Doctor Who. Zamper

by Gareth Roberts

  They heard a motor approaching. A door slammed, there were footsteps. Bernice looked about. ‘No hiding place, Doctor.’

  He rolled the magazine under his arm. ‘We’ll brazen it out. At worst, you deal the blow, I’ll grab the gun.’

  ‘Oh, can’t I grab the gun this time?’

  ‘All right.’

  A woman in size six boots walked through the front door. Into the boots were tucked a pair of corduroy trousers, and she wore a polo-necked grey sweater under a tweed jacket. She was elderly, rosy-cheeked, grey-haired, the kind of person who invited hugs. A large pipe was clamped in the left side of her mouth. Two small disc-shaped robots followed her in, humming softly.

  Bernice was expecting at least a startled cry followed by something along the lines of a ‘who are you I’ve never seen you before in my life what are you doing in my laboratory’ sort of speech.

  Instead the woman looked at them, tutted, crossed to her work table and started to sort through some slides.

  Chapter 4

  Mist hung about the launchpad, masking the alien ship from the eyes of Cwej and Forrester as they approached. There was an unnatural precision to the pools of vapour that increased Forrester’s suspicions. As she and Cwej were immersed, and lost sight of each other, she observed, ‘It smells of disinfectant.’

  Cwej took her hand like a small boy about to cross the road. ‘Sterilization procedure, probably. Fumigating the ship.’

  Forrester brushed dewy droplets from her jacket and shivered. ‘Some of those sort of chemicals can strip lead.’ She stamped her boot on the tarmac of the launchpad. ‘The Doctor!’

  ‘What about the Doctor?’

  ‘Right now, I want to kill him. If he isn’t dead anyway.’

  ‘You wanted to explore that ship,’ Cwej pointed out relevantly.

  Forrester brushed his objection away. No blame to be apportioned yet, please, the arguments could come later. There were more pressing matters in hand.

  Such was the density of cover that she almost walked into the side of the ship. One of its facets loomed over her, its topmost edge fading out in the mist, and close as she now was, Forrester could see the details of its construction. There was a wide inspection hatch, evidence of recent patching or updating of some fuel lines, and a blackened arrow-shaped scar right through the middle.

  She indicated the scar to Cwej. ‘Somebody’s taken shots at them.’

  ‘No, the housing underneath is untouched.’ Forrester looked again and swallowed her indignation. He was right, again. The plates to the right of the scar damage were intact. ‘Something’s been cut away. An exterior unit. Probably a weapon, that’d make sense of the design of this section.’

  ‘You’re really starting to irritate me,’ said Forrester.

  ‘What have I done?’ He really sounded crushed.

  A buzzing sound cut across Forrester’s reply. Whatever was making that noise was heading straight towards them, moving directly through the mist with unnatural accuracy.

  She sensed Cwej’s amusement as the thing hovered into view. It was a thin silver disc, floating at head height, metallic, with a sensor mechanism in the form of a square grid at its front.

  ‘State your purpose,’ it grated.

  ‘We’re travellers,’ said Cwej. ‘We’ve come here by accident and we –’

  ‘Welcome to Zamper. You are latecomers. Please proceed to the entrance.’ It dipped down and swerved slightly, indicating behind itself.

  ‘No, you don’t understand, we didn’t intend to come here, and we –’

  Forrester squeezed his arm and pulled him away. ‘Do as it says. If we’re latecomers we’re latecomers.’ She tugged his hand and they set off in the direction indicated.

  The disc thing followed. ‘Please hurry to the entrance. Please hurry to the entrance.’ It gave Forrester a gentle push, a slight pressure between the shoulder blades that hinted at much greater power.

  The outline of the dome she’d seen earlier came into view. A heavy door swung out as they approached and the disc repeated its request. They stepped through and the door swung closed. The space beyond was bare, white-walled, spotless, and smelt strongly of chemicals. A large platform led to another door; at either side of the platform were large green brushes, like mopheads, affixed to metal poles.

  ‘I’ve never heard of Zamper,’ said Cwej. ‘You know, the first time a real person sees us, our cover’s gone.’

  Forrester opened her mouth to reply. It was filled by a blast of liquid that showered from the ceiling with violent force. Instinctively she covered her eyes as the torrent continued, drenching her in seconds. She heard Cwej swearing as he fell over, and steadied herself with effort. ‘It’s only water!’ she tried to shout.

  Something brushed her shoulder. One of the big mopheads scrubbed her face, removing a layer of skin, and she took a mouthful of something warm and soapy. Another brush pushed her into Cwej and they were trampolined up and down by the platform, their heavy footwear cushioning the impact as they were rattled and scrubbed. More liquid, much hotter and lavender-scented, was released, stinging her eyes. She recognized it. Shampoo. There was another shower of water. Then more shampoo, and another rinse. Then another substance, tackier. Conditioner. A third rinse.

  The brushes retreated. Forrester opened her eyes and watched, coughing, as they folded up and returned to the corners of the still-vibrating platform. She looked down at her soaking jacket and trousers, which clung soggily to her beaten body. Cwej lay near her, in a heap. He was laughing.

  Blasts of hot air swept over them, and the platform shook again. Forrester let herself be taken and slumped to the floor, stretching herself out to avoid being bruised.

  The hot air clicked off and the room was silent again. She lifted her head and nodded to the grinning Cwej, who was busy getting back into his trousers, which were now dry along with the rest of his clothes. He sniffed his arm. ‘Hmm, I smell lovely.’

  Forrester grimaced and walked through the door leading off the platform. She found herself in a small metal compartment that was carpeted, mirrored, and lit by a grand chandelier. There was a pot plant in one corner.

  Cwej stepped through, and the floor jerked. He held up a finger. ‘This is a lift.’

  Forrester slumped against the wall and leaned her forehead on one of the mirrors. She felt sick, tired, hungry and very anxious. In the mirror she glimpsed Cwej’s alert young face. Some people you just want to slap.

  The zoologist looked up from her slides. ‘You’ll want something for that cut, dear, looks nasty,’ she told Bernice. One of the discs responded to the woman’s beckoning finger and dropped into her upheld palm a small roll of tape.

  There followed a strange, uncomfortable silence. Bernice shot the Doctor a querying glance and he shrugged back. Bernice could only guess that this woman was used to finding total strangers rummaging about her property. There was something reassuring about her confidence; a kind of matronliness.

  ‘I apologize for trespassing,’ the Doctor said, slipping into his regulation spiel. ‘You see, we are travellers and we’ve lost our way, and –’

  The woman picked up a reader and inserted the roll of tape. Without looking up, she pointed. ‘There are some dressings and ointment in that cupboard, top shelf. Everything’s labelled.’

  Bernice, who realized that her wound was maybe more dangerous than she’d thought, nodded her thanks and went to the cupboard. There were some toiletries on the bottom shelf, arranged in neat rows like the sample jars. Single people, a group in which Bernice counted herself – she viewed the TARDIS as a shared house at the best of times, with the Doctor as a generous but rather erratic landlord – tend either to obsessive neatness or horrific messiness, she knew. On the top shelf was a sealed packet of cotton dressings, and next to it was some ointment in a small jar. She took the items and applied them to her injury, dabbing the cut gently.

  The Doctor stood next to the woman and picked up one of her slides. ‘Epithelial c
ells. The arrangement is curiously regular, but that could be anomalous to the species. Are all these,’ he waved a hand around in a gesture that encompassed the slides and the specimen jars, ‘from those?’ pointing to the three animals.

  A flicker of doubt passed over the woman’s face. She lifted her head and spoke loudly, oddly up to the ceiling, as if there was somebody listening on an invisible upper floor. ‘Have I been supplanted? More specialists? You doubt my competence?’

  ‘I’m just interested,’ said the Doctor. ‘I’m sure your position is secure.’ He picked up another slide and squinted at the label. And what is your position?’ He extended a hand. ‘I’m the Doctor, by the way.’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘That’s right. And the young lady is Professor Bernice Summerfield.’

  Bernice nodded, noticing that the ointment seemed to be working and that the throb of the wound was receding. ‘Professor of archaeology. None of this gory stuff appeals to me, really.’ She held up the ointment. ‘This is very good, thank you.’

  The woman rose from her stool and came closer. ‘Professor Bernice Summerfield?’

  ‘My reputation precedes me?’ Bernice asked hopefully.

  The woman turned back to the Doctor. ‘How did you get here? You aren’t a buyer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who are you?’

  The Doctor said patiently, ‘Well, as I said, we’re travellers and quite by accident we found ourselves on a test flight heading for this planet, so we bailed out, and here we are.’ He took the flight recorder from his pocket and waved it over at her.

  The woman looked between the Doctor and Bernice. ‘Yes. I saw the escape capsules. Why has the Management brought you here?’

  ‘It was an accident. Really, I don’t think they have anything to do with it. May I know your name?’

  Her face showed a little alarm. She was either insane, not likely, or very scared. Not by them, Bernice decided, but by what they represented. Unauthorised intrusion. Perhaps the Doctor had been right about the totalitarian state.

  ‘I’m Smith.’ She walked to the window and looked out at the rolling purple plain. 'This is Zamper. It’s falling apart. People can’t just get in here.’ She smiled. ‘I apologize for my rudeness. Better start again.’ She held out a hand. ‘Good morning. We’re doomed. Would you two like a cup of tea?’

  Hezzka disliked the hesitant, burrowing architecture of the parasite Complex, and considered the high ceilings and twisting tubes of the place an apposite reminder of the draughty thinking and duplicity of its inhabitants. Two-legged races, it was established fact, were naturally inferior, an evolutionary mistake that flourished only where superior forms had perished or been suppressed accidentally. Hezzka’s grandmother had been a senior researcher in the Chelonian science ministry, working on methods to exploit the many weaknesses of parasites and so eliminate them more efficiently. His treatises had shown the parasites’ inability to work co-operatively other than in small packs, and really all that differentiated them from non-speaking animals was their lyricism. Put basically, they spent eighty hundredths of their time blowing chunks out of each other and laying waste to their planets, and the other twenty hundredths producing interminable artistic works on the subject. Apparently this was known as the human condition. Hezzka viewed it as a bit of a sad accident that needed putting in its place. As he and Ivzid strolled along one of the parasites’ moving tubeways, which was encased in a kind of cylinder tube, he swept his gaze over the Complex set out below, and sighed to the Goddess. That he was forced to grub about in such surroundings! What would his grandmother have made of it!

  The two parasites that had welcomed them to this awful Zamper were walking ahead. Hezzka had concentrated hard on trying to distinguish them. They were about the same height, and were both pink, but one of them had a growth of hair around its mouth. That was the male. Parasites were not allowed the dignity of names, but in these circumstances Hezzka acknowledged that the beast was called Mr Jottipher. The other’s top half was swollen, and it wore a briefer garment. That was female, the Secunda. Hezzka’s previous dealings with parasites had occurred with him at one end of a cannon and them at the other, and he was unused to reading their faces, but he was almost certain that she known as the Secunda had a mocking manner. It was in her voice also, an affectation to noble rank. Hezzka longed to cuff her, to bring her down with one slice of his claws.

  An inappropriate reaction.

  The pavement slowed, depositing them at a door that was only just wide enough for Hezzka and Ivzid to pass through. Hovering to either side of the door were two floating discs. ‘What are these?’ asked Hezzka.

  ‘Our servants,’ the Secunda replied. ‘They carry out menial tasks and have no identity of their own.’

  ‘They are known as servitors,’ added Mr Jottipher.

  Hezzka heard Ivzid’s deep-throated gargling chuckle, taking him back fifty cycles to the barrack pods. ‘The humanoid form is good for menial work, it was said,’ said the First Pilot, ‘but it is the way of parasites to dispute with each other, reducing their efficiency. These servitors show that you recognize the fact yourselves!’ He laughed heartily, baring his teeth.

  Neither of the parasites reacted. Hezzka was rather surprised by his own sense of embarrassment at Ivzid’s remark.

  The Secunda opened the door and led them through into another high-ceilinged area. It was decorated in a bizarre and tasteless style. More of that nauseous human condition probably. Hezzka nodded his approval at the choice of foods laid out here. Blossom, stem and leaf stood in pots around the room, and he munched on a couple to show his appreciation. ‘Fine species,’ he mumbled.

  Ivzid stripped the leaves from a tough-barked shrub. ‘Yes. You have done well,’ he said grudgingly.

  The Secunda went behind a curious low structure that was decorated with pieces of parchment. Behind it was a smaller and even lower structure into which, to Hezzka’s astonishment, the Secunda folded her body so that her lower half was rested.

  He spat out a leaf. ‘Can all parasites do that?’

  ‘Do what, General?’

  He waved a foot. ‘Fold their bodies so.’

  ‘I’m sitting down, that’s all.’ She tapped the structure she was resting on. ‘This is a chair. And this is my desk. It is not possible for a human to stand at all times.’

  Ivzid nodded, trying to look important and knowledgeable. ‘I have heard of chairs, General. Another parasite weakness. It is said they need to rest their padded rumps from time to time.’

  ‘You are not resting your rump?’ Hezzka asked Mr Jottipher. ‘Why not?’

  ‘This is the Secunda’s office, General. It is a custom to be seated when to stand is unnecessary. I stand as a mark of respect to you.’

  Hezzka shrugged his shell. ‘Sit, stand, it makes no difference to me. The concepts are ludicrous.’

  ‘That is not all, sir,’ Ivzid said enthusiastically. ‘It is known that parasites are unprotected as they sleep.’

  Worried that he might start chuckling again, Hezzka said, ‘First matters first, as we say on Chelonia. We wish to see the ship, the Series 336c Delta-Spiral Sun Blaster.’

  ‘You shall.’ The Secunda angled her head in a gesture Hezzka couldn’t read. For her sake he hoped it wasn’t amusement. 'And the first matter in this connection is your surety.’ She laid Ivzid’s confiscated footgun down gently on her desk and picked up a thick wad of parchment sheets. ‘The contract signed by your Big Mother specifies a deposit of ten million livres.’

  Hezzka nodded to Ivzid. The First Pilot motored forward and slammed the case, an antique embossed with the ceremonial seal of the empire, down on the desk. The crash seemed to disturb the parasites for a moment, causing Hezzka to recall tales of their sensitivity to loud noise. Mr Jottipher then stepped forward and tried to open the case, his small pink fingers struggling with the locked clasps.

  Ivzid pushed him aside. ‘No, parasite.’ The claws of his front feet tugge
d at the clasps and the lid of the case swung open on its aged, creaking hydraulics. Hezzka blinked at the brightness of the bounty within. Five rows of stacked guild tokens, edges dazzling in the light from the phosphor globes suspended about the office, rested on a lining of red velvet, each a clawspan wide and marked with the crest of the accursed parasite currency net.

  Mr Jottipher ran his scanning device over the case. It gave a satisfied beep. ‘All is in order.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hezzka tapped the side of the case. ‘The contract was most specific. Why gold?’

  The Secunda spread her hands wide. ‘The Management insists. Imagine, General, if the worst were to happen. The markets are volatile. Currencies can lose their value overnight, perhaps disappear totally. And equipment failure or sabotage can eat away at unreal credit. But gold retains its value whatever, and is the only completely safe way to trade.’

  Hezzka sighed. The complexity of the parasites’ economic system baffled him, although he’d learnt a lot when setting up Big Mother’s account on Pantorus. As far as he could tell, the idea was that each planet or group of planets had its own form of token, and these fluctuated in value depending on the ratio of exports to imports. The bigger currencies dictated the value of the smaller, and the more powerful decided on policies that increased their own success at the expense of the weak. It was a typical parasite arrangement, ill thought-out, confusing and divisive. What Hezzka was certain of was that most of the money sloshing around the markets was unreal, stored on credit records. That included the wealth created by Zamper, which was part-owned, if not controlled, by the descendant companies of the mysterious consortium that had built the wretched place.

  ‘Yet,’ he addressed the Secunda, ‘the full payment, when it is made subject to our satisfaction with the goods, will be made via credit-coil. I ask again, why gold for the surety?’

  Mr Jottipher replied. ‘It is to establish trust in our dealings, sir. Ten million livres is a substantial amount towards the cost of your goods. If there should be some –’ he licked his lips ‘– problem, Zamper has gained that much at least. Similarly, in the extremely unlikely event of any failure on our part to satisfy you, the deposit can be returned intact.’ He closed the lid on the gold.