Doctor Who. Zamper

by Gareth Roberts

  Big Mother thought aloud. ‘The destruction of the fifteenth column… we die, and you and your kind continue to flourish. And our own sister, the usurper, would lead the people further into treachery and complicity. Unopposed.’ He hissed. ‘We… I cannot bear that thought.’

  The Doctor threw up his hands angrily. ‘We all have to live with disappointment.’

  Big Mother’s fury increased. ‘But that is not the case, is it, Doctor? We die, we sacrifice ourselves. You live. It is… unfair.’

  He pointed at the screen. ‘I’m sorry. But you must see that there is no other way.’

  Big Mother was silent for a long while. He had often found that a simmering silence served to assert his station whenever it was challenged, but this time the technique failed him. ‘Well?’ the Doctor snapped.

  Big Mother looked between the Doctor and the egg-carrier depicted on his screen. He thought of the long years of his exile, the letters from his sister that arrived now and then and always remained sealed, the news broadcasts from Chelonia that he picked up on his personal relay and concealed from all others, that spoke of the success of the cultural reformation, the relaxation of trade barriers and the great wealth of the people. In his mind he saw again the sacking of the court by the militant scum of the Respect for Life brigade, watched the towers toppling as the rabble swarmed like ants through his belongings, scoffing at his surfeit of ceremonial shoes and carrying away the gold fittings of his exalted washroom. ‘What kind of a Chelonian,’ the newscaster had said, the digits of his foot straining against the grips of his microphone, ‘lives in a house like this?’

  They could not understand. They could never understand. Even when the empire lay ruined and they were reduced to mere lackeys of the parasites, even then they would babble of equality and fair representation.

  And he admitted to himself, finally, that this would have been the outcome even if the mission to Zamper had been successful. Their crusade relied heavily on inspiring the citizens to join them; one ship alone, no matter how strong, could not win a war. The strategic council and the ranks had not seen what he had seen in the bulletins.

  The people. Damn them, damn them all, the treacherous mutinous overfed scum. They were happy.

  His heart flipped over and a great calmness settled on him.

  ‘Doctor,’ he said evenly. ‘Your plea has reached our ears and been noted. In the absence of the strategic council, it falls to us to answer you.’

  ‘Yes?’ the little parasite said exasperatedly.

  ‘We comply.’ Before the Doctor could react, Big Mother put a restraining foot on his shoulder. ‘With this proviso.’

  ‘What proviso?’

  ‘We’re afraid that for us to die and for you to live is an unfairness that it is within our ambit to correct. Particularly in view of your past interference in our business.’ He fixed the Doctor with his most menacing stare. ‘It would feel just a bit too much like you had won. You will grant us a small piece of satisfaction, we are sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You stay, Doctor!’ bawled Big Mother. ‘In the true spirit of your liberal philosophy of co-operation between species, you must sacrifice yourself alongside us!’

  Chapter 10

  The Secunda remained slumped in one corner of the isolation unit. She raked her long finger-nails over her bare knees, drawing blood. ‘I was so near,’ she said to herself. ‘So near.’

  The door slid open and the grizzled old Chelonian entered. He now wore a green gown and was sliding a pair of rubber gloves over his front feet.

  She stood and backed hurriedly away. ‘No. Keep away from me!’

  He pulled out an instrument from a pouch in his apron and pressed a button on the handle. A blade shot out and started to whir. He advanced.

  ‘Come here, you silly little thing, you silly little thing…’

  When the bell tolled, every Chelonian at work or resting in the ships of the fifteenth column stopped what he was at, exchanged a disturbed glance with his neighbour, and hurried to the nearest vision screen. The clang had been simulated after the fallen bell in the high tower above the old court; its sounding signalled an address of the utmost import from Big Mother.

  ‘Loyal warriors,’ the piping voice said from between frazzled lips, ‘comrades at arms. You will be aware of the approach of a powerful hostile spacecraft. The urgency of the matter has forced us to decide on our response swiftly, without ample time for reflection. That alters nothing; the following order, to the Pilots of all divisions, is to be obeyed without question.’

  He paused. The Chelonians were taken aback by the lucidity of the speech. Most believed secretly that Big Mother was simply a figurehead, and not a terribly useful one, so his sudden return to form increased the air of apprehension.

  ‘Pilots. You are to order the removal of the anti-matter containment snares from your engines.’

  There was an immediate rumble of distress.

  ‘Let there be no dissent. There is no time.’ The ranks were embarrassed to see a wetness forming in Big Mother’s eye. ‘We give our lives so that our poor lost hatchlings, and their own hatchlings, may live. Somewhere, sometime – not too far away, we are sure – Chelonians will come to see the error in the path of appeasement. And then the names of all those who so gallantly offer up their lives this day shall become a call of angels.’

  One of his feet, outside the frame, fumbled for a control. Seconds later a stentorian bass-drum roll surged out from all speakers. The crews rose on their back legs, and a guttural chorus rang out.

  ‘Chelonia, Chel – o – nia!’

  Although he had switched off the central processing unit of his computer self, with the unwitting help of Ivzid, in order to open up the gateway, the Management retained much of his ability to interface with external systems. It was most odd; he was floating about in the dimension of thought, he supposed, but didn’t want to get carried away with introspection. He’d never been a one for navel-gazing. Besides, there were more pressing matters in hand.

  Reading the computers of the fleet was a tortuous business. Chelonian technology was spiky and awkward. Often a simple solution to a technical problem acknowledged by the rest of inhabited space seemed to have passed them by. In other ways their systems were frighteningly advanced; such developments he filed away in the memory part of his disembodied intelligence.

  The order to self-destruct came as something of a surprise. Suicide was against the Chelonian character and he suspected the Doctor’s hand. Never mind, it was easily dealt with.

  He blocked the security clamps on the warp-snares. Try it now, then, he thought with a contented burble that sent a continuous ripple of pleasure through the crew of the carrier.

  Frinza had listened to Big Mother’s address along with the bridge team. When the anthem’s last bars had faded – thankfully, his Highness had curtailed the sing-along to three verses – the flight crew all turned to face him. They gawped at him as young hatchlings gawp at zoo-beasts. He wanted to scream. They relied on him to react. He was sure that if he shrugged his shell and laughed they would do the same, and that if he said that Big Mother was clearly insane the crack-brained old fool would be thrown overboard in the next half hour.

  The weight of the centuries being what it was, however, he could do neither of those things. ‘Engineer,’ he said, not quite believing it was himself talking. ‘Follow Big Mother’s orders.’

  The engineer moved swiftly to obey. His front feet moved gracefully over the pads at his station. A yellow light flashed and a bleeper sounded. ‘Sir, the safety overrides on the warp-snares have been tripped by an external source. To comply is impossible.’

  The next second, a hidden strength of Frinza’s character emerged like a new mountain after continental quaking. Its tongue was such that it tipped the scales, and the weight of the centuries was forgotten. ‘Countermand previous order,’ said Frinza. ‘Give me tertiary vision linkage to all Pilots at once, and block His Highness�
��s outlet. Now!’

  The commands were obeyed with a tangible sense of relief. When the blue transmission light came on, Frinza drew himself up and addressed the camera. ‘Pilots. Fellow Chelonians. We cannot allow the unsupported word of a parasite to destroy us all! I say to you, join me in standing against this insanity!’

  The screen in the imperial chamber fizzed and then displayed a white board with a black line running down the middle. Big Mother almost fell from his support. ‘No! They have blocked our outlet! How dare they do this!’ An alarm began to warble shrilly.

  ‘I remember Marie Antoinette saying much the same thing,’ said the Doctor. He was edging slowly towards the door of the imperial chamber. There would be time for him to debate the morality of his escape later. The fact remained that in the universal scheme of things he was important, and owed it to others as well as to himself to stay alive. Even a Time Lord would have difficulty surviving a warp reaction of this magnitude.

  ‘Treacherous fools!’ Big Mother spluttered, his eyes rolling. One of his back feet slipped from its support and he tipped forward dangerously with an alarming creaking sound. He sought his communications unit and punched at a line of controls without looking up. ‘It is unthinkable for them to disobey an order!’

  ‘I never thought I’d say it,’ said the Doctor, stretching out an arm for the door control, ‘but I happen to agree with you on this occasion.’

  Big Mother saw what he was up to and instantly threw the communicator box aside. The next instant, and the Doctor couldn’t be sure how, there was a huge yellow rifle in one of his feet. ‘Stay right where you are, Doctor. Whatever happens you are not leaving.’ He chuckled. ‘People may think we are a senile toothless old trout, but they forget the active service we saw in defence of our realm.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said the Doctor. ‘I suppose you want me to put my hands up.’

  Big Mother never got to reply. At that moment the door against which the Doctor was leaning whirred open and a grotesque figure entered. A grizzled Chelonian wearing a brocaded garment and lorgnettes shuffled in. In one foot he was carrying a severed human head. He was wearing surgical gloves that were spattered with human blood.

  ‘Where’s that Frinza?’ asked the new arrival. ‘I was told he was in here. Sorry, Highness. What’s all this singing?’ He squinted resentfully at the Doctor. ‘Another one, eh? Thinking of starting a collection?’ He jiggled the woman’s head at Big Mother. ‘She was lying, incidentally. Wretched fraud.’

  At this grisly sight whatever objections to flight the Doctor might have harboured evaporated. He leapt past the surgeon, pushing him to one side to spoil Big Mother’s aim. A salvo of pink energy-bolts rattled off the roof, dislodging great chunks of the ceiling.

  The Doctor dodged them and ran.

  Silence had fallen over the bridge once more. Frinza’s plea to the other Pilots elicited no response. He spoke again. ‘At least let us examine this hostile craft before we make a decision. It is small. A concentrated burst of fire would surely disable it.’

  The engineer looked up from his post. ‘Sir,’ he said urgently. ‘Our weapons systems have been knocked off-line!’

  A chorus of sighs went up.

  Frinza slammed a fist on his control panel and cursed. ‘Then we are powerless.’

  The alarm was deafening. The Doctor scurried through the outer companionways of the flagship, thankful for his infallible sense of direction. The Chelonians on duty were startled as he ripped by, but the trauma of Big Mother’s order overtook what would have been their normal reaction. For most the presence of a fleeing parasite running crazily across decks acted as confirmation of their predicament.

  The shuttle bay was unguarded; the security staff left on duty were milling about confusedly, their shells bumping together hollowly as they fought for space around the vision inlet. The Doctor raced down the ramp leading to the bay and made for the escape pod of Hezzka’s shuttle. Also available was the tiny domestic flyer he had travelled in previously, but he did not place much faith in its ability to navigate spatial hazards. His understanding of Chelonian technology was rudimentary, but he could see from the open hatchway and the warm glow coming from inside that the pod’s anti-theft devices had not been reset. He clambered in and without waiting for the traction port to lift him up climbed on to the cramped cockpit. The flight systems were active, and a row of winking coloured pads were arranged in a pattern that was familiar and simple.

  He closed the hatches, blew the locking clamps, and keyed in the signal to open up the bay. Automatically the escape pod’s forward screen illuminated. It showed him that already the bay doors were opening; beyond he saw the far distant stars of East Galaxy, stretching in a random series of softly flaring blue. ‘I’m doing this for you,’ he whispered as the pod shot out into space.

  The last he saw of the flagship was a blur of green through the glass of the shuttle bay’s observation gallery, as some of the terrified Chelonians arrived in the vain hope of an evacuation flight.

  Panic reigned aboard the bridge. Frinza was surrounded on all sides by frantic cries, groans and screams. The lighting flickered down to emergency levels. He turned his head from the sight of the engineer and the Environments Officer fighting for a place in the cramped bridge escape pod.

  All the while the hostile craft was coming closer.

  A parasite voice boomed from all around, as the Goddess had spoken to the prophets on the day of the last Arionite’s death.

  ‘All this rushing about isn’t going to do you the slightest good. Your paltry sensornet has let you down, so I’d better bring you up to the mark. I am armed with an extendable neutrino-tickler attachment. Very clean, but then you’d know that. In fact I’m extending it right now. You’re in my way, and I’m going to pick you off safely, one by one. Goodbye, you presumptuous nincompoops. You thought to destroy me, eh? I shall make a special point of enslaving every Chelonian in your pathetic little empire. They will be employed to spread manure.’

  Frinza seethed with rage. Almost without thinking he engaged his battle-drive and let the waves of alertness wash over him. The adrenal-amyl combination made his heart hammer like a steam-pump. The options chattered between his brain and his reasoning graft, and he realized why he was such a good officer, why crafty old Hafril had promoted him.

  He wasn’t much of a thinker but he had a good imagination. Coupled with the reasoning graft it made a fine weapon.

  From whatever corner of the dimension of thought his mental processes were taking place in sprung the idea. No, not the idea –

  The certainty.

  He saw how it could be done.

  The Doctor wrestled with the navigation of the escape pod. He stretched himself out like a Chelonian, shucking off his shoes and then nestling his toes in the moulded grooves of the rear control pads. He experimented, ducking and weaving the craft until he felt more confident.

  A dazzling tracery of light passed over his face. It came from the sides of the egg-carrier as it passed by, dwarfing the tiny escape pod, and filling him with some of the awe he had felt on his first sight of it, when he had believed it to be the triumph of nature over slavery and mortal interference.

  Perhaps it was that, whatever its ambitions. But there were limits, and it was his role to enforce them.

  Unfolding from the sheer side of the carrier was a long studded prong. Electricity crackled between the bristles on its surface.

  ‘I could crush you now, Doctor,’ the voice of the Management said suddenly. ‘But I want you to see the corpses of your friends before you die.’

  ‘No! If they’re dead –’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’ The voice appeared to sniff. ‘Not much of a riposte, I know, but I have got other fish to fry. Toodle-oo for now, Doc.’

  Frinza motored through the crowded companionways that led from the bridge, trying to ignore the cries for help that came when he was recognized. His passage was aided by the prevailing air of terror, precisely beca
use he was trying to reach the centre of the ship whereas the crew were making for the escape pods on the outer lining.

  He turned off down an empty sub-tunnel, his battle-drive carrying him on unchallenged to the nearest engineering sub-station. The large room was deserted. On the diagnostic panels were the remains of a meal and a hatchling’s toy. The alarm stopped sounding.

  Frinza breathed in the sudden quiet. This was how he had always imagined the ancient sepulchres of the fallen saints.

  He gripped the edges of the widest diagnostic panel and ripped off the protective covering. The food cartons clattered to the floor. Beneath the covering was a mix of components interlinked by bunched strands of raw circuitry.

  The vessel shook, and Frinza held on tightly to the sides of the panel. The attacker had destroyed his first target. The battle-drive reacted; Frinza sensed the death-agonies of his lost comrades and wept.

  He put out a foot and tweaked at an exposed section of metal, pressing hard on the plate for a full ten seconds. His body shook and he lurched upright. A wave of scorching agony boiled him from his middle outwards. He felt several of his innermost organs split open and screamed.

  What did it matter?

  The flagship’s engineering computer linkage had been blocked for a third of a second by his interference. In that third of a second the containment fields on the warp-snares were lifted.

  He fell heavily, his head smashing against the sparking circuitry. One of the components, a savagely sharp spike, entered his brain just behind the ear.

  Before he died he saw something and he heard something. He heard the wail of the flagship’s internal systems warning for the first time since his days of emergency training. He saw Big Mother, rifle in hand, staggering in through the opposite door, his wizened head bobbing up and down.

  The instruments in the escape pod warned the Doctor of an enormous release of energy only seconds after the first wave of neutrinos had blasted away the ship on the fleet’s furthermost left flank. He examined the profile of the energy build-up provided by the sensornet and nodded.