Doctor Who. Zamper

by Gareth Roberts

  Hezzka, embarrassed by this open confidence, was relieved to see the image of his majestic commander quiver in the frame of the screen. ‘Highness, the gate is closing, I am losing you.’

  ‘Good fortune, Hafril. The mission is –’

  The picture was lost. For a few seconds, the voice of Big Mother, all but drowned by the buzz of the jamming signal, was still audible. ‘Hafril, we’ll return to Chelonia, and we’ll crush the usurp–’

  Hafril. Leader of the Maternal Guard for ninety years, confidante of the First Family, special favourite of Big Mother. Killed only after taking seven blasts from a parasite weapon in the defence of the hatching forts at Kaapon six cycles ago. Hezzka, his successor as commander of the still loyal fifteenth column, felt the weight of his responsibilities, the legacy with which he had been entrusted, more keenly than ever.

  The only sound now was the dampened roar of the shuttle’s boosters and the whirrs and ticks of the auto-systems. Hezzka shuffled back from his console and raised his left foot in the ancient gesture of prayer to the Goddess. He asked to be granted strength, patience, and the wisdom to think logically, recalling without halt the codes of imprecation learnt by rote in his youth.

  His First Pilot, Ivzid, motored heavily into the room and saluted. Immediately Hezzka brought his foot down, not wanting to have his prayer interpreted as a sign of weakness, certainly not by a junior. Ivzid, he reflected not for the first time, had been born to the wrong age. The arrogant shuffle of his gait, his eyes fierce and open wide, his readiness to meet any obstacle with a massive retaliation, all of these things belonged to the time before the fall, all but lost in a couple of generations thanks to the cultural reformation of Little Sister. Ivzid was a product of the line of Hakifur, the bloodline that had served as personal security to the First Family, and he remained almost uniquely in bondage to its codes and principles. Even old warriors like Hezzka had been forced to moderate some of their views. Ivzid’s training, under the sternest regime of Hafril, and his youth, would have made a fine officer of the time before. Hezzka pictured him on one of the old clearance missions to parasite lands, cracking open a case of beer with one front foot and crushing a plague pellet in the other.

  ‘Well met, General.’ A formal greeting between officers that nowadays, in the daily business of the fifteenth column, was mostly mumbled. Ivzid gave each word the euphony of sacred chapter. ‘We have entered the parasites’ defence zone.’

  ‘I am aware of that, First Pilot.’

  ‘They have attempted conference.’ Ivzid cackled, baring his perfect teeth. ‘A brief chatter, a line of insults. They dishonour us, and by Mif I’d broil their skins, make trophies of their scalps, were I –’

  ‘Were you not under orders from Big Mother himself to act with civility to them until our business is concluded.’ Hezzka edged nearer to Ivzid. ‘Try to think clearly, boy. See the ultimate folly of our enemy. They are going to sell us a ship that will restore Chelonia to its true destiny. That will ensure their own destruction. Take humour from that, employ it to quell your anger.’

  Ivzid hissed, and his head slumped, his eyes thinning to slits. ‘I hear the logic in your words, General, but my heart,’ he smote his plastron, ‘my heart turns over at the idea of conversing with parasites.’

  ‘Then take a relaxant. This mission is too important to be jeopardized by your lack of self-control, Ivzid.’

  ‘But sir!’ Ivzid pointed to the screen, which now showed the first of the parasite defence installations, an enormous dull grey sphere fitted with cannons around its circumference. ‘To approach this Zamper place unarmed, to face an enemy not with blasters but with open feet, the dishonour!’

  His words, filled with the rousing oratory of the parade ground, tugged at Hezzka’s emotions. These sentiments were quite his own, but could not be expressed. ‘Your duty, First Pilot,’ he said, ‘is to steer this shuttle to safe landing on Zamper and act as my personal assistant thereafter. Concern yourself with these matters, and save your ire.’ Further debate was forestalled as the shuttle suddenly dipped in its trajectory.

  The screen flashed up a warning; three symbols it took Hezzka a couple of moments to identify. At the same time the inboard computer started to beep and chatter unbidden.

  ‘What is happening, sir?’ Ivzid pulled himself up from the corner into which he had been gracelessly deposited by the turbulence.

  The symbols on the screen flickered and were replaced by a sequence of pink-outlined schematics detailing a familiar snout-nosed shape, trisected by a thicker red line. The following second another angle was displayed, favouring the shuttle’s rear thrusters and concealed warp boosters, and showing the newly welded section from which the shuttle’s cannon had been removed, in accordance with Zamper’s code of neutrality. This was exchanged for a diagram of the room Hezzka and Ivzid were sitting in, then by the companionways, the hull, the escape pod, the domestic flyer.

  Hezzka rattled furiously at the computer keyboard, but found the diagnostic systems unresponsive. ‘Sensor beams,’ he snarled. ‘From the parasite defence station.’

  More images flashed up, increasing in speed. The microscopic innards of the flight guidance systems, the food preparation unit, the anti-theft device. Hezzka flinched as the images blurred, stinging his retina. The shuttle’s automatic log was now being plundered, the precisely noted details of all the vessel’s previous missions and modifications whipping by. ‘They’re reading everything we’ve got, right down to the protected files.’

  The chatter from the console speeded up and rose in pitch, became a zizz, a squeal, and passed beyond hearing, every morsel of information sucked out, examined, checked, re-checked, returned.

  ‘It is not possible.’ Hezzka motored back from the systems, shaking his head. ‘It would take years to crack the entry codes on the auto-log.’

  The intrusion had done nothing to calm Ivzid. ‘And yet it has been done. What secrets does this Zamper place hide?’

  An abrupt silence followed. The screen crackled and returned to its scan function, showing the unbroken surface of the grey sphere rolling past. The rumble of the boosters was restored to health and the shuttle righted itself.

  They heard a machine voice, a machine made to sound like a parasite. In perfect broad dialect, it said, ‘Thank you. You have now passed through the security screen.’

  Hezzka knew little of the ways of parasites, but he sensed something behind those words. There was an emotional signal in the delivery, a hint of triumph and self-importance. He was stirred to fury, and an order formed on his lips. An order to open fire.

  Damn the parasites.

  He looked to Ivzid, who was beating the wall with one foot in frustration.

  ‘We go on,’ he ordered. ‘To your station, First Pilot. Planetfall on Zamper in fifty minutes.’

  Wrapped in towels, one around her body and the other serving as a turban, the Secunda hopped from her bath and into her office, summoned by the urgently twittering Outscreen. She’d been expecting this call. The new buyers weren’t going to help Mr Jottipher’s nerves.

  ‘Mr Jottipher. I hope you’re not going to disappoint me.’ She tried to keep her tone light, but a note of censure remained. She really was no good at being nice. Even to people she liked, or thought she liked.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed between his beard and the tight shirt-collar. ‘Our new customers, madam. I made the routine welcome. They were most unhelpful.’

  The Secunda popped a braided cushion, a gift from the Sprox Conquerors six years ago, onto her chair and sat. ‘They’re spoilt children, Chelonians. Far less significant than all their crowing suggests. Particularly today. We’ve entertained worse.’

  ‘Of course, madam. My concern, as liaison, is that normal social dealings with our new buyers may be –’ he coughed, ‘– rather strained, at least.’

  ‘You’re wary. It’s understandable.’ She loosed the turban, and started to dry her cropped hair gently. ‘I shan’t blame you for the
ir rudeness. Given their past record, should we expect anything else?’

  He nodded, but lowered his head. ‘Still, madam, in the light of recent, er, difficulties…’

  ‘Small equipment failures that have been righted quickly. It was very sad about Nula, but accidents will happen. And remember, I granted the Chelonians’ application, as always, only after the most careful consideration. It’s my job. And I’ll take the responsibility for any raised voices.’ Her hair sufficiently dried, she folded the towel. ‘Who else is there, Mr Jottipher?’

  That raised a smile. ‘Very good, madam. I’ll see you at the reception?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He was gone. The Secunda smiled patiently and not a little sadly. To trust in his betters, that was the job of our Mr Jottipher. As much as it was hers. With a vital difference. Her superior was not human.

  And he was dying.

  Returning to the bathroom, she pulled the plug and towelled herself dry, watching the vortex pull down the green bubbles. Such unpleasantness and disloyalty, she thought, and herself right at the centre of it. If only Mr Jottipher, with all his faith in her (faith, it made her blush to recall, she had just now encouraged), could guess at the truth.

  But then, he would know soon enough.

  ‘Hello,’ said the Management, right on cue, from the mirrored Inscreen.

  She jumped, instinctively pulled the towel about her. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why be shy? I can have no interest in your contours.’

  They’d been over this many times. It seemed to amuse him. ‘Manners are an important part of business. Look at your Mr Jottipher. It would hardly be productive to have him popping up in buyer’s bathrooms.’

  ‘My Mr Jottipher?’ The Management seemed to consider this. ‘I’ve never thought of any of the staff as my property. My purpose is to acquire, yes, but to acquire for the benefit of others. My shareholders.’

  ‘You have pride. Don’t deny it, I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Hmm. All the better for our efficiency.’ He leaned forward. ‘It would make a fascinating study for someone, wouldn’t it, to map out the qualities I do have and the qualities I don’t?’

  That surprised her. A concession? ‘Many are curious.’

  ‘And I value curiosity, up to a point. But,’ he shrugged, ‘I could never allow it. Best to keep them guessing, preserve a bit of mystery.’

  ‘I wish you’d go, I want to put my clothes on.’

  ‘But I obviously have something important to say, or I wouldn’t be here. I’ll say it and clear out, shall I?’

  Her silence was a good enough answer.

  The picture on the Inscreen changed, the Management replaced by an image relayed from outside the Complex. Smith’s house, on the far side of the lake, twenty miles away. The Secunda raised an eyebrow. ‘Smith? What about her? You don’t want me to talk to her, do you?’

  ‘Have you never liked her?’ asked the Management’s voice as the image flicked inside the house, to the lab. Smith, scruffy corduroys tucked into leather boots, was pottering about at her microscope, long grey hair flowing unstyled over the collar of her tweed jacket, her workbench cluttered with slides and paraphernalia.

  ‘I doubt the value of her project. My personal feelings about the blessed woman shouldn’t come into it.’ She smirked as Smith, unaware that she was being observed, slumped down dumpily on a stool. ‘She’s been here eight years, and we’ve nothing to show for it. Except a rudeness that wouldn’t be tolerated from anyone else on your payroll.’

  ‘Careful, Secunda. You’re criticizing one of my ideas.’

  ‘I’m saying that we know precious little more about the Zamps now than we did then. The production rate is still falling steadily.’ She waggled a finger at him. ‘Only two sales this year, only one new design.’ She sat on the edge of the bath and examined her nails. ‘If only your creators, Management, had thought to trust you with more information.’

  ‘I’m sure they had their reasons. In our business, secrecy is very important.’ He coughed. ‘Anyway. Smith’s latest report shows that she may be on to something. Finally my investment in her could be paying off.’

  ‘What has she discovered?’ The Secunda was genuinely concerned; the Zamps had always unsettled her slightly. The things were so damned powerful, potentially.

  ‘I don’t want to steal her glory. She’ll tell you if she’s certain.’ The Management returned the Inscreen to his own image. ‘I just popped in to tell you to grant her request, when she makes it, to assign her a couple of servitors. I know how keenly you cling to the little devils.’

  ‘The Complex has more need of them than Smith. The power failure last week, without a full team of servitors –’

  ‘A momentary equipment failure, that’s all.’ He smiled and rubbed the left side of his nose in one of the gestures that his creators must have believed would relax his staff more. ‘The first in two hundred years. Unlikely to happen again.’ He smiled and waved goodbye.

  The Secunda found herself looking at her reflection as he departed with a tingle of static that passed in a gentle wave over her newly dried skin.

  ‘We are your property,’ she said quietly to herself.

  Taal stood at his desk in the gaming centre. He was waiting for clearance from the net authorities – they were always a bit behind linking up for the morning session – and fiddling with the golden Z emblem attached to the lapel of his bright red plastic suit. Previous hosts of Zamper might have been expected to impress in it, but it clung to Taal in a way that emphasized his stout, barrel-shaped body. It was the last thing he’d have wanted to wear, but the Management had specified, and it was unwise to protest on Zamper.

  At 9.05 came the assured whisper of the automatics. The gaming network, a massive, vaguely rhomboid structure, flared, accepting its first log-ins of the day. Taal’s experienced gaze flicked quickly down the ident signatures stacking up on its crystal surfaces.

  ‘None of the big operators yet, see,’ he told the new hostess as she entered, without looking up. ‘You’ll find that. They think it’s bad manners to come rushing in the moment you click on. Looks a bit desperate.’

  The new girl, whose name was Christie, said ‘Oh’ and nodded.

  Taal was starting to wonder if that studied attitude of disinterest marked the limit of her responses. It was all she’d done since getting off the supply flight yesterday. She was a looker, but where was the interest, where was the sass? He compared her unfavourably to the previous hostess, poor little Nula, who’d been doing very well, all told. Until her accident.

  ‘A couple of data whores from Pyka,’ he waved at the names, ‘and a Marlex stellar accumulator. In on the razzle after a kill, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He made the observation with a conspiratorial smile and a sideways glance, offering his friendship, his confidence at least. Again, ‘Oh’ from her, and the nod.

  ‘I always give them something simple first off, let them think they’re on to something.’ He clicked down the gaming options, hundreds of ranked and numbered ways to lose your shirt, and made his selection. ‘We’ll offer them standard canasta with an upper limit of twenty thou.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Taal took the value tray from its slot under the desk and tutted. ‘Still in a mess from last night. I always forget to sort them back. Not my job, after all. Eh, love?’ He passed her the tray and the tag pencil. She looked at him blankly. ‘The coupons.’ He gestured to the jumble of red, blue and yellow light-tags in the tray, about a hundred in all. ‘They need sorting and revaluing. Red top left at ten thou, blue top right on five, yellow bottom right standalone. Got that?’

  She hadn’t, of course, but still she nodded.

  Every bargirl in populated space could sort tags, without prompting or guidance, in half a minute. It was one of those things you just knew, if you’d ever worked a table. Christie fumbled with the pencil, clicking between settings and faking a confident air.

  Taal pretended not to
notice, and left her sorting. On the other side of the Centre was an Outscreen. He waddled over and asked the operator for the Secunda.

  ‘Morning.’ She was on a pavement somewhere. From the look of the blocks behind her she was heading up to the reception sphere. Over her shoulders was stretched a light blue fabric cut in a V on her wrinkled neck, an uncommonly simple garment. Must be meeting the new buyers. ‘Shouldn’t you have opened up, Taal?’

  ‘It can wait. There’s something we must talk about.’

  She raised both eyebrows. ‘You have me at a disadvantage.’

  ‘The automatics were late again today, Secunda.’

  ‘A minor equipment failure, you can be sure.’

  ‘There have been a few too many minor equipment failures of late.’ He pointed upward, a gesture he made to look mildly obscene. ‘As you have the ear of those upstairs, I wonder, could you have a word?’

  She was perturbed by the news; he could tell simply because she gave no outward sign. If she’d truly thought the matter of no consequence, there’d have been a self-congratulatory curl of the lips or a coquettish flutter of the lashes. ‘You should know better,’ she said. ‘Even I do not ask questions of the Management. And he cannot make mistakes. His position does not allow it.’

  Taal suppressed growing anger. ‘It might be time to start asking questions. Nula shared your confidence in the Management, remember? Once.’

  That brought out a smug little smile. ‘The Management had confidence in Nula. Which of them was mistaken? Now, I really must get on. We have new buyers.’

  Taal stomped back to the desk, trying to hide his anger. A twenty per cent slump in production, a total power failure, Nula’s death, and the Secunda was behaving as if nothing was happening.

  Christie was waving the tag pencil at him. ‘I can’t get it to work,’ she said hopelessly.

  He took it, twisted the cap, and it hummed into life. ‘You look as miserable as I feel, dear. And it’s only your first day.’ He struck his bulging chest, pretending to consider. ‘Think how you’ll look after fourteen years.’