and pulled off their breathing apparatus just as a private car rolled to a halt on the forecourt. The driver got out. He was a portly man in his fifties wearing jeans and a casual shirt, looking all the more haggard for having been called in from home.

  "Evening," he said. "Steve Jones? Dave Lore. The two men shook hands. "You're one of Parkie's boys, ain't you? How is the old dog? We were on blue shift together back in Basildon."

  "Ah," Steve brightened. "Yeah, Dave Lore. Parkie's doing alright. Close to retirement now, of course."

  "Yeah, I got out eight years ago. Sit on me arse in an office now. Risk-assessment and contingency planning mostly. What's the bother here?"

  "Need your advice. More your thing, mate. Leaking tanks and that."

  "Cleared the drains, I see," said Dave, thumbing back towards the firemen who were finishing up with the detergent.

  "Owner says there's pretty much a whole tankful gone into the surrounding area," said Steve. "Catastrophic failure. Now, I was expecting a fracture and a slow drain."

  "Most likely scenario, yes. Not likely it's just sprung a leak." Dave looked around. "Especially not with building regs the way they were when this was built."

  "Right, if you wouldn't mind doing the honours, then. Tell me I'm not imagining things."

  Dave pulled on a protective suit, and was given breathing apparatus and a flashlight. He accompanied Steve up to the hatch and looked in. There was a muffled exclamation and Steve lay down on the ground next to him. There was an animated discussion, which was unintelligible from where Hughes and Roy were standing.

  "Doesn't make sense," said Roy to Hughes.

  "How?"

  "It's six-inch thick steel-reinforced concrete, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, it looks like something's actually... I dunno how to describe it. Something's punched in to the tank."

  "Punched in?"

  "Yeah, the reinforced steel has been cut and bent inwards."

  "You mean cut?"

  "Clean edges."

  "Just like if you'd had some of those big pincers? Just like the fuel tank of that taxi the other day?" Roy looked at him. He nodded.

  Steve and Dave came back to join the other two men.

  "What's the verdict, gents?" asked Hughes. "Can I reopen this side of the carriageway?"

  Dave and Steve looked at each other. Steve nudged Dave. "You're the expert mate. And you're getting fees for this."

  "There's nothing inherently wrong with the structure," said Dave. "So the remaining tanks are safe in themselves."

  "Okay," said Hughes.

  "And the diesel has drained away. And I mean really drained away. Effectively. Deep. Very deep. That's why Steve's lads didn't find any contamination in the drains."

  "So what happened?" asked Hughes.

  "Well," said Steve, "we reckon this is one for the Old Bill. It's been half-inched, hasn't it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Someone's nicked the diesel. They've only driven something in there and nicked it, haven't they?"

  "Get off, mate," said Hughes. He stared at Steve, and the fire officer smiled at him.

  "Well, me and Dave reckon someone's crashed a drill-bit, or a pig from a pipeline into it."

  "A pig?"

  Steve looked at his feet. "Yeah, you get these motorised things that can go along old sewage, gas or water pipes. As they inch forwards they break the old pipe and push the fragments into the surrounding earth. They pull in fresh pipe behind them. Plastic stuff that's good for the next hundred years or so."

  "I think I know the things you mean," said Hughes. "I saw the water people using one in a road a few years ago. About three feet long and maybe six inches wide?"

  "Yeah, that's the job."

  Hughes ordered his men to begin taking off the diversion. The filling station would remain shut until someone a couple of ranks above him could talk to one of Steve's superiors in the cold light of day and decide what to do. Dave Lore said his goodbyes – he'd be one of the experts consulted the following morning.

  "Here, let's have a talk," said Hughes. "I can drop you back at the station."

  "Sure, mate," said Steve. They walked to Hughes' patrol car and got in.

  "What did you see when you first looked down there?"

  "This big hole. The concrete had fallen into the tank. The steel reinforcing rods had been cut and bent inwards. I've never seen anything like it. I was stunned."

  "Stunned enough to drop your torch?"

  Steve looked back at him.

  "Look, we've known each other – what – maybe fifteen years. Not exactly Christmas card list, but... you know, we're professionals." Steve nodded. "We've seen some bloody horrible messes out there," he thumbed in the direction of the dual carriageway. "But I've never seen you flinch." Steve nodded again. Sergeant Hughes cleared his throat. "I'm going to guess that the hole was about two metres across. Right?" Steve perked up. "I'm also going to guess that there was quite a bit of soil pushed back into that tank. Am I right?"

  "How'd you know? Roy tell you?"

  "No." Hughes took his camera out from the back seat and switched it on. "Have a look at these. I took them after everyone else left the other day."

  "This is the taxi that crashed into another vehicle, right?"

  "Yeah, the vehicle that didn't exist. Let's scroll through to the ones that didn't make it to my report. Here you go. This is what I saw in daylight. See? Big mound of earth. Then I saw these tracks leading down to it. Something heavy, maybe a couple of metres wide. Something pretty heavy, but the imprints aren't as regular as you'd expect from a big tractor tyre or a tracked vehicle."

  "And this was right next to the crash scene?"

  "The team did look for the mystery vehicle in the immediate vicinity, but there was nothing. Remember, we couldn't find any tyre marks – not even any glass that didn't belong to the cab. No way you could have seen it in the dark."

  "Sure, I'm not saying your guys didn't do their job. I'm just wondering why you're showing me this."

  "Steve, this happened about four miles from here. Right? Heavy enough to dent a black cab. Two metres across. Something that can apparently cut through reinforced steel. And all it leaves is a molehill. Did I mention the molehill smelled of diesel?"

  "So what did you say in your report?"

  "I didn't."

  Steve said nothing.

  "And I was going to ask you what you're going to put in your report."

  "As I said, the only conclusion me and Dave could make was that something broke in. Had to be one of those pigs. Or maybe a drill bit from one of those f
racking operations. The diesel would have just flowed off into the hole, wouldn't it?"

  Hughes was silent for a moment. "There are no two-metre wide pipes around here. And I doubt very much a pig's going to be able to reverse with a dirty great pipe trailing behind it. Plus, I see no construction crews. As for a fracking drill –– be serious."

  "What other explanation is there?"

  "Steve, level with me." Hughes squeezed the fireman's shoulder. "I heard the noise. That wasn't a machine. I want to know what it was."

  Steve turned to stare out of the passenger window for a few seconds, then looked Hughes in the eye. "This is between us, right?" Hughes nodded.

  The fireman took a deep breath and then sighed. "It was black and shiny. Big thing. I only saw what I think was the back of it. And a couple of legs."

  "Legs?"

  "That's what they looked like."

  "Go on. What did the rest of it look like?"

  Steve paused before replying. "A cockroach. A beetle sort of thing. You know?"

  Both men stared ahead through the windscreen at the passing traffic. It was Hughes who broke the silence. He picked up the camera and scrolled to the photos of the tracks. "A six-foot wide beetle would probably leave footprints like that, wouldn't it?"

  "A big beetle that likes diesel. I'll let you file your report first – stealing fuel is a police matter."

  "Nah, Steve. A six-foot wide beetle with a stomach full of diesel is a fire hazard."

  The laughter of relief left them in fits for a couple of minutes.

  "Look," said Steve, taking controlled breaths. "Dave's going to report it as a stray pig or a drill-bit from a fracking company. There'll be a search and it'll turn up nothing. That's none of our concern."

  "Until someone gets killed. I was going to send these to a website I've heard about. They deal with reports about the paranormal from police officers. All anonymised. Usually it's UFOs and all that rubbish. It'll be a nice change from the usual content. Send me your pictures and I'll submit them at the same time. I can't just do nothing, can I?"

  "You're right. Maybe someone reads that stuff. Maybe they can figure it out."

  "Mrs Thomson, please. If I could just expl –"

  "You got no right to be calling him a baboon, Dr How."

  The Doctor held his phone slightly further away from his ear. "I didn't call him a baboon, Mrs Thomson. I compared the entire human race to a troop of baboons."

  "Well, that's still racist."

  "No. If anything, it's species-ist. Racism is what human beings do to each other when they're from different races. I was trying to explain to your son that, compared to –– let's say, an advanced extraterrestrial species – human beings are baboons." He wondered just how much Kevin had blurted to his mother.

  "You're filling his head with all sorts of nonsense about UFOs and aliens. I was hoping you'd talk some sense into the boy. You're supposed to be a scientist, for God's sake."

  "People get ideas into their heads and you can't get them out. I'll have a word with him."

  "Alright then. Now, if he's going to be your apprentice then he needs an employment contract. And he's worth more than minimum wage doing what he does with computers."

  "But I just gave him two hundred pounds for clothing last night!"

  "Two hundred quid doesn't go far these days, Doctor. And if he's going to damage his own clothes then you're just paying for wear and tear."

  "Let's start again, Mrs Thomson. My extensive background checks revealed that Kevin has no history of gainful employment. And may I remind you that two days ago he hacked into my computer? I'd have been perfectly within my rights to report him to the police. However, I believe in restorative justice and I'm giving him a chance."

  "You're gonna keep him out of mischief on the estate?"

  "Believe me, he's not going to be anywhere near the estate at all. He quite literally won't have the time to get into trouble."

  "Well, I suppose I ought to be grateful that a man of your education is willing to give him a chance, Doctor. What sort of hours will he be working at your office?"

  "At the moment I'm taking him on in a strictly private capacity, Mrs Thomson – so he won't be coming to the university at all. He'll be helping me with personal projects on an ad hoc basis. He'll be able to do some of the work from home, but you might expect some longer periods of absence."

  "So he'd get overtime for those?"

  "Overtime?"

  "Yes, or a shift allowance."

  "Mrs Thomson, I've always rather thought of the position of my assistant as an honorary one."

  "That's exploitation. He won't be able to claim any benefits or training allowance if he's with you. You're wealthy enough, by all accounts, Doctor."

  The Doctor fumed, but tried not to let it show in his voice. "Last night you said you were ready to disown him. Now I feel I'm the one being exploited here. Perhaps I should just leave him to rot with his wonderful peer group on the estate?"

  "Okay, okay. Some kind of honorarium, then. And out-of-pocket expenses."

  "Out-of-pocket expenses I can do. I'll also feed him. He'll have opportunities to make money on his own account after I teach him."

  They came to an agreement to pay the benefits Kevin would have been due, plus a bonus based on his performance. Quite what the performance targets could be, the Doctor was at a loss to imagine. If he didn't perform well then he'd be dead –– it was as simple as that. How times had changed since he'd employed his last assistant. None of the previous ones had better get wind of this, or he'd have pay demands stretching back millennia.

  He heard the unmistakable clumping noise of Dolt coming down the corridor. Technically, Dolt was his supervisor but not his boss.

  The Dolts were a parasitic species which had set forth to occupy every civilisation in the Pleasant universe. Once another species reached a certain level of organisation and rule of law, the Dolts would begin to infect the host. They would begin by establishing a powerful colony within the civil service, lending it an air of professionalism and efficiency. Once trust had been established, the infected civil service would send out its tentacles by way of red tape into other non-governmental organisations and private bodies. The enforcement of increasingly petty, pointless and intrusive rules would induce a form of terrified paralysis in the unfortunate host society. In a panicked bid to keep within the ever-tightening noose of apparently benign and well-meaning legislation, every organisation – private and public – would infest itself with Dolts. Efficiency would decline as rulebooks burgeoned and staff spent more time filing pointless reports rather than doing their jobs. The host civilisation's entire gross economic product would therefore go into sustaining the maximum possible number of Dolts. There they would stay, in complete control of the now-placid and incapable society.

  Their first invasion of Earth had been a mixed success, taking place in around the year 235AD. The Roman Empire had reached a size and level of sophistication that had triggered their sensors, and they'd moved in. Within a few generations the population of Rome had swollen past a million – most of whom were unemployed and sustained entirely on free wheat hand-outs and grisly entertainment. The presence of a million idle freeloaders was a knife to the throat of a terrified government.

  The Praetorian guards had been there to maintain the status quo but operated by nonsensical Dolt rules. They were paid to protect the Emperor but would offer the position of Emperor to the highest bidder, murder him a few months later, then hold another auction to line their pockets. Fifty years later they had their ideal candidate in power: the emperor Diocletian. Eventually taxation rose and productivity fell to the extent that the currency had to be debased. Hyperinflation set in and the whole Roman Empire collapsed. Other, less advanced civilisations without Dolts filled the void. The Dolts were victims of their own success.

  A few centuries later the Dolts had regrouped, but the best they could do was to instigate the Crusades; a triumph of stupidity over r
eason and sanity. A few hundred years after that, Western civilisation had recovered and experienced the Renaissance. For a time, it had looked like the Spanish Empire would triumph, as they conquered new territories in South America. The Dolts had remained scattered throughout the imprint of the Roman Empire, and had made their move. As they exerted their influence on the Spanish, wealth from the new territories was used to subsidise pointless public buildings, rather than invest in a meaningful economy. Like the Roman Empire beforehand, it began to rely on plunder and conquest just to sustain itself. An expensive Armada was formed to invade England, with the signature Doltish idea of having more priests on board the ships than soldiers. A cargo including forty thousand barrels of olive oil and eleven thousand pairs of sandals had ensured that their gunners didn't even have room to use their cannons, which were vastly superior to those used by the English fleet. The Armada had been doomed before it set sail, thanks to the Dolts.

  Then came the Enlightenment. In Britain, the Industrial Revolution had begun with a vengeance – there began the biggest migration of humans from country to city yet seen. New technologies were invented and exploited. Science and innovation made rapid progress. The British defeated the dictator Napoleon and their empire stretched to every corner of the globe. The first professional and independent civil service in the world was born. Standards were unified from one end of the British Empire to the other, and enforced by an army of highly trained civil servants.

  And then the Dolts had moved in. First to go was Brunel's wide gauge railway. His seven-foot gauge enabled faster, larger, safer, and more efficient railway transport. In 1846 a parliamentary commission influenced by submissions from Dolts ruled that the standard gauge of four feet eight and a half inches made more sense – if only to themselves. It was game over for the British Empire from that point forth. No colonial outpost was safe, and with the independence of India in 1947 the Dolts had nearly a fifth of the world's population in their stranglehold.