Doctor Who. Zamper

by Gareth Roberts

  ‘I see.’ Big Mother looked back at the screen and the paused image of himself, forty-nine cycles ago, rising to address his subjects. ‘You do not consider the rituals irrelevant?’

  ‘No, sir!’

  ‘Speak truthfully.’ Big Mother muted the sound and let the recording run on. His younger self rose in the landau and the image cut to a pan across the expectant faces of the massed citizens. ‘You do not think that some of our ceremonials are –’ he paused ‘– silly?’ He extended one digit of his left front foot as far as he could without losing his grip on the support webbing. ‘As your empress, I order you to answer with honesty.’

  ‘I have never seen fit to question the rituals,’ the nurse replied eventually.

  ‘Oh, but we have,’ Big Mother said pensively. ‘We have examined the details of the ancient precepts in the Book of Time and wondered “Do the words of forgotten men in a forgotten world mean anything to us today? Did our beloved nation place too much of its trust in their wisdom? Were the usurper and his fawning intellectual cronies right to question the validity of the old way?”’

  ‘I am surprised to hear you say these things, Highness,’ said the nurse.

  ‘Then do not be. It is time employed well to re-examine our strongest beliefs now and then, lest the dogma borne of repetition should blind us to their meaning.’ His manner lightened. ‘You see, we questioned the tenets that bound our empire together for thousands of cycles, and answered ourself.’ He curled his front feet into fists. ‘Yes, we were right to believe. Some of our rituals may appear silly, but any such procedure appears so to an outsider. Our ceremony requires and induces discipline, and discipline is essential.’ He snarled. ‘The usurper, with his doctrine of “respect for life”, legislates for an impossible universe of sweet harmony between races and cultures. This is a false doctrine, and if we relax our code we soon find that no other is suitable. “The greatest happiness for the greatest number,” pah! A transparent veil for the pursuit of hedonism, it can lead only to the pit of decadence!’

  ‘Highness, please calm yourself,’ said the nurse. ‘It is not good to excite your passions.’

  Big Mother chewed on the rubber insulation that covered one of the fluid tubes in his mouth. ‘You are right, of course. Then, what news of Hafril?’

  ‘Hafril, sir? I think you mean General Hezzka.’

  ‘Hezzka? Oh yes.’ The memory of Hafril’s funeral flashed painfully through Big Mother’s mind and he saw again the black-draped coffin ejected into space. He couldn’t recall Hezzka, this new fellow, at all, so he couldn’t have made much of an impression. ‘Well?’

  ‘The General has not reported back to the fleet as yet,’ reported the nurse. ‘He and the First Pilot must still be on Zamper. We expect their return shortly.’

  ‘Ah, good.’ Big Mother felt a surge of hope. ‘We are confident that all will be well. Hezzka is a fine officer.’

  For a while now, as he journeyed deeper into the cavern system, Ivzid had felt that he was about to make some great discovery. He was not given to such fancies, but it came into his mind that something of import was about to occur. Why else was his spiritual guardian drawing him further on, arranging for him to overcome the varied obstacles in his path?

  He emerged into a small cave that seemed different from the others. Why was this? He cast about. The cave walls were matt black rather than purple, and they were leant together in a regular fashion that suggested something built by a creature of some intelligence. He moved closer and inspected the walls for markings. There were none. He turned to move back the way he had come, and his rear right foot brushed over something. It was not a piece of rock. He shuffled about, a difficult manoeuvre in the confined space, and found that the protruding object was a rusted iron bar a metre in length that was curled at each end. He thought for a moment and realized that it was most probably a handle suited for the use of a parasite’s clumsy spindly upper foot. He curled a digit around the handle and pulled, exerting his full strength. The thing buried beneath creaked and he heard the tear of rending metal, but the handle remained secure. Irritated, Ivzid batted aside the large pieces of rock near the handle and blew away the thick layers of dust that covered what lay beneath. He saw now that there was another handle a couple of metres away from the first, which had rusted more thoroughly. He touched it gently and it flaked, staining his foot with brown dirt.

  Between the handles was a flat metal surface. He flicked down his sensor membrane and saw that the contents of the container were shielded. Carefully he gripped the handle again, powered up his leverage capacity, and pulled, gasping with the effort. No parasite could triumph over him.

  The hatch creaked loudly, causing the rock in which it was embedded to groan. It came free at last, and with all of his strength Ivzid raised it up and threw it aside. He peered into the space beneath; revealed was a container three metres in width, which was packed with clumsy parasite technology. Boards of processors connected by thin wires were positioned in a spiral, reminding him of a line of dominoes. The set-up crackled faintly and tiny forks of electricity flared at the centre. It was a very old and obviously very inefficient machine. Ivzid remained staring at it for a long while, pondering its purpose.

  His attention was diverted by a faint rumbling noise that seemed to be building up behind him. A rockfall? He turned his head and listened more closely, and verified that there was no vibration. But the rumble kept on building. Whichever way he turned it was behind him. That was illogical. He upbraided himself for these unquiet imaginings.

  He shivered. The rumble was inside his head. With that realization, the noise changed, slowly, the gradual roll breaking up, forming more distinct sounds. Could they be words? Words – or just one word.

  Destroy.

  Tormented by internal conflict, Ivzid opened his eyes wide and scanned the region, keen to assure himself that there was nothing to fear. His vision glanced over the crackling box of processor boards.

  As they did the word formed again from the rumble. The thunderous voice of the Goddess. Destroy!

  Ivzid saw what had to be done.

  He raised his sensor-aid and brought it down on the spiral in the container, smashing at the components again and again. The rumbling decreased as he increased the ferocity of his attack. He used the pointed end of his communicator like a knife and hacked through the connections. Glass tinkled as they shattered. The centre of the spiral crackled and flared, then died, the internal glow fading to a glimmer, then away to nothing.

  Silence returned. The rumble stopped. Ivzid nodded his approval. He was filled with wonderment that the Goddess had selected him as her agent. But then these were days of destiny. Whatever foul parasite trickery was contained in that box had been destroyed. He felt exalted.

  The Doctor and Smith arrived back at their point of entrance to cave 74D. The area was thankfully free of Zamps, nearly all of whom were now massed at the base of their artifact. Smith took pains to avoid further contact with the sticky trails that crossed their path. She envied the Doctor’s agility.

  A few metres ahead of her he suddenly stopped again. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘You’ve not had another of your brain-waves, I hope?’

  He turned, and pointed with his umbrella to a point a few metres ahead. ‘I was worried this might happen.’

  Smith looked. In the middle of a slime trail that meandered along the cave wall was her length of rope, neatly coiled like a dozing snake. She looked up at the rockface, intending to check the opening through which they had entered.

  There was no opening. The rock wall was smooth and unbroken.

  She gripped the Doctor’s arm. ‘They’ve shut us up down here. Why –’

  The Doctor put a finger to his lips. He was staring intently at a small crack in the wall just a couple of metres to their left. A cascade of small rocks, not much bigger than pebbles, skittered down the slight slope. They were followed by the antennae of a Zamp. ‘A latecomer,’ the Doctor whispered. The creature sli
pped itself through the crack, plopped wetly down on the cave floor, and followed the trail left by its brothers. A moment later two more Zamps entered similarly. The strong white light from the slipway bounced off something metallic on their sides.

  ‘They’re my specimens,’ she said. ‘They’re still wearing their tags.’

  The Doctor turned to face her. ‘The cell samples you took from them showed no trace of any change.’

  ‘Correct.' She looked again at the specimens as they moved off in single file towards the artifact. Patches of tissue on their elongated necks were unhealthily discoloured. ‘They’re changing? It looks like a disease. But that’s bad zoology, I shouldn’t conclude anything from that.’ She fixed the Doctor with a stare. ‘Go on, tell me.’

  ‘I think,’ he replied, ‘that the Zamps’ cleverness stretches further than we’d thought. They could tell when they were being observed and were able to deliberately conceal the changes in their nature.’ He reached inside his jacket and brought out an old-fashioned notebook and his pencil. He flipped to a particular page. ‘I saw some eggs like this on my way down here.’

  Smith examined his pencil sketch, which he had annotated with a key to scale. It showed three eggs markedly different from the normal Zamp type; they tapered slightly, were larger, and looked more moist. She looked up. 'And there are no eggs in this cave.’ The Doctor nodded at the artifact. ‘Of course. It’s an egg-carrier.’

  The Doctor took back his notebook and started to make a sketch of the artifact. Smith was impressed by the speed and accuracy with which he worked. ‘Could well be,’ he said. ‘The imperative of any species is to continue itself. The Zamps have broken free, after five hundred years, and now a new life awaits them in the stars.’ He smiled and waved the pencil at the three specimens, who were about to join the massed sub-herd clustered at the artifact’s base. ‘Nature has a way of sorting these things out.’

  Smith felt dwarfed by the industry of the beasts. 'It’s an incredible achievement. Oh, Doctor, if we could only get away from Zamper and tell our story to the galaxy.’

  ‘So we shall, so we shall,’ he said brightly. In the bright light his face, filled with a kind of simple wonder, looked like a child’s.

  It was easy to follow Ivzid’s trail. Hezzka had led Bernice unerringly through the tubeways and down into construction yard six, which they navigated using a metal bridge that wobbled when it took their combined weight. She had tried to interest the General in conversation, but he replied only with mutters. Several times he stopped to get his bearings. Bernice reasoned that he was tracking Ivzid by his odour. In spite of his injury, Hezzka was able to set a good pace, his hydraulic joints giving him a definite advantage.

  They moved on through the caverns. As they passed along a narrow passage that was only just wide enough to accommodate Hezzka’s shell, he pointed to a line of scuffed tracks. ‘Yes, Ivzid has passed this way. We must go on.’

  Bernice slumped on top of a boulder and caught her breath. ‘Hezzka. We need to talk.’

  He grunted. ‘There has been too much talk.’ He shuffled on, grimacing with every movement.

  ‘Wait.’ She rapped her knuckles on his shell. ‘General. Please.’

  He twisted his head about and his features formed an expression that after a few seconds she guessed must be a sneer. ‘Parasites tire easily.’

  She decided to ignore that. ‘General, the deeper we go the stranger I feel.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  She tapped the sides of her head. ‘I feel as if somebody were inside my mind. An attempt at telepathic communication, possibly.’

  Hezzka’s expression softened. ‘You speak oddly, Bernice. But I understand your meaning, and I…’ His head turned to the darkness of the deeper caves they had yet to explore. ‘My mission is to retrieve that young fool Ivzid, yes; and to discover the nature of this planet’s secrets, yes; these are logical. But there is something else…’ He seemed to be on the point of telling her, then shook his head. ‘No, I cannot discuss these matters with you.’

  Bernice knelt before him and somewhat disrespectfully rested her arm against his shell. ‘Look, we’re alone in a cave in the middle of nowhere. Does it matter?’

  ‘You are a… oh, you do not understand honour, none of your kind can.’

  Bernice decided to take a risk. ‘That’s crap, and what’s more you know it. You’re scared, Hezzka.’

  He reared up. ‘I fear nothing.’ His vivid yellow eyes met Bernice’s, but she calmed herself, giving no outward sign of her discomfort. She returned his stare. His reaction was to shuffle back slightly. ‘You… you are a warrior?’

  ‘I’m a traveller. I’ve seen more than any warrior could.’ She rubbed the rockdust from her palms. ‘Fear means something very different to me now. Because I know that I can survive, and I know the best way to survive, which is to make as many friends as you can.’

  Hezzka regarded her steadily but said nothing.

  ‘I’m not really making this very clear, am I?’ said Bernice. She pointed ahead. ‘Don’t you feel something pulling you on?’

  He replied falteringly. ‘There is a sensation… I cannot find the right words… not fear. Something lurks in this darkness, something rather wonderful, and terrifying.’ His head lowered. ‘There is a legend among my people that speaks of… monsters, beasts defeated long ago. Arionites.’

  ‘I see. They resemble the Zamps?’

  ‘Who can know?’ He heaved his shell in a gesture that could almost have been a shrug. ‘The detail of the legend is lost, and many dispute its veracity. But since my first sight of these Zamps, I have thought of the Arionites.’

  ‘It could be a race memory,’ said Bernice. ‘Or their telepathic power affecting our minds in different ways.’

  Hezzka turned his head to one side. ‘You would make a good scientist.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She stood. ‘Let’s get on.’

  Blood was flowing from Forrester’s nose. She felt it trickle over her mouth and down her chin. Gently she leant up on her elbows and prepared herself to open her eyes. Her ears were still ringing from the blast and she relived the last few moments of consciousness; the cries and shouts of Taal and Cwej as the shuttle roared, then being blown off her feet. The shockwave from the Secunda’s escape had charged her in the gut and thrown her across the room.

  Cwej looked fine. He was up and about, on his haunches over the body of Taal. ‘How is it?’ she called over.

  ‘They’re both alive.’ He gestured to Christie.

  Forrester tested her legs by bending them slowly at the knee. Satisfied that she was able to, she stood up and crossed over to the shattered service ducting. Most of the damage had been done to the lower sections, and she found that by standing on tiptoe she could reach the lowest of the remaining rungs. Most of the dust stirred up by the blast had settled; and distantly, at the very top of the shaft, was a square of purplish twilight.

  She leaned back into the reception sphere. Cwej was helping Taal to sit up. ‘Must have been the Chelonian ship taking off,’ he was saying. ‘So she got away. Must have planned it all along. I never trusted her.’

  ‘Cwej. I’m going up to the pad to see if he’s right.’ Taal was looking at her strangely. She wiped the blood from her face. ‘Only a nosebleed.’

  ‘The shaft isn’t safe,’ Cwej pointed out.

  ‘I’ve decided that it is,’ she said curtly and withdrew.

  She tested each rung as she ascended. Most of them were secured, and for the next few minutes she concentrated hard on keeping herself conscious. The blast had unsettled her more than she’d noticed at first, and every few seconds a wave of giddiness washed over her. To fall from the height she had reached would be fatal. She stopped, slowed her breathing, then carried on climbing. She remembered the words of an old colleague. ‘If you’re about to drop, think of just one thing. Can be big or small. Focus your mind on that thing and keep going.’

  Forrester thought of the TA
RDIS.

  The strategy worked. A couple of minutes later she was hauling herself out of the duct and on to the launchpad. Her shirt, sopping with sweat, was stuck to her shoulders. Her throat demanded water.

  She got to her feet and stumbled forward in the dark. The purple sun had almost set. Towering before her, clearly visible despite the lack of light, was what remained of the Chelonian shuttle. Her first glance suggested that a section had been blown away. Then, as she got closer, she saw that the v-shape that now distorted the shuttle’s shape like a bite taken from an enormous cheese had been cleanly formed. The entire mid-section of the shuttle had lifted off, and only a regular pattern of scorches on the indented sides of the remaining sections and the acrid tang of a fuel combination acted as evidence that it had ever existed. The Secunda had evidently activated an emergency escape procedure and detached the central pod.

  She reached the side of the shuttle and walked along, taking deep breaths of the cold night air and weighing up her options. Her boot nudged something on the ground. She knelt to inspect it.

  It was Mr Jottipher. When she saw the horrific burns on the corpse, Forrester was glad of the darkness. The arms and legs of the luckless clerk were now little more than vestigial twigs and there was a revolting smell of burnt flesh. Forrester almost gagged, but she’d seen a lot of death.

  She turned back for the hatch that led to the ducting. The downward climb was a lot easier, and her arms and legs set to work almost automatically. During the descent she devised a plan. Cwej had been wrong. Wherever they might fetch up, they were still living by the code-book. Throw away your creed and you’ve not much left. She didn’t like either Taal or Christie, but thirty years’ experience as an enforcer made that of no consideration. She didn’t like plenty of people whose lives she’d saved. Yes, it was important to remember who she was and what she did. Although she’d only known him a short while, she recognized in the Doctor a similar quality. He had principles.

  She dangled from the last rung on the ducting and swung down, her boots hitting the ground with a hefty thump. ‘Cwej boy,’ she called through into the sphere. 'The Secunda’s taken –’