Ivzid looked furious. ‘It is you, Doctor, who talks nonsense! I am aware of the “respect for life” philosophy you espouse. You forget that it is possible to survive only through domination. That is how the Chelonian race rose from the mudswamps of the mother world and conquered the stars!’
The Doctor gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘Conquered the stars? Wiped out a few defenceless colonies, perhaps. Hardly the stuff of which empires are made. Face it, Ivzid. Don’t waste years thirsting for revenge like a spoilt child. There’s so much more to discover.’ He patted Smith on the shoulder. ‘There’s absolutely no reason why we shouldn’t all be friends.’
Ivzid sniffed and turned away. ‘Idiot. Destiny has wrought this moment. Nothing can prevent it.’
The Doctor shook his head sadly. ‘You still can’t see, can–’ He broke off. ‘Prevent what?’
‘You think I am unarmed,’ said Ivzid. He motored himself forward over the rocks and settled close to the artifact, lowering his shell regally. ‘You consider me powerless. But your words mean nothing to me. It is you who are powerless. Words never changed anything.’
Smith tugged the Doctor’s jacket sleeve. ‘I don’t like this.’
‘Leave this to me.’ He called to Ivzid, ‘What are you planning?’ Ivzid looked away primly. ‘Come on, I know a Chelonian can never resist the chance to gloat.’
‘How well you know us.’ He twitched his upper lip in what Smith took to be a snicker. ‘But not well enough. You and all the others here have evidently never heard of Strategy Z!’
‘I can’t say I have,’ said the Doctor. ‘It sounds rather ultimate.’
‘It is. My internal grafting, Doctor, contains three microquintols of inert amytol. All I have to do is increase my internal temperature and the amytol will detonate. That is Strategy Z, and I will shortly implement it. Your plan will come to nought, and the nation that you consider so childish will rise again and crush the parasitic races!’ He closed his eyes and lowered his head.
‘Ivzid, no!’ The Doctor raced over to him and rapped on his shell. His fraught gaze turned to the huddled defenceless Zamps at the artifact’s base. ‘If you destroy this cavern you’ll be destroying an entire species!’
Without opening his eyes the Chelonian answered, ‘I don’t care.’
None of the medical team aboard the flagship had qualifications in parasite biology, and so Frinza had sent out a launch to pick up one of the old boys from the rear gunner craft, who had made a study of inferior life-forms in his youth. The pensioner wheezed his way into the observation lounge of the med-unit and nodded to Frinza. ‘Afternoon, Second – oh dear, sorry, er – well met, Second Pilot.’
Frinza bobbed his own head curtly. The medical staff were notoriously lax on etiquette, but this was not a time to quibble. He pointed to the isolation cube and the parasite, now fumigated, who lay with her body folded, her back against the wall, and her head against her drawn-up lower limb joints. ‘This is the specimen found aboard the General’s escape pod, sir.’
The old doctor blinked suspiciously behind his pince‐ nez. ‘Sir? You address me as sir?’
Frinza sighed. ‘That is the correct form of address to a surgeon-at-arms. Sir.’
‘Really? Yes, I suppose it is.’ He motored his arthritic joints forward and peered through the one-way glass at the specimen. ‘It takes me back cycles, does this. A real live parasite.’
Frinza felt compelled to enquire, ‘What interests you about such a creature?’
The old boy tapped his chin with a blunt old claw. ‘They really are a fascinating species. They’re good little fighters, some of them, you know.’ He pointed to the specimen. ‘When they position themselves in that way they are conserving their energies. This one is a female, I think.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘There are ways. Some of the organs are quite different. It was the same with our own kind long ago, you know.’ He rapped on the glass and the specimen raised its head. ‘See, there you are,’ said the old man. ‘They’re quite alert, ha.’
‘It tried to talk to us,’ said Frinza.
‘Ah, and you want me to find out what it knows about the General?’ The surgeon nodded. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He looked around at the attendants and whispered to Frinza, ‘Tell me, after you’ve finished with it, do you think I can have it?’
Frinza was suspicious. ‘Why?’
‘Well, there are a few tests I never got to try out in the old days,’ the surgeon said nostalgically. ‘The research ministry thought perhaps that parasites could make good labour, and we tried out loads of them. The trouble is they need constant supervision, so in the end machines’ll always be cheaper. They keep trying to run away, you see, or else they form groups and –’
‘Yes, yes.’ Frinza indicated the door to the isolation unit. ‘Can we just see to this one, please? It’s been thoroughly cleaned.’
‘Oh. Right you are.’ Frinza nodded in command to the guard at the door and they passed through into the isolation unit. Although the specimen had been fumigated the rank odour of sour milk remained. Her head turned to face them.
The surgeon said, ‘Hello.’ He addressed the parasite as one might talk to a young hatchling. ‘Do you want food? I can give you food if you talk to me.’
‘I’m not a fool,’ the parasite said. ‘I’m perfectly prepared to talk to you. What do you want to know?’
Frinza didn’t care for this at all. The specimen’s high-pitched voice sounded almost mocking. The surgeon likewise appeared taken aback, but after a moment whispered, ‘They sometimes like to think of themselves as cleverer than they are, but their brains are soft and small.’ He spoke to the specimen again. ‘You are from Zamper? What is your name? My name is Kinzaz.’
The parasite stood. ‘I am the Secunda, formerly chief executive of Zamper. And if you want to know what happened to your delegation I’m more than happy to tell you.’
‘Proceed,’ said the surgeon.
The parasite put the digits of her upper feet together. ‘Both General Hezzka and First Pilot Ivzid are dead. They died defending the honour of the Chelonian empire.’
‘How did this happen?’ asked Frinza.
‘Zamper was invaded. A horde of stellar barbarians… we were defenceless. They destroyed everything. I helped the General and the First Pilot to return to their shuttle… I was injured by cross-fire, and when I woke I was here, on your ship.’
There was a long silence.
Frinza led the surgeon from the isolation room. He was glad of the guard on the door; illogically he feared the parasite specimen. ‘Well?’
‘Parasites are notoriously devious,’ said old Kinzaz. ‘Still, it is plainly terrified. I think it speaks the truth.’
‘But,’ spluttered Frinza, ‘the General and Ivzid would not conspire with parasites!’
‘Was that not the very purpose of their mission?’ A cold glint came into the surgeon’s bespectacled eyes. ‘“The Goddess made the Chelonian race, and made the universe our garden. It was the mammal lurking in the boughs of the tree of knowledge that spawned the parasite.”’
‘Why do you quote sacred chapter?’ said Frinza.
Kinzaz laid a hand on his shell in a familiar gesture that his great age made acceptable. He whispered, ‘Frinza, I have great understanding of parasites and their ways, and I tell you, there is good reason for us to keep our distance from them.’ He licked his lips. ‘Hezzka and the boy Ivzid may well have fallen in with the parasites. Such a thing is possible. Look to the usurper for your example. What matters most of all is that such –’ he searched for a word ‘– relationships are not encouraged.’
‘Then what do you advise?’
‘If you like I can question this one further. There are ways to make a parasite speak truth.’ There was a savage eagerness behind his words that Frinza found distressing. He remembered lurid stories of those who took too fervent a pleasure from the torture of parasites. His own belief was that it is best to kill an en
emy quickly.
‘I will consider this,’ he said at last. ‘Zamper was our last hope. If it has fallen, I…’ He spread his front feet wide. ‘I cannot see an alternative.’
A mess of footprints had been made in the purple dust that lined the floor of the construction bay. The dim green phosphor plaques gave Forrester enough light to make out the marks deposited by Bernice’s pointed boots. Close by were the tracks of a Chelonian; one of its rear limbs was missing. In the shadow of the abandoned battle cruiser Forrester stopped to consider. The urge to move on, to move down, persisted. She pressed her fingertips against her temples and concentrated, searching her mind for any sign of remote thought-control.
Something creaked, not far away.
Her eyes shot open and she backed into the shadows, where the faint greenness was cloaked in an aerodynamic fold at the base of the cruiser. It occurred to her that she had seen none of the snail-like creatures Bernice had described, the shipbuilders. The bay was empty. That noise had probably been one of the high gantries at the top of the towering structure slipping a little.
She stepped forward, her intention to follow the tracks and catch up with Bernice. A couple of metres to her left was a large piece of rock that had been split in two across its middle. She lifted one of the pieces and examined its jagged edges. The nearest she’d find to a weapon. As she walked forward her eyes scanned the ground for the tracks, which now were bisected by a dried-up slime trail. The hard substance sparkled over to where something that resembled a punctured balloon was slumped. She decided to investigate and edged forward, the rock held at arm’s length. The creak, which must have been made about a minute before, resounded inside her mind.
The object was a metre and a half wide. She tapped it with the edge of the rock and established that it was an empty rubber skin about an inch thick. A long slit had been cut across its width as if with a knife; the edges of the opening were lined with hardened grey matter that put her in mind of dried blood. She insinuated the outer point of the rock under the lip of the slit and lifted it up. A foul rotted-fruit smell filled her nostrils, causing her to gag and shuffle back on her haunches. She coughed, and dabbed at her streaming eyes with an elbow. As her vision normalized she saw a dissipating string of a puffball-like emission hanging over the bladder. Swiftly she moved away.
Her boot splashed and sank in a shallow pool of slime. She cursed and unstuck herself, trying hard to keep her balance. Her hand lost its grip on the rock.
She moved backward, retracing her steps. To her side she saw a slender arch-shaped opening in the rock, and something made her move closer. Beyond was a cave about a hundred metres long, filled with row after row of unhealthy-looking orange-brown eggs.
She was distracted by a sound from the darkness ahead, from the point beyond the spill of light from the phosphor plaques. At first she mistook it for a shift in the cavern walls; it was a kind of squealing crunch coupled with a sucking sound like a plunger being pulled from a blocked plughole. The sound came again. Her breath quickened and she froze. It was undoubtably being made by a living creature.
She forced herself to wait a couple more seconds then, as steadily as she could, she walked sideways and backwards, resisting the inner voice that screamed at her to run.
The unearthly noise continued, sickening her.
Her back scraped against the metal side of the ship. She put out an arm to steady herself, and her fingers brushed something.
Another set of fingers. Cold fingers.
This time the shock was too much. Overpowered, she yelped. Her head whipped round. She found herself staring into the lifeless eyes of Christie. The young woman’s face below was white, absolutely drained of blood. Her blanched lips were frozen open in a revolting ‘o’ of terror. A bilious stench wafted from her in waves.
Her body was upright, and clamped to the side of the ship by the same hardened grey substance that was trailed across the cavern’s rocky floor. Her arms and legs were pulled apart grotesquely. Forrester’s glance passed quickly over her body. She gagged. The midriff was missing, eaten away in patches, the empty ribcage visible beneath tattered bloodied strips of her red uniform. The golden Z emblem of Zamper hung on a thread.
Forrester backed away, aware that the sucking sound of the creature was nearby. Her legs turned to jelly.
She heard a voice. Cwej’s voice, calling to her, faintly. She stumbled away from Christie’s body towards his call. She turned a corner of the ship’s base and swore again.
Cwej and Taal were clamped upright to the side of the ship, both alive and apparently unharmed, although Taal had passed out. Cwej’s young blue eyes were wide with fear. He called her name again. Too late she realized that he was attempting to warn her of something.
With a hideous squeal a thickly-muscled tentacle struck her across the back and then wrapped itself tenderly about her waist like the arm of an unwanted suitor, holding her upright. She struck at its shiny black hide, ashamed to hear herself screaming. Her legs kicked. It lifted her off the ground. Warm, sweet-smelling droplets showered her face and she closed her eyes, choking. The spray next coated her arms and legs. She was flung against the side of the ship next to Cwej, the casual flick of her attacker as it uncoiled itself both winding her and knocking her into the familiar x-shape in which it obviously preferred its prey. As she was whirled about she caught a glimpse of the monster. Her senses refused to believe the horror of its shape. The sweet-smelling substance secured her to the wall of the ship. Overwhelmed finally, she lost consciousness.
‘Do you have a mate?’ asked Hezzka.
Bernice was taken aback by the question. ‘Eh?’
‘You are a female. Where is your male?’
‘Er, well it doesn’t quite work like that.’ Before he could go on she added, ‘It’s rather complicated. I’m single at the moment.’
‘I see. Between hatchings.’ He nodded. ‘It is much the same for me, although I would like to give birth once more at least. Still, the years are passing by.’
‘I know how you feel,’ said Bernice. ‘No, the only decent males I meet either get killed, or turn out to be gay or androids or something.’
Hezzka looked at her in complete bewilderment.
The long, straight downward channel that they had been following for some time turned suddenly and opened out into a massive, brilliantly-lit cavern. Bernice shielded her eyes from the glare. Between her fingers she saw the looming bulk of the Zamps’ artifact. So this was cave 74D.
‘What is that?’ she heard Hezzka mutter.
‘I wondered how long it would take you to get here,’ said another, much more familiar voice.
‘Doctor!’ She opened her eyes and ran to meet him and Smith, who both wore concerned expressions and were standing close to the recumbent form of Ivzid, who oddly appeared to be sleeping. She took the Doctor’s offered hand and clasped it tightly. ‘Something bad?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He nodded to Ivzid. ‘Ever heard of a living bomb?’
Hezzka let out a cry. ‘Strategy Z! No, Ivzid, I forbid it! You will bring death on us all!’
Ivzid opened one eye and said, ‘Then die, Hezzka. Die with your parasite friends!’
The Doctor leapt over to Ivzid, literally hopping up and down with anger. He waved his umbrella furiously in the Chelonian’s face. ‘Listen to me!’
‘Go away,’ Ivzid said obstinately.
‘Over there,’ the Doctor said, pointing to the artifact, ‘a race of creatures that have been suppressed for centuries are starting a new life. Destroy them and you’ll be committing genocide, and not for any noble motive. You are afraid, afraid of a race of harmless animals. Outside their carrier they are unprotected, you will kill them all!’
Hezzka drew himself forward, dragging his injured side with considerable effort. ‘Ivzid. As your commanding officer, I order you to stop. Do you hear me?’
Ivzid closed his eye.
‘Ah, he was always like this, the young fool,’ Hezzka conf
ided to Bernice.
A wisp of smoke was curling from beneath Ivzid’s shell. ‘Is there anything you can do to stop him?’ she asked.
‘Strategy Z is irreversible,’ Hezzka said, shaking his head grimly. ‘He’ll bring this cavern down on our heads.’
Bernice took the Doctor’s arm. ‘Well, come on, think of something.’
He shrugged. ‘Any suggestions?’
Suddenly, Smith, who had wandered closer to the artifact, shouted ‘Doctor!’ Her outstretched arm pointed to the base of the structure and the mass of dormant Zamps gathered there. ‘Look!’
Bernice stepped forward and swallowed hard at the sight. A horrible cracking sound, like a bone breaking, was coming from the sub-herd, a series of overlapping crunches that echoed up the walls of the cavern. At the centre of the mass of inert Zamps, lying on top of each other like a shoal of dead fish, something moved. A long black slimy tentacle extended itself and flailed about with a horrendous screeching sound. She looked towards the Doctor. He was backing away, an expression of alarm writing itself rapidly over his face.
Hezzka, his voice breaking with undisguised fear, said, ‘What is –’
The tentacle, about two and a half metres in length, looped itself and sprang with nauseating ease from the herd. Bernice now saw that it ended in a bulbous, distorted knot of tissue that acted as a spring.
‘Get back!’ the Doctor called, pulling Smith and Bernice away hurriedly. With a fumbling spiralling motion the loop descended on Ivzid, slapping him across the shell with whip-like motions of its body. Droplets of a grey substance sprayed from the tip of the tentacle.
Hezzka cried, ‘Ivzid!’ Bernice glanced down quickly. The old general’s face was contorted with pity and disgust.
Too late Ivzid reacted. His eyes flew open, his mouth opened wide and he screamed and screamed. The creature used its enormous strength to bat him almost playfully about. Then it elongated itself, drew itself up to its full height and screeched. Its tip split apart, revealing a hideously slavering purple, quartered jaw. Then it swooped, sinking its massive fangs into the crest of Ivzid’s still-screaming head. Then it ripped at his limbs and cracked open his smoking shell. A fountain of blood spurted up. There was the sound of crunching bones.
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