Doctor Who. Zamper

by Gareth Roberts

  ‘I’d love to. Where can I find her?’

  ‘I will escort you.’ One of the servitors emerged from the kitchen and came level with Bernice’s head.

  ‘Right. I’ll be off then. Hope the tea’s better than the coffee.’ She waved to Forrester and Cwej, whose eyes were darting about the room in every direction apart from Christie, and then skipped out after the buzzing disc.

  The Doctor estimated that he must be almost a mile below the surface of Zamper. Thankfully, the cave system had widened out, and after an hour’s painful navigation through the confined channels nearer the entrance, he had been glad of the chance to stretch his cramped muscles. He stopped often, his head cocked to one side, sensitive to any changes in the rumble of the distant water flow. As he dropped down over a thin spar of rock, the ferrule of his umbrella hooked over the end to take his weight, another noise echoed to his right. At first he was uncertain. In his experience caves were not uncommon, and he knew well their ability to confound the senses. After a couple of seconds, the noise, a high-pitched burble, came again. He brought out his torch, and in its beam he saw an arch-shaped opening leading right. The walls beyond sparkled as the light passed over them, being coated in thin strands of a colourless substance that was tacky to his touch. Wiping his fingers on his handkerchief, he advanced under the arch, noting the small piles of heavy stones arranged neatly on either side of the passage. At least one Zamp from the mysterious sub-herd had passed along this way, lost.

  When the burble sounded a third time, he stopped to consider. He told himself that there was no logical reason why the call of a Zamp should mean anything to his ears. It was a simple animal cry, made for the senses of another animal and not for him. But there was something in the tone that suggested pain. Not a physical pain, but an emotion. Regret?

  He shook his head and chastised himself.

  Walking on, he presently came to a small triangular cavity. Ducking his head he entered and shone the torch around. The source of the regretful burble, three notes descending in scale, was near.

  The cavity contained three slime-coated eggs about the size of footballs. The shells were muddy brown, opaque and ribbed; thick turquoise spreading veins pulsed every other second. They looked unhealthy. The Zamp eggs he had seen in Smith’s holo-pictures were sturdier and shelled. These reminded him of frogspawn.

  He was alerted by a twitching movement in the darkness opposite. He shone his torch and the beam revealed a Zamp. It was trapped by a piece of rock that lay across its mid-section, and was squirming pathetically to free itself, twisting its tapered rear and wiggling its feelers. The Doctor’s arrival seemed to alarm it further, and it squealed with frustration.

  The Doctor raised his hat and said politely, ‘Good morning, madam. You appear to be in some trouble.’ It had not used its telekinetic powers to save itself, he noted. Probably the poor beast was exhausted after lugging its eggs here, and had become trapped by a falling piece of rock dislodged by the movement in the area. He pictured the efforts of the Zamp progenitor to reach a safe place for its young to emerge, away from its herd and unguided, and shook his head in admiration. ‘Perhaps that brain of yours isn’t as small as we thought.’

  There was a slight abrasion in the creature’s side, through which issued a thin trickle of grey blood. Kneeling down, the Doctor lifted the piece of rock very slightly and angled the beam of his torch on to the wound. The Zamp burbled and twisted itself, apparently afraid that he intended to harm it further. Satisfied that no serious damage had been done, he hefted the rock and threw it aside. Immediately the Zamp pushed itself towards the eggs, slithering by him.

  At the same moment the Doctor felt a slight pressure on his brow, ghostly fingertips brushing past, and he leapt up instinctively, raising his umbrella to confront his opponent. A sensation flashed through his mind, and his legs gave way. The torch fell from his hand.

  Sight was gone, smell was gone. There was the trail, only the trail, his mark. Joy made his heart beat faster as he moved forward. The smallest detail of the environment was known to him. He was strong again now, and would not be caught by another fall. He lifted his underside to avoid the small sharp rock that blocked his path to the young. The beautiful young. Three of them, a full litter, and no runts among them. Their auras mingled, he assured them as he felt for the integrity of their containers. No flaws. Each was a perfect sphere, the nourishing jelly healthy and grey. He turned his senses on the other creature in the cave and sensed it meant no harm. It was one of the non-thinkers from above. Perhaps it would like to communicate.

  The message faded.

  Blinking, the Doctor shook his head to clear it of the intruder and scrabbled for the torch.

  The Zamp was circling its eggs, stopping to let its feelers examine each in turn. This time, the musical tone it produced sounded joyful. Curious, the Doctor came closer and put out a hand, intending to feel the surface of one of the eggs.

  His fingers froze and a cold pain struck him in the chest like an icy dagger. He pulled back his hand and sucked his fingers. ‘Sorry. Very clever. In-built defence mechanism?’ The Zamp burbled as if in confirmation. ‘Well, that’s my one good turn for the day.’

  He took out his notebook and pencil, made a quick sketch of the eggs for future reference, then backed along the arched way, feeling rather pleased with himself.

  Mr Jottipher had barely slept, his mind thrown into a turmoil by the speed and oddness of the previous day’s events. Three times in the night he had gone tearfully to the drinks machine in the corner of his bedroom, and three times had found it without power. There was no Inscreen in his quarters, but still he glanced fearfully around the dark corners, his imagination racing with the possibilities. The more he turned the Secunda’s treacherous suggestion around in his head, the more ghastly consequences occurred to him. What if the Management really were testing them? What if the power losses were swiftly repaired? What if they were discovered attempting to flee by the Chelonians? He had always favoured the clearest path through life, preferably in the footsteps of somebody cleverer who looked like they knew where it was taking them. Only the certainty expressed by the Secunda assured him. He couldn’t imagine her failing at anything.

  Summoned to her office, he took a circuitous route along the tubes, hoping to avoid contact with the Chelonians, or any of the staff. From the mirror of his dressing-table this morning, his red-cheeked, wild-eyed reflection had screamed ‘traitor!’, and he was certain that others would notice the change in him and start to suspect. He entered to find her, immaculate in red, calling up Smith’s lab on her Outscreen.

  ‘Wake up, you silly woman,’ she was calling. Mr Jottipher was slightly affronted by the relaxation of etiquette. Rudeness caused him to blush. ‘Come on, wake up!’

  In the corner of the Outscreen, Smith could be seen lying face down and fully-clothed on her bed. ‘Perhaps she’s tired, madam.’

  ‘Unlikely. She was never one to lie in. Smith!’

  Mr Jottipher leaned over the desk and whispered, ‘You’re going to include Smith in our… in our, er…’

  ‘Plan?’

  ‘Er, yes. Our plan.’

  ‘No. It will give me great pleasure to leave her behind, in fact. I was just calling to see if she’d made any breakthroughs with her new friend. Doesn’t look like it.’ His face must have been letting him down again, because she asked, ‘Am I shocking you?’

  ‘I… I, er, well, I...’

  ‘We attended the same school.’

  He squeaked and sat down. ‘School,’ he said in a small voice.

  ‘School.’ She threw her head back. ‘School, school, school. It doesn’t matter anymore. Why shouldn’t we talk freely now? Nobody is listening.’ She poured him a drink from the crystal decanter on her desk. ‘Here. My name is Margaret Beaumont.’

  ‘I am,’ he stumbled and sipped, ‘I was with the Telemenary troupe, touring the island galaxies. Lars Jottipher. I was a boy soprano, you know.’ He brushed away a f
orming tear. ‘Sorry.’

  She smiled and switched off the Outscreen. ‘Never mind her. It’s you I want with me. May I call you Lars?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, please.’ It felt very strange to talk freely again. Twenty-two years. Nearly half of his life. ‘May I call you Margaret?’

  ‘No you may not.’

  The door of the office slid open. ‘Ah,’ said the Secunda. ‘One of our new friends.’

  Mr Jottipher flinched. Another stranger. He was unsure how to react in these altered circumstances. A woman in her mid-thirties, in a black vinyl jacket and blue cloth trousers. Her eyes were also blue, and alive with wit and intelligence. She frightened him. She looked like another one of those people that tend to get what they want. Force of habit sprung him from his chair, which he proceeded to offer.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Good morning, Professor Summerfield.’ The Secunda indicated the decanter.

  The stranger declined. ‘Bit too early. Cheers anyway.’

  The Secunda reclined in her chair. ‘Now then. You just happened to be passing our way, I hear.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. Yes, I know you’re going to say that’s impossible. But we’re not the usual sort of travellers.’

  ‘I gathered that from the report on the test wreckage that came in overnight.’ The Secunda tapped a sheaf of print-out. ‘An upright oblong, two point six metres by nought point nine metres. External markings suggest ancient artifact of Tellurian origin, but interior resists all datalyzer-patterns.’

  ‘Good to know she’s still in one piece.’ Summerfield reached for the report. ‘Can I have a look at that, please?’

  ‘Feel free. What is “she”?’

  ‘She’s the exterior portal of an extra-dimensional patterning matrix. I don’t understand it either.’

  ‘A teleporting ship?’ suggested Mr Jottipher, sensing the possibilities shifting again.

  ‘Sort of.’ She folded the report. ‘Can I borrow this copy? Ta. I’d better go and see how my mates are. Nice to have met you.’ She stood, nodded cheerfully, and left.

  ‘She seems rather nice,’ said Mr Jottipher. ‘If a little odd.’

  The Secunda looked up at him. ‘She’s terrified we’re after her ship.’

  ‘Oh. Are we?’

  ‘No, no, far too far away. I was right, though. I don’t like these new people, Jottipher. Extra-dimensional technology is beyond the predict-horizon threshold of all the major worlds, even today. And you saw the way she dressed.’

  Science was not Mr Jottipher’s field, and he struggled to catch up with her thoughts. ‘You think she’s from the future?’ His throat ran dry and he sat back down. ‘From – from the consortium, perhaps?’

  ‘I think it’s likely.’

  ‘But, but,’ he finished his drink and steadied his thoughts, ‘that means they might have the knowledge to repair things here. And that means that we –’

  ‘Have to make ourselves scarce as soon as possible, yes.’ She remained so wonderfully calm; and as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, she reached across the desk and took his hand.

  Hezzka marched briskly back to his room, and kicked over his bed. The muscles around his joint implants were sore, and his head felt thick and groggy. Not enough withdrawal-time. He thought longingly of his hatchlings, incalculable millions of miles away, growing up in a state-financed crèche, being fed with Little Sister’s lies. Not even knowing his name, their heritage wiped away. He had followed exactly the strategy outlined for this mission, and still was close to failure. There would have to be another way, and then this Zamper planet would yield its secrets. He would return with a battle-formation of Chelonian stealth-cruisers. Yes, blast away their defences by sheer numbers, and ransack this place, take their ship designs, exterminate the slimy and repulsive Zamps.

  ‘You say we are to leave?’ Ivzid asked. ‘You say we are to leave Zamper?’

  Hezzka chose his words of reply carefully. ‘I share your suspicions, Ivzid. The power failures indicate that Zamper is not what we hoped for. Perhaps, boy, we were expecting too much. This disorder, these new parasites… those disgusting Arionite creatures. We did not know of these when the bargain was struck. I say we reclaim our deposit and return to the fleet to consult Big Mother and the strategic council.’

  Ivzid turned away from him. He said quietly, ‘General, these power failures have made the parasites weak. Surely now is the time to strike and take what we will?’

  ‘There are many servitor-discs, and all are armed. We would be shot down in minutes. I say we return, Ivzid.’

  Ivzid reared up. ‘Return? I see what lies behind your words. You mean us to flee like raspberry-suckers from puny, defenceless parasites and bad dreams of slimy worms!’

  ‘I have warned you this day, Ivzid. Now return to the shuttle and ready it for flight.’

  ‘You are not fit for command, Hezzka.’ Ivzid slouched from the room. ‘When we return to the fleet, my account of this mission will damn your actions.’

  ‘Ah, be gone from my sight!’

  Alone, Hezzka kicked over the other bed. He released a relaxant, and soothed himself with visions of how Ivzid’s pathetic bleating would be dismissed by Big Mother and the council. The lad had a shock coming.

  As had the Secunda. He prepared himself to confront her.

  Forrester had known Cwej only for what felt like a couple of weeks, but he was easy to read. His mawkishness in the dining room would have been embarrassing enough in more ordinary social conditions, but here on Zamper, separated from the TARDIS, it was embarrassing, dumb and misplaced. Three words that summed him up pretty well.

  ‘Have you got a thing for pretty little waitresses?’

  His ears turned red. ‘What do you mean?’

  She tossed one of the solid croissants between her hands as they walked along the hallway of the residential block, in the direction of the travel tube. ‘It looks like we’re stuck in the Doctor’s pocket for a while, and he isn’t the type for sticking around long. It probably isn’t a good idea to get yourself involved emotionally.’

  ‘Thanks for the lecture.’

  She ignored that. ‘I realize you’re in your prime, but there are more important things.’

  ‘Or perhaps you just don’t want anybody else to have more of a good time than you.’

  It surprised her how much that hurt. ‘I don’t like to be misjudged.’

  ‘I don’t like being lectured. Hey.’ He raised a finger and pulled her into a corner as a heavy thumping noise overlaid by the whine of an overheating motor signalled the advance of the younger Chelonian. It sped by without noticing them, muttering angrily all the while something about treacherous aliens and cowardice. It stank like a pair of old leather shoes left out in the rain.

  They walked on in silence.

  At the junction of the hallway with the gaming centre they halted. The voices of Taal and Christie echoed out along the hallway. Forrester grabbed Cwej’s arm and motioned him to remain silent as they crept forward, stopping just before the open doorway.

  ‘I’m just frightened, that’s all,’ Christie was saying. Forrester glanced up at Cwej, and noted with disapproval the dreamy look on his face.

  ‘Anybody would be at the sight of one of those things,’ said Taal. ‘They’re brutes. Don’t worry, they’ll be gone in a couple of days.’

  Cwej moved to enter the gaming centre. Again Forrester held him back.

  ‘It’s not just that. It’s this place. Why is everything breaking down? Who are these new people?’ Her wheedling tones sickened Forrester. Women like that needed a good slap. The girl’s voice became a whisper. ‘If the Management breaks down, what are we going to do?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a few ideas, love, put it like that. Stick with me and you’ll be all right.’ Dirty old feller.

  ‘Thanks. It’s all been so sudden for me, I suppose. Nothing much has happened to me before, really. Nothing much at all.’ Forrester felt a fist forming automatical
ly. ‘I was working at a bar on Rakkelwotts 5. I’d only been there a week when I got brought here. I’d heard of Zamper, of course, everyone has, but I didn’t think it would be anything like this.’ She burst into tears. ‘What are we going to do? The last hostess. You said that she’d been killed. Is that what’s going to happen to us?’

  ‘Not if we think straight.’ Forrester’s suspicions of Taal were confirmed. He was sharp, he’d been planning this one for ages. ‘If the power fails completely, there’ll be a way out, for a while anyway.’

  ‘But we haven’t got a ship,’ Christie muttered through her tears.

  ‘No, we haven’t,’ Taal said emphatically. ‘But I can think of a couple of giant tortoises who have.’

  It took Smith several minutes to piece together her conscious mind. The first thing she saw was her outstretched hand on the pillow. Another morning, then. Her tongue was dry and felt heavy, her head was throbbing. Time for the specimens’ feed. The specimens’ feed, the…

  The Doctor.

  She leapt up and through into the lab, her legs tingling. The glass door of the drugs cabinet was open, and the bottle of sedative tablets was unstoppered. On the lab bench stood a line of teacups. The one she’d been drinking from last night contained a residue of leaves mixed in with a white powder. She swore and turned away from the cabinet.

  Pinned to her microscope was a sheet of scrap paper.

  DEAR S,

  I’VE GONE FOR A LOOK AT THE SUB-HERD. SORRY TO LEAVE YOU BEHIND – I WORK BETTER ALONE, AND IT’S PROBABLY SAFER.

  D

  She snatched up and crumpled the message. ‘Devious little…’

  Ivzid waited until the travel tube had deposited him in a shadowy corner of the Complex and stopped. Outwardly calm, he was inwardly seething. He pictured returning to the fleet empty-handed from this mission. Big Mother would laugh scornfully at Hezzka’s tale of running scared from power failures and nightmares of Arionites. To face the godhead of the Chelonian empire with such nonsense would be unthinkable, the ultimate indignity. Things would have been much different if Hafril had lived. Hafril, strongest of all warriors, loyal to the last gasp, who had taken seven bullets before dying, oh, he would have rampaged through Zamper leaving none alive. Hezzka might as well be an agent of the usurper. Indeed he was a traitor to his birthright. Ivzid felt the heavy weight of destiny settle on his shell. So, it was up to him. Of all the possible paths fate might have taken, it fell to him alone to secure the continuation of the race. He relished the role. In a couple of cycles, perhaps, he might lead the victory parade down the ancient triumphal archway of the capital, escorting Big Mother’s covered carriage, veiled by the interwoven brocades of the inner families, the unblemished scutcheon of Hakifur glinting in the stream of golden rays from the Father Sun, the standard-waving civilian crowds chanting ‘Ivzid! Ivzid the hero!’