Doctor Who. Zamper

by Gareth Roberts

  The Management closed his eyes again. ‘The Doctor and the TARDIS?’

  The Doctor thought. ‘I dare say.’ He was slightly put out. Being recognized was a rare occurrence, despite his long relative history of interference in the affairs of the universe, and it robbed him of a usual advantage. He was unlikely to be underestimated by the Management.

  ‘Welcome to Zamper, both of you. This visit could be timely.’ He spoke as though he considered their presence of little importance. To Smith he said, ‘The Doctor and the Professor have access to your research. Full access.’

  Smith bit her lip. ‘My new findings –’

  ‘Full access, Smith.’ He tipped a wink. ‘Enjoy your stay, Doctor, and feel free to look around. You may even see people you recognize.’ The Inscreen flickered again briefly. ‘You must see the – the cave, Doctor.’ The Management’s smile remained, but his voice was that of a desperate man. ‘You must help. You must help. We will – I must – they have –’

  He blanked out.

  The Doctor considered his position. The Management had taken only moments to overcome its shock and fit him into his scheme of things on Zamper. It would be as well to play this new role, for the moment.

  ‘Well, he seems to have got over the upset rather well,’ Bernice observed. ‘Pardon me, but I don’t know anything about anything.’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’ The Doctor turned to Smith. ‘What’s all of this about new findings?’

  Smith held up the reader into which she had inserted the tape delivered by the now-departed servitors. ‘I’ve found something. A cave that’s appeared from nowhere, in what should be solid rock. Classified as cave 74D.’

  ‘Thank goodness it’s a cave and not an item of lingerie,’ Bernice muttered.

  ‘This is a recording taken by servitors I sent down there.’ Smith hesitated with her hand on the reader’s activator and looked the Doctor in the eye. Her directness appealed to him.

  ‘You’re wondering,’ he said, ‘if I can be trusted. If my arrival isn’t part of some larger plan of the Management’s. A test.’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘After eight years here, suspicion becomes a habit.’

  Moments after the power failure, Hezzka had overlaid his eye-facets with an enhancement membrane, which picked out the inert gaming structure, the sweating parasites, and the sour-faced snarls of Ivzid. As the minutes passed slowly the atmosphere in the darkened room grew more tense, with Mr Jottipher folding his body and gnawing at his hands, and Ivzid threatening all with furious retribution. The stripling was becoming tiresome.

  ‘How can we trust this ship we are to buy, General?’ he said loudly. ‘These parasites are stupid. Their technology plainly backward.’

  Hezzka sank inside his shell. ‘You forget their sensors, which cracked open our auto-log. You want them to be stupid, yes Ivzid, but you must realize that they are not.’

  Ivzid spluttered, ‘With respect, sir, in my grandmother’s day, such words would’ve earnt you a half-week in the pillory.’ A line of steaming dribble oozed over his chin, its heat trace flaring in Hezzka’s enhanced vision-field.

  Hezzka forced down his anger. ‘And even today, Ivzid, your words could put you up on a charge.’ He shuffled closer to his insubordinate First Pilot, and spat in his ear, so as not to let the parasites overhear, ‘You must learn to think clearly. Do not underestimate the parasites as your grandmother and his kind scoffed at the usurper. Wars are for winning, boy. And we will win only by understanding the enemy and his weaknesses.’

  ‘I stand corrected, General,’ Ivzid said with bad grace.

  The lights came back on, and the gaming device hummed, ticked and glowed brightly. Hezzka slid back his enhancement membranes, and noticed for the first time that those called Taal and Christie had laid hands on each other. He wondered if this was part of the ludicrously complex and anatomically vile parasite mating ritual, the lurid details of which had fuelled barrack-pod jests for generations. He hoped not. ‘The failure has been rectified?’

  Mr Jottipher hurried over. ‘Yes, General. Everything is back to normal. I must apologize for the inconvenience.’

  Ivzid laid a foot on Mr Jottipher’s leg. The clerk flinched at the touch, and for a moment, as the parasite’s face twisted with fear, Hezzka’s heart beat faster and his internal organs were suffused with sensation, a feeling akin to rapture and almost religious in its intensity. Yes, the sensation urged Ivzid, destroy this puny creature, rip its head off, let us see the life-juices spurt from its severed limbs.

  ‘Then apologize,’ said Ivzid.

  ‘I – I – I, er, I apologize for the inconvenience.’

  ‘Good.’ Ivzid removed his foot, licked his chops, and said, ‘Our rooms, Mr Jottipher?’

  He beckoned them away. ‘Yes, gentlemen. This way, please.’

  ‘Heck.’ Taal much preferred sitting to standing, and surely no chair had ever felt as comfortable. The slavering jaws of the younger Chelonian surpassed all of the ugly sights upon which he’d set eyes. It wasn’t the creature’s savagery that unsettled him; after all, he’d faced the Sprox in his time. But the Sprox and the Hotris and the human race, come to that, shared the denominator of corruptibility. In Taal’s experience, everybody and everything had a price; he himself had traded his freedom for twenty years in exchange for a payment he now very little expected to see. But the Chelonians were an exception. There was no way to reason with such beasts, nothing to be haggled. And the Management, if it lasted, was going to hand them a Series 336c Delta-Spiral Sun Blaster, packed with enough technology to rip a system apart.

  He realized that Christie’s hand was still held in his. ‘They’re worse than I ever imagined,’ she said. There was a high colour in her cheeks that brought out Taal’s deeply-buried protective streak. He passed her his hanky. ‘I’ve seen tapes of Chelonians, but only the friendly ones. My friend Billie said that there were – oh.’ She looked up fearfully. ‘I forgot, we mustn’t talk about our lives before.’

  Taal considered a moment, then abandoned the last of his doubts. ‘Stuff him,’ he said, shaking two fingers upwards but still keeping his voice low. ‘That’s the second total power loss. This place is cracking up.’

  Christie withdrew her hand and looked away from him, her mistrust obvious. She must think this a test, Taal realized. He thought back fourteen years to his first weeks on Zamper. The hostess, Lotte, had been older than him, the Secunda bearded and aged, Jottipher as he had always been. Taal had been suspicious of all about him. So Christie’s behaviour was understandable.

  ‘Listen, love,’ he said, edging closer. ‘We’ve got to trust each other. What if I tell you something about the time before, then you?’

  She stood and backed away from him, towards the exit. He sensed that she wanted desperately to believe him, but couldn’t be sure. He tried to look honest, but he’d never been very good at that. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she said, and left.

  The Secunda was in her office when the power loss struck. Immediately, she forced herself to remain calm, and simply to wait. She counted the minutes. If the Management was absent for twenty minutes, then she could proceed. Until then, best to wait.

  The darkness was total. She rested her hands on her desk, and re-ran the details of her plan. If this was the end she couldn’t have wished for better timing. For the first time in many years, a feeling of real hope surged within her. In just a few hours she could be free.

  Free, or dead.

  She remembered space, the sensation of leaving one world and travelling to another. In the time before, as head of Gilby Co, she’d grown used to the wonders beyond the portholes of executive class cruisers; the dust cloud, covering like a muslin veil the sparkling jewels of clustered red dwarfs that looked near, but were in truth scattered between separate systems, joined only by perspective. She’d not even noticed them, turned her eyes back to the reports and profit charts resting on her knee. She’d taken as much account of the glories of space as she
had the faces of her servants.

  When the lights returned, she exhaled deeply. Seventeen and a half minutes. As if nothing had happened, she straightened the papers on her desk and returned to work, signing the certificate of authenticity for the scanner report on the Chelonian shuttle. Inwardly she was cursing bitterly.

  Next time, then.

  ‘The equipment failure has been rectified,’ were the Management’s first words to her. ‘Everything’s up and running.’ He was daring her to question him.

  ‘Good,’ she said, not looking up.

  ‘And we have new visitors.’

  ‘Sorry?’ She rested her pen.

  ‘New guests. They must be made welcome. I know you’ve seen them.’

  ‘Yes, in the lift. I assume they’re here at your invitation. More specialists, friends for Smith?’ She wasn’t trying to keep the bitchiness from her voice.

  ‘Treat them well.’ The lines of distortion across the Inscreen’s image was enlarging, making it difficult to see the Management’s eyes through the interference. ‘There are two others with Smith now, the Doctor and Bernice. Treat them well, treat them well, treat them well.’

  ‘The Doctor and Bernice.’ The Secunda rolled the names around her tongue as the flickering Inscreen faded. Damn them. Random elements, specialists that could throw her plan into disarray.

  Mr Jottipher led the Chelonians into the luxury twin suite, feeling sure as he did that they were unlikely to appreciate the vital colours of the trailing damask curtains, the complementary vastness of the valley of Yollofos captured in the holo-window, the pleasurably puffed pillows at the heads of the beds, or the inbuilt walk-in shower unit. ‘Here we are, gentlemen. This is compartment fourteen, our luxury suite.’

  The vulgar Ivzid snapped a plant from its pot and the thing disappeared down his gullet with a splintering crunch. ‘There will be no more power losses?’

  ‘A most rare occurrence,’ Mr Jottipher stuttered, shaping the truth to suit him. ‘Zamper prides itself on its efficiency.’

  Hezzka rested one of his front feet on the nearest bed and tested the springs. ‘What are these objects?’

  ‘They are beds, on which to rest yourselves.’ Mr Jottipher felt very sick. He couldn’t picture a resting Chelonian.

  ‘Ah yes.’ Hezzka nodded. ‘I have heard of this. It is our custom to rest suspended.’ He used his front foot to indicate a swinging motion.

  ‘Sir means a hammock.’

  ‘That is usual.’

  ‘But,’ said Ivzid, ‘officers have no need for webbing when they rest. A good officer withdraws, but maintains his alertness.’

  Mr Jottipher wasn’t at all sure what Ivzid meant, but wasn’t going to ask for clarification. For a few moments back in the gaming centre, with that idiot Taal shouting recklessly up at the Management and trying to pull them all down, he’d really thought Ivzid was going to spring. It was only his professional detachment that had prevented Mr Jottipher from bursting into tears or running for his life. ‘Very well,’ he told the Chelonians. ‘Now, the food unit is there,’ he pointed to the corner, ‘and if you require anything else, please call,’ he rang the bell that dangled on a long string between the beds, ‘and a servitor will be with you instantly.’ He backed away as he spoke, not expecting any thanks for the day’s efforts.

  None were offered. Mr Jottipher babbled, ‘Well, until tomorrow, gentlemen,’ and hopped through the door before they could stop him. On the other side, alone at last, he collapsed against a wall, chest heaving in and out, heart pumping fast. He felt as if his eyes were going to pop from his head, and his legs curled with cramp. This had unquestionably been the worst day of his career. And the worst thing of all was, it wasn’t over yet.

  Hezzka tapped his chin thoughtfully as he re-examined the bed. ‘I think I understand the parasites’ rest system.’

  Ivzid was investigating their quarters. He scoffed at the lurid hologram – ‘revolting vista’ – and closed the heavy drapes to block it, then shuffled over for a look at the glass cabinet in the corner. ‘This apparatus seems to be some kind of weapon,’ he said, unhooking a slim white device at the end of a twisted silver cord.

  ‘It is a sprinkler.’ Hezzka took it from him and returned it to its fitting. ‘Parasites need regular sprinkling, you will remember. Else they become infested by carrion insects.’

  ‘Infestation upon infestation.’ Ivzid looked around the suite, then came closer to Hezzka and whispered, ‘Their Management thing, is it watching us here?’

  Hezzka increased the sensitivity of his ocular enhancements and turned a slow shuffling circle, keen to detect any trace of a recording or spying device. The walls beneath the hangings were bare, and the corners of the room were clean and empty. He stopped. There was an object he could not account for, lying on top of the resting-bed sheets. Hezzka held up a foot to motion Ivzid to silence, and advanced cautiously. The object was small and rectangular, and seemed to be composed of shredded cocoa solids encased in a metal wrapper. Gently, he opened the wrapper. Revealed was a collection of thin wafers. Embossed on the front of each was a golden Z.

  ‘It is perhaps a gift,’ Hezzka theorized. ‘Think of our own custom of leaving a meal for the next user of a withdrawal pod.’

  ‘It is very small for a gift,’ said Ivzid.

  Hezzka munched on a corner of the thing. ‘It is too sweet,’ he said, spitting pieces of the thing out. ‘If such things are the delicacies of parasites, small wonder they do not thrive.’ He threw the thing aside, yawned and crabbed closer to the bed. ‘Ivzid, I am near my withdrawal time. Perhaps I should use this resting bed of the parasites.’

  ‘Their ways are of no interest,’ said Ivzid. ‘Why make a study of vermin? They are a blight, a nuisance.’

  Hezzka stretched his limbs and yawned again. He’d been on edge for the past week-length, and a few hours’ withdrawal was long overdue. Ivzid’s query was typical of the thinking of the officer class. ‘Why bother to study anything?’ he replied. ‘It is a good thing to be curious, to enquire.’ As he spoke he climbed up on the bed. Far too soft a surface, but suitable for the puny frame of a parasite. How could the things stand to be wrapped in softness like this? Most unnatural. ‘If all thought as you do, Ivzid, we’d still be living in mudflats.’

  The reply was a grunt. ‘There’s nothing to be learnt from parasites.’

  Hezzka withdrew his back feet and put his shell temperature up a notch. ‘Nothing we can learn from their ships, their technology?’ He fixed Ivzid with a significant look. ‘Nothing to be learnt from their shipbuilders?’

  ‘The slime-beasts?’ Ivzid recoiled. ‘All slime-beasts are vile.’

  ‘But these have a strange power. A power that we could put to good use. Withdraw on that, First Pilot.’

  The lift stopped at last, the floor settling with a definite-sounding thump. Forrester grimaced. ‘Here we go, then.’ Cwej smiled back, and she was glad to see him looking jumpy.

  The door slid back and they emerged into a bright white spherical room. Some kind of reception lounge, thought Forrester as she looked around the deep leather sofas. Oddly, the neatness of the room was spoilt by the disfigurement of the potted plants that lined the holo-wall. Branches and leaves looked as if they had been savaged by some ferocious creature.

  Hovering in the centre of the room was another of the flying discs. ‘Welcome, friends of the Doctor,’ it told them. ‘Welcome to the Complex.’

  Forrester felt almost disappointed. Stupid. If the Doctor was alive, and it looked that way, things were a lot better than she’d anticipated. It felt wrong, really badly wrong, to have her pessimism thwarted at every turn. In a few hours, she thought, she’d be proved right.

  ‘Can we see him?’ Cwej asked the disc.

  ‘Later. The Doctor is busy.’

  Probably having his arms torn out. ‘There’s another member of our party,’ Forrester began, instinctively advancing.

  ‘Professor Summerfield is with the Doctor.’ Som
ething inside the disc clicked and beeped, and the door leading from the room slid open. Forrester caught a glimpse of a travelling pavement just outside, and the edges of some large structures.

  Cwej followed the disc with an expression of complete trust and a relieved smile. Forrester fell into step, shaking her head.

  ‘These are the deeper caverns.’ Smith licked her lips in anticipation of what might be revealed, and checked the recorded images with her mapscreen. ‘Coming in to cave 74D.’

  Bernice was unimpressed. Blurred and distant and dark, the reader’s inbuilt holo-projector showed a herd of the Zamp creatures slithering through a split in a looming batholith. She studied them more closely. It appeared that the Zamps at either edge of the herd were being squashed against the sides of the gap. The pictures were so bad it was hard to be sure.

  Smith tutted and shook her head ‘The servitors run on a basic reaction program.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘Not too bright.’

  The Doctor looked up from the eyepiece of the microscope, and absently slid in another slide. ‘Hmm. Has anybody ever taken a look inside one of these servitors?’

  ‘None of the staff would even try, and the buyers would lose their deposit instantly if they did. Although we’re all curious.’

  The servitors’ cameras zoomed close in on a smaller group of Zamps squeezing themselves through a cavern wall. ‘They’re going to spawn?’

  ‘No,’ said Smith, ‘their egg chamber is on one of the higher levels. The cave in those pictures is 72 on level D, not that far from the construction bays. The Zamps are heading across in their droves, after centuries of inactivity.’

  The projector blanked out, then flashed up a picture so strange and unexpected that it took Bernice a few moments to accept it. There was no visible point of reference, nothing to put the scene in perspective, and that reminded her of the concealed patterns in trick three-dimensional pictures. She looked away, looked back.

  At the borders of the projector’s range were recognizable strata of rock, bulging outward to form twisted, jagged shapes that fringed the scene within like a frame. Bernice shivered. Trickling through crevices in the cave walls were slow-moving herds of Zamps, their feelers twitching feverishly. Trails of slime formed a sticky underlay that coated the surfaces of rock. The cave, which she estimated to be about five hundred metres high, was swarming with Zamps, their shining black bodies glistening, one on top of another. Squelching and squirming and writhing wetly, packed into the available space, clinging like abandoned sea shells along the walls and the roof of the cave. And crawling all over the artifact in the centre of cave 74D.