The G4 made their way successfully back down the process, bypassing the Armoury and the Quartermaster and arriving at the entrance to the cloning vats. The main doors were lightly guarded because the constant stream of freshly hatched Sontarans never caused any trouble. But this made them a difficult method of entry. Instead, they followed a white-clad scientist and his group as they made their way along a high walkway to an access door.
Here there was even less resistance, but each member of the G4 knew that this area was carefully monitored. Even the High Command recognised that in actuality it was here that the most precious military asset lay – not in the War Councils and Emperor’s chambers.
They paused outside the small door and Atas produced a scientific device he had taken from Yarl’s laboratory. It was a gene-material sampler. It looked not unlike the rheon carbines but was smaller and fatter, with a squat hypodermic nozzle at the top. Atas jabbed the device into his neck and extracted a copy of his DNA. He then did the same to Myre, Promynx and Epax.
‘This will change the Sontaran race for ever,’ he breathed.
‘This will improve the Sontaran race for ever,’ Promynx said.
The others smiled. ‘For Sontar and the good of the Empire!’ Myre said and they all lifted their fists into the air, hitting the others’ hands with their own. Then Myre punched the door control and it opened to reveal row upon row of clone vats.
The moment they stepped through an alarm sounded. ‘Intruders in Clone Vats Section F1n. Home World Security to all Clone Vats.’
Almost immediately, they could hear the sound of pounding, booted feet coming in their direction along the walkway. Promynx took point, climbing down a ladder to ground level and moving forward at speed, scanning every nook and doorway with his weapon as he went. The others followed, making up a diamond formation with Epax in the rear.
‘Halt!’ The cry came from behind them.
Without stopping, they looked back to see a squad of gold-ringed troopers bearing down on them. They were slower than the new Sontarans and more lumbering, but they were still good shots, and their weapons fire only missed them because of the zigzag pattern in which the G4 were now running.
But then the impossible happened. Epax was hit. He went down, and this time the group did stop. Promynx bent down and took the gene-material sampler from the matte-black-armoured hand of his dead comrade. Then he stood, roared in anger and removed his helmet.
‘I will fight open-skinned,’ he bellowed. ‘To honour my fallen brother!’
He brought the blaster to his shoulder and fired at the approaching squad, cutting them down in seconds. He gave a satisfied grunt and turned to Myre. ‘We cannot let anything stop us,’ he said.
Myre removed his helmet and lofted his gun. ‘Sontar-ha!’ he shouted and the others took up the chant as they ran. Ahead a trooper and a Field Major stood, also without their helmets.
‘You are the renegades!’ the Field Major said in a low voice. He had the vestiges of some hair on his chin – a throwback to the earliest Sontarans. Promynx found this distasteful and shouted a Sontaran curse at him. The two raised their tubular side arms, but Promynx was quicker, and each one received his gift of deadly red laser fire before they could even aim.
Now the alarms were constant and overlapping across different districts as if the whole planet was crying out. Myre and Promynx and Atas fought on past the Home World Guard, who were ill equipped to deal with the new elite that they faced. The closer they came to the Core Clone Tank, the more troops they had to fight. Now even the new-borns were being thrown into the fray and, although they lacked finesse, their numbers were such that they would soon overwhelm the G4.
Atas suggested a plan. It amounted to a suicide mission, but it would save the other two and allow them to reach their objective. The three of them agreed and he departed, snatching up some gas grenades from the fallen troopers that lay scattered around them. Then he was gone.
Promynx and Myre moved to a service hatch in an alcove of section A1a of the Vat Tanks – the closest to the Core. They worked quickly, removing the panel and making the necessary adjustments. They could hear the approach of hundreds of Sontarans – all newly forged and freshly equipped.
‘I hope Atas completes his mission before they find us,’ Promynx said.
‘Atas is one of us,’ Myre replied. ‘He will carry out the operation. Have no fear.’
As he spoke, the sounds of the Vat Tanks – the constant bubbling and gurgling – ceased. Even with the approach of so many Sontaran soldiers, it became eerily quiet. Never since the Clone Vats had first been switched on had the process been halted on a system-wide scale. But now no new Sontarans were being born.
Suddenly, a thin yellow gas began to issue from the ventilation ducts at the base of the corridor walls.
‘Gas!’ said Myre and they quickly donned their helmets once more. While other, older Sontarans were equipped with helmets that did little more than protect them from blunt instruments, the G4 had augmented theirs with a lot of useful equipment, including a respirator.
They stepped from the alcove to find the space between the rows of vats crowded with warriors, all stumbling forward, choking on the gas Atas had released. One managed to raise his weapon, but could not loose a shot, so weak had he become. He collapsed to the floor with the others.
Promynx glanced at Myre, and together they turned and made their way through a quarantine air-lock into the Core Clone Tank of Sontar. A dozen scientists were rushing around the control panels, trying to work out what had happened to their well-oiled cloning process. They didn’t notice the two new arrivals at first, but when they did they proved that they were still Sontarans by rushing forward to engage the interlopers in hand-to-hand combat.
Myre was stronger than Promynx but both were better fighters than the scientific corps. In moments, the floor was strewn with unconscious or wounded Sontarans in white suits. As the f inal remaining members of the G4 moved to execute the last part of their plan, wall panels below them exploded and several squads of elite Sontaran Special Space Service burst through, weapons blazing.
Myre was caught by one shot to his shoulder and went spinning back against a control panel.
‘Go!’ he hissed. ‘Do it!’
Promynx, produced the extractor from his armour and gripped it in his hand. There would be no time to take it down to the vats. That was the plan, to insert their DNA into the Core Clone Tank and irreversibly alter the Sontaran race forever. But that called for the introduction of the DNA to the tank via injection to the nutrient feed. Instead, Promynx would have to take more direct action.
He stepped up to the edge of the platform. Twenty levels down was the tank, a light mesh covering its surface, ensuring no dust or contaminants got in, but allowing the soup of deoxyribonucleic acid to breathe. Promynx allowed himself to fall, head first, executing a perfect swan dive.
Laser fire zipped past him as the Special Space Service troops opened fire at the moving target. The three seconds it took Promynx to fall seemed to stretch away into minutes. He saw the Sontarans shooting at him from ground level. He saw the mesh racing up to meet him, and he saw the DNA extractor in his hand. A shot from a carbine took him in the stomach, and he felt his life ebbing away. He exerted more pressure on the device as he closed on the tank. Then, with his last iota of strength, he gave it one final, powerful squeeze as he hit the surface, shattering the phial of genetic material and sending it dissipating into the rest of the liquid.
The Sontaran troops bounded up the stairways to the top of the vat but there was no need for haste. Promynx was dead. Above them, though, Myre still lived. Now Promynx had delivered their genetic material direct to the tank, he had to restart the cloning process.
Other troopers were already scaling the ladders to the control level and reached it as Myre rebooted the system. Weapons fire hit the control panel and it exploded in Myre’s face but he died with the sound of the bubbling, gurgling Clone Vats in his ear
s. This sound ushered in a new era; a new race that would bear the likeness and heritage of four individualistic Sontarans.
THE KINGDOM OF THE BLIND
THE RAIDING PARTY came in the dead of night. The refugee camp was small, and there was no defence against the soldiers. Almost eighty Dahensa had been taken: male, female and offspring. The terrified families had been ushered onto transport ships by troops wearing full uniform and helmets but each of their captives knew exactly who the aggressors were.
For some time, the scorpion-like Dahensa had been embroiled in a war with a vicious, callous, war-like race called the Jagaroth. They were more humanoid in form – a head of green, veiny strands with a central eye in their foreheads and large flaps either side of their face, beside their concealed mouths. They carried extremely nasty-looking, snub-nosed laser repeaters with a curved bayonet at the end, which was their preferred method of killing on the battlefield.
Krys’Mar, the female clutch-leader, had been telling the children a story in their shelter while Scaljei’Mar had been out foraging for food. Cur’Mar and his younger clutch-brother Ig’mar – or Iggy, as they affectionately called him – were on the blanket that served as their bed. The plastic sheeting across the front of the shelter that kept the rain out was pulled aside violently, and a Jagaroth trooper came in and ordered the family outside.
Krys’Mar calmed the children as they were taken down the street of the shantytown and put aboard the transport ship. All the time, she was searching for her partner. As they stood in the bay of the ship, pressed closely together with other families as if on a crowded land-train, Krys spotted Scaljei and shouted to him. The Jagaroth nearest to her warned her to be quiet with a wave of his blade. But the male clutch-leader had heard his partner and, as he was shoved onto the transport, managed to manoeuvre himself over to embrace her.
‘What’s happening?’ Krys asked.
Scaljei looked up from hugging his offspring. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Why would they want us?’
The answer lay several hundred thousand miles away, on the Jagaroth technical vessel T1R-1. Here, a photonic scientist called Phemoth was waiting to greet the refugees as soon as they were pushed down the landing planks of the transport ships.
Unlike the soldiers, Phemoth wore a grey robe with the traditional beading down the front. This told any other Jagaroth his rank and experience, his family history and any distinctions he had earned. In Phemoth’s case he had earned many and displayed the green beads with pride.
‘Welcome,’ he said. He had long since learned the unusual tongue of his enemies. He let his eye pass over the huddled masses. Like their species, the aliens were bulky and although they were humanoid – walking upright – they had two sets of arms, one that ended in finger-like appendages and one that had thick pincers.
They were also glowing slightly, as if they had been dipped in phosphorous. They wore no armour for they had no need. They had a thick exoskeleton and what looked like a tail protruded from the backs of their necks and over their heads, ending in a bulbous growth that Phemoth knew very well hid an unpleasant-looking sting.
‘You, the Dahensa,’ he said, stretching out each syllable: Dar-Hen-Sah. ‘You are the guests of the mighty Jagaroth.’
Krys looked down at Ig’Mar, who was clutching her leg. ‘Don’t worry, Iggy,’ she whispered. ‘We’ll be OK.’
‘Let me explain what is going to happen to you,’ Phemoth was saying. ‘As I say, you will be our guests. And I promise you will be well treated. In return we wish you to help us.’
His voice echoed across the hangar bay in which they stood, only the occasional coughing from a Dahensa interrupting the speech.
‘I am conducting a series of tests on our technology – nothing to be scared of. We don’t want to cut you up!’ A couple of the soldiers laughed. ‘No. We are not barbarians. We simply cannot spare Jagaroth from the front line to participate in scientific experiments.
‘I am sure, being civilians, you will not give us any trouble,’ Phemoth concluded, marching down the line of scared and hungry Dahensa. ‘You will now be escorted to your new living quarters, which I am sure you will find of a much higher standard than your little settlement of scrappy lean-tos.’
It never occurred to him that the refugee camp, however basic, had been their home for almost a year.
The spacecraft that stood in the side hangar was round and green with three jointed legs that pivoted out from the sphere’s equator. This was a single-occupancy version of the much larger ships that comprised most of the Jagaroth fleet. In the hexagonal cockpit sat Scaljei’Mar. The Dahensa were generally larger than the Jagaroth so it was an uncomfortable squeeze. The scorpion-man also knew that he was, in effect, helping the enemies of his people. However, he could also see his family through a narrow window of a viewing gallery, a trooper behind them with the unpleasant bayonet ever at the ready should he decide not to cooperate.
Every morning now for the past three weeks, the males had been selected for basic pilot training. This had been given in a computer simulator. In a way, it had been like playing the holo-games that Scaljei used to design before the war came to their planet. While he wasn’t sure he could pilot a real ship, the Jagaroth scientists thought that Scaljei now knew enough about the basic controls to be moved on to the genuine article.
The Dahensa was coached by a duo of Jagaroth technicians who were working under Phemoth. Scaljei could not tell if they were the male or female of their species. To him, they looked identical in skin tone and body form, although one was taller than the other.
As the experiment began, a thick, transparent wall was lowered over the three-legged ship, shutting Scaljei off from the rest of the world. Once that had been locked into place, the technicians asked him to initiate the engine start sequence. With that done, they immediately moved to channelling power from the warp drive to create what, to the untrained Dahensa, appeared to be a form of shield or cloaking device.
Before the field could be generated, he felt the ship vibrate and a high-pitched screech filled the hangar. The shorter technician who, Scaljei now saw, had a larger eye told him to power down and stand by. Phemoth came running into the hangar.
‘You’ve terminated,’ he said to the other two Jagaroth. ‘Good. There’s been an implosion in bay four.’
It was only later that the Mar clutch saw what had happened. Bay four was cordoned off, and Jagaroth in both technical and military uniforms were standing before it, examining or guarding respectively. Through the barriers of red tape, he saw the hole that had been blown in the scientific vessel’s hull. There was a small debris field strewn across the floor from a ship identical to the one he was using.
Back in the cell, Krys confronted Scaljei.
‘You saw that mess,’ she whispered urgently, trying not to attract her offspring’s attention. ‘That ship was the same type as yours.’
‘I know,’ the male replied. ‘They said they couldn’t afford to use Jagaroth pilots. I think we can see why now!’ He shook his head.
‘This isn’t a joke, Scaljei!’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ he said. He slumped onto his blanket on the floor.
‘We need to figure something out. We need to escape,’ Krys said.
Ig’Mar came over and grabbed his mother’s leg. ‘I made up a story!’ he said.
‘Not now, Iggy,’ Krys said. ‘I’m talking to your father.’
‘It’s a good one!’ the youngster replied. ‘It won’t take long! Promise!’
Krys smiled down at him. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Of course.’
She sat and took the little scorpion-boy onto her lap, her hands entwined with his, her pincers gripping his. Iggy’s story was about a farmyard and a bad farmer who kept his animals in the barn, except his sheep, who had to go out in the field in the morning. The other animals really wanted to go and play outside so, one day, they hid under the sheep’s woolly coats and, when the farmer let his flock go out, the anim
als escaped.
It was a good story. Clever. But then, Iggy was very clever. Krys told him so as she kissed his head.
‘Hey!’ said Cur’Mar who had been listening in. ‘We made up that story. Together!’
‘You’re both clever,’ Scaljei said.
‘Yeah,’ said Krys’Mar. But she was thinking about the sheep and a plan was beginning to form. ‘You are.’ She smiled and beckoned Scaljei over to her. ‘I think I know how we can get out of here …’
Over the next few days, the technicians analysed what had happened with the experiment in bay four. Computer modelling that recreated the accident showed there was a problem with the warp core. Even though it should have been possible to form chronon particles by manipulating the warp field, it had caused a feedback loop that had detonated at the engine core, creating an implosion that had crushed the ship.
The Jagaroth were only concerned that the implosion had damaged the T1R-1; they did not care it had cost the life of a Dahensa. As Phemoth said to his team, that is why they had taken the aliens. They were expendable. Jagaroth pilots were extremely valuable. So, they had increased the strength of the shielding and begun the experiments once more.
Every time something went wrong, the test ship imploded, taking a Dahensa with it. What none of the scorpion-people saw was that, when this happened, the dead Dahensa’s family were executed. The Jagaroth would halt the trials, examine the data from their computer models and then try again.
Phemoth was coming under intense pressure to deliver the results he had promised Jagaroth High Command. For some months now, the two mighty fleets of the Jagaroth and the Dahensa had been deadlocked. With both species employing the best computer intelligences to model their strategy, it had become like a children’s game of circle and cross: no matter which side made the first move, the outcome was mutually assured destruction. There was no advantage to be had.
Doctor Who: Myths and Legends Page 13