Doctor Who and the Krikkitmen

by Adams, Douglas

  ‘Where were we? Did you say Krikkitmen?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes,’ the Doctor said.

  ‘Oh dear. Horrid creatures. Wiped out long ago.’

  ‘Sadly not,’ the Doctor said, using his very gravest tone. The gravitas was somewhat undermined by the sound of the Bursar snapping his croquet mallet in two and stomping off through the hollyhocks to gales of laughter. The Doctor tried again, making his voice deeper and slower. ‘And that could well be lethal to the Universe.’

  ‘Really?’ the Professor became worried by the temperature of his tea. It was tepid, which always alarmed him. What a terrible state to be in: not warm enough to be pleasant, not cold enough to be safely discarded, but just sort of there. He really should write something on the subject. Or work out a formula. Oh dear, the Doctor was still talking.

  ‘Hidden somewhere is an army of five million Krikkitmen.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, they’re probably best off left alone.’

  ‘No,’ the Doctor was pacing up and down the carpet, which, given its trans-dimensional nature, was tougher than it looked. ‘I need to find that army and destroy them before anyone gets to them.’

  ‘Oh.’ The tea was definitely too cold now. ‘Dearie me.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Doctor said. ‘Professor, can I borrow that book again?’

  It had all been Romana’s idea. The good plans often were.

  ‘Well, we can’t just leave the Krikkitmen here, on Bethselamin,’ she’d argued.

  The Doctor had pointed out that they were just statues. Romana had laughed at that. Apparently (and how was he to know better) statues are generally of people that are liked, not of a giant invading army, posed in the middle of smiting, slaughtering and wiping out the planet. ‘Children might cry,’ Romana finished.

  The Doctor’s counter-argument to that was that they could be disguised. Or have sheets wrapped over them, or jolly sweaters knitted to make them look more innocuous. ‘It’s hard to take seriously an army in cardigans,’ he’d said, feeling rather pleased.

  Romana had sensibly pointed out that that was a lot of knitting for an uncertain outcome. Instead she’d suggested that while he popped off to sort out access to Shada, she’d get the populace to round up the Krikkitmen and put them all in their pavilion, and she’d then fly it back to Gallifrey.

  ‘Someone’s only going to think you’re staging a leadership bid,’ the Doctor had argued. The Bethselamini really did want her to stay behind, and he would miss her terribly.

  Romana had shrugged as if that didn’t matter. She then flicked a couple of switches on the TARDIS console (‘to stop you getting into trouble’) and sauntered off.

  ‘Last one back to Gallifrey’s a ninny,’ the Doctor had said.

  He’d stood on the threshold of his ship, watching her for a moment.

  Romana waved back to the Doctor. The great plains of Bethselamin stretched out before her, the attacking Krikkitmen ranged across it in a variety of menacing postures. The suns were setting as Andvalmon came rushing over to her. There was still a troubling lack of purple about the whole place, but the Doctor supposed she’d get used to it.

  ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do,’ she was saying to Andvalmon. She didn’t look back.

  The Doctor felt proud of her, a little sad, and then wondered where his hat was.

  ‘Just you and me, eh, K-9?’ the Doctor said.

  The TARDIS had left Cambridge and was now in mid-flight, harrumphing its way through some chrono-turbulence. K-9 was following the Doctor as he paced around the control room. The Doctor was flicking cavalierly through The Worshipful and Ancient Law of Gallifrey without causing a major space-time collapse. K-9 had a St Cedd’s cup and saucer balanced on his back. As far as he could tell, his Master was in an odd mood.

  ‘Just you and me,’ the Doctor repeated, staring at a page full of squiggles. ‘Some day, you know, Romana will leave us. For good or for better.’ He left a pause for the robot to argue with him, but it did not. The Doctor sipped at his tea and then started to flick through the pages rapidly, watching as the book set the controls of the time machine. The TARDIS made a deep rumbling groan.

  ‘I know how you feel, old girl,’ the Doctor sighed. Without Romana, he felt a little lost. No one to tell him how brilliant he was, no one to tell him how stupid he was, no one to tell him how to load the dishwasher. Still, splitting up had been her plan, after all.

  ‘We’re off to a forgotten prison in a forbidden dimension to destroy an army of five million robots …’ The Doctor drummed his fingers on the console. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’

  And then he found his hat, lying across some controls on the console. Curiously, this could have told him that something had gone very wrong indeed. But it did not.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HIT FOR SIX

  It looked pretty much like any other bit of space, only the stars didn’t move. Nothing really moved here. The planetoid of Shada wasn’t really that much of a planet, more a deep disc carved out of an ancient asteroid. The surface had the ancient seal of mighty Rassilon etched into it – because if there’s one thing the Time Lords always make time for, it’s a grandiose flourish. It really didn’t need to be there. No one would see it. Not even other Time Lords. But some architect had decided that the one thing the asteroid needed was a sense of corporate identity, and nothing said on-brand like burning a five-mile logo into your asteroid.fn1 The effect of the Seal of Rassilon was supposed to be magnificent, but, viewed from space, it reminded the Doctor of a lovely little mini-golf course he’d once been round in Totnes.

  ‘All it’s missing is a little windmill,’ he chuckled, as he brought the TARDIS in to land.

  As the TARDIS shrugged out of the Vortex, alarms went off in the Induction Chamber. Ancient, sturdy, worthy alarms that were mostly there for effect. There was only one way into the Prison Planet of Shada and only one way out, and that was by TARDIS.

  The only person who’d ever escaped was the arch criminal Salyavin, and he refused to say how he did it, preferring instead to live in quiet retirement scaring the wits out of hapless undergraduates walking across the college lawns.

  The TARDIS door opened and the Doctor and K-9 edged out. Something about Shada made you do that. You’d have to be clinically insane (and many of the inmates were) to stride around the vaulted chambers. Anyone not currently in therapy took one step and then settled for creeping, sidling, or tiptoeing. Shada had an atmosphere, one composed of Oxygen, Hydrogen and Intimidation. Dust hung in the chilly air, and footsteps echoed with the sluggishness of weary ghosts.

  The Doctor cleared his throat and then started singing Gilbert and Sullivan. K-9 knew this was a bad sign. It normally meant that his master was feeling insecure, especially as he’d never quite got around to learning the words. The proper words.

  The halls of Shada echoed haughtily to the refrain of ‘That’s why I’m the Captain of The Fishfinger,’ as the Doctor’s creep tried its very best to saunter. K-9 glided after him.

  The good thing about the prison planet of Shada was that the inmates weren’t alive. Each one was sealed in a large glass cryopod. Those who had thought the whole process through had arranged their features in eternal frowns or smiles. The less thoughtful ones were either gasping, screaming, or frozen in the act of saying ‘Now, hang on …’

  The Doctor edged jauntily past a row of Sontarans. ‘Beat you, cock,’ he muttered, rapping on an Ice Lord’s case. Then he paused in front of a frozen Krarg. As the Krargs were made of living lava, freezing one seemed ambitious, but that was the Time Lords for you.

  The Doctor wandered into another room full of pods.

  ‘Not alphabetical,’ he sighed, ‘nor Dewey Decimal. Just a haphazard array of ne’er-do-wells and rapscallions.’

  K-9 had plugged himself into an information pod. ‘I am accessing the storage data.’

  ‘Good dog.’ The Doctor patted him. He looked along the rows of aliens. He looked up the columns of aliens. ‘
Somewhere in here are five million Krikkitmen. Let’s hope they’re all filed together, otherwise this is going to take all week.’

  ‘Working, Master,’ the dog said, wagging his tail. Combing his way through the prison catalogue, he was calculating how long it would really take the Doctor to find and destroy five million robots.

  Meanwhile, back in the TARDIS, a warning light was glowing underneath the Doctor’s hat. The warning read: ‘Screens breached: Intruders in TARDIS.’

  ‘Oh look, they get their own dimension, how snug.’ The Doctor threw open the door of a vault. ‘Hot and cold running gravity, the works.’ He would have tested this with his hat, but, ah yes, that was it, he’d left it on the console. Never mind.

  The Doctor and K-9 looked at five million Krikkitmen. Well, the Doctor tried to perceive them, K-9 rapidly counted them. They were in rows of 100,000 which made it fairly easy for the dog.

  ‘Awe-inspiring, don’t you think?’ The Doctor shivered. ‘The Krikkitmen. The sight of just one of them makes me want to scream. Here are five million of them and the only thing I can hear is the Galaxy howling.’

  At the side of the vault door was a small, useful control panel. The Doctor glanced at it and then broke out into the widest smile. ‘Handy. As this is an artificially created pan-dimensional annex, it can be jettisoned. Just a few button presses and the Krikkitmen cease to exist.’

  Back in the entrance hall to Shada, the TARDIS door opened. And a dozen Krikkitmen marched out.

  The Doctor’s hand hovered over the button.

  ‘It would be so easy,’ he said. His voice echoed off the walls.

  For a moment his finger nearly pushed the button.

  ‘K-9,’ he remarked, his voice going over a speed-bump. The dog could already tell it was going to be a rhetorical question. ‘Do you ever get the feeling you’re being manipulated?’

  ‘Master?’

  The Doctor’s fingers stroked the button.

  ‘Tempting,’ he said.

  He then went over to a sarcophagus and started working on it with his sonic screwdriver. ‘Something about this feels wrong. What if those Krikkit robots we found were fakes?’ He heaved the pod door open. ‘What if these really were sentient? Then I’d be about to commit genocide. And that would look very bad. Ha-ha, foolish Doctor!’

  He dragged the inhabitant out.

  ‘You don’t catch me like that,’ he announced, kneeling over the body. ‘Let’s just check. Autopooch – help me scan this thing.’

  The Doctor and his dog peered at the recumbent creature. Behind them, something was happening.

  The Krikkitmen marched through the reception hall and along the corridor. They knew exactly where to go.

  ‘Master,’ began K-9.

  The Doctor did not seem to be listening. ‘I owe you an apology.’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘We got so caught up in the Boring Test. But I worry. I do worry – I mean, you don’t feel left out, do you?’

  ‘Master?’ K-9 kept his voice level.

  ‘Because –’ the Doctor had two screws clamped between his lips – ‘I know we’ve never tested you but I would like to think you’re sentient. We could run it if you’d like?’

  ‘Negative, Master,’ K-9 sniffed. ‘However—’

  ‘I think the dividing line is quite subtle.’ The Doctor was digging into the Krikkitman’s brain carapace. ‘But look at this … After all that, this is a robot. Just another dull robot. Imagine that – they fooled the Universe.’

  ‘Master!’ K-9 extended his blaster probe.

  Behind the Doctor, another sarcophagus door had opened. And something was coming out.

  ‘No need to take offence.’ The Doctor tapped K-9’s muzzle, blocking the dog’s shot, and tossed the brain pan to one side. ‘These creatures fooled us all into thinking they were clever. And I think you, you’re cleverer than that, aren’t you, old sly-castors?’

  ‘Well …’ Despite the urgent situation, K-9 found the topic all too tempting. ‘To negate the points you raise Master, I would advise you to look behind you.’

  ‘What?’ The Doctor whirled round.

  All the sarcophagi were opening. The sealed army of Krikkitmen were awaking, the dull red glow in their eyes brightening as they emerged.

  ‘The time for philosophical niceties is past!’ The Doctor was already sprinting. ‘Jettison now, rationalise later!’ The Doctor hurled himself toward the big red button.

  He’d always loved a big, juicy red button. Sometimes he’d press them and he’d often hear ‘Curse you, Doctor!’ as the big explosions began.

  Sometimes he’d press them and Galaxy-mincing machinery would power down just as the countdown reached 0001.

  Sometimes he’d press them and something remarkably unexpected would happen.

  Sometimes he’d stop other people from pressing them.

  There was a group of Krikkitmen surrounding the button. How had they got there so quickly? They’d have had to have got past him, surely? While trying to work this out, the Doctor threw himself forward, tobogganing in a tangle of coat, scarf and trouser through the Krikkitmen, reaching up towards the button. He’d do it. He would. The Krikkitmen would be gone for ever. He never should have hesitated, but this would rid the Universe of them.

  His fingertips stretched out towards the button …

  And, of all things, Romana stepped in front of it.

  ‘Hello Doctor,’ she said.

  She was dressed in whites and holding a cricket bat. She looked quite absurd. Right up until she hit him with the bat.

  The Doctor woke up in the TARDIS.

  This was never good. Normally waking up in the TARDIS meant that he’d had one of his surprisingly rare fatal accidents and was going to have to spend the rest of the day getting used to a new body.

  He patted himself down cautiously. Well, the hair was still curly, the nose still a bottle-opener, and a quick tap of the teeth told him that his smile was still a dazzler.

  Maybe he hadn’t regenerated. Well, that was good. He really didn’t have time for all that bother this week.

  The only other explanation was that they’d crashed. Which meant he’d get an entirely undeserved lecture from Romana about his driving. What she didn’t understand was that he was not a bad driver, not as such, he was just a victim of probability. If you have a TARDIS and you never go anywhere in it, you’ll never crash. If you’re constantly haring from one end of eternity to the next, you’re bound to pick up the odd bump and bang. You can’t fight statistics.

  He noticed Romana leaning over him. Oh dear. Perhaps he had regenerated after all. He really didn’t fancy regenerating with Romana around. She was going to be critical about things, and he’d spend the whole day fiddling with the legs. And then she’d be picky about the hair. It was all so unfair. The Doctor treated regenerating like putting on clothes – he just grabbed whatever came to hand and got on with it. Romana, however, was such a careful dresser that, if you let her have her way, by the time she left the TARDIS he’d have already defeated the giant squid and be teasing the high priest.

  Testing the water, he groaned and observed Romana’s reaction.

  ‘Oh, so you’re alive,’ she said.

  The Doctor sat up, looked around, and blinked. ‘Hullo Romana. What are all these killer robots doing in my TARDIS?’

  The Doctor had a shrewd and terrible inkling. He remembered Romana staring into the helmet of that Krikkitman, muttering something about it talking to her as the light in its eyes died. Well yes, that would have done it.

  And now the TARDIS was full of Krikkitmen.

  ‘How odd.’ The Doctor tried to stand, but settled for shuffling grandly onto his knees. He noticed that K-9 was lying on his side, in several pieces, looking exactly as though he’d been hit with a bat. Poor dog. Anyway, he’d get to him in a bit. ‘You lot should be in your Pavilion. Which should right now be on its way to Gallifrey. Not here. After all, your ship can’t possibly travel to Shada. It�
�s not a TARDIS.’

  The Krikkitmen said nothing. The Doctor latched onto the console and used it to heave himself to his feet. As he did so, his eyes looked at some of the readouts. He tried his best never to do this, as it always depressed him, but sometimes he couldn’t help it.

  ‘Ah ha,’ he said. He fixed one of the Krikkitmen with an ominous expression. ‘That’s terribly naughty of you.’ He tottered over to a door. Normally it led to the Schrödinger’s rabbit warren of the rest of the TARDIS. Not any more. He flung it back. Blocking the corridor was the Krikkit Pavilion.

  He whirled around and jabbed a finger at Romana. ‘J’accuse!’ he thundered.

  Really, this wasn’t at all fair. Clearly the Krikkitmen had taken over Romana, using some form of possession. He was used to his friends being taken over. He often felt they weren’t a true travelling companion till he’d sent their android double over a cliff screaming ‘Kill the Doctor!’ It gave spice to a morning when a companion turned up, all glassy-eyed, dull-toned, and suddenly terribly interested in going to look at an abandoned factory / waxworks museum / hardly-sinister-or-suspicious-clone-bank. But he’d not even got a whiff of it from Romana. Her eyes were bright, she wasn’t wearing a scarf she’d lost earlier, and her voice had sounded so completely normal when she’d suggested flying a shipful of deactivated Krikkitmen to Gallifrey.

  He stopped, and swallowed with difficulty. Well, frankly, this could be worse. That would have been a massacre. Instead they’d just wanted this little stopover.

  He wagged a finger at the Krikkitmen who regarded him with awful indifference.

  ‘So that’s why the switches were off. Romana lowered the defence shields, then set your Pavilion’s controls so that, instead of going to Gallifrey, you materialised a few seconds later inside the TARDIS and I gave you all a free lift to Shada.’

  ‘Correct, Doctor,’ said Romana, and, annoyingly, her delivery was as jaunty as ever.