by Doctor Who
Please let me out. . . ’
Quilley clicked his fingers. ‘That’s Tina. She’s one of the note-techs from the control centre.’
The Doctor activated the sonic screwdriver again and set to work with renewed urgency. ‘I’ll be with you in five seconds!’ he called in.
‘Don’t worry.’
The lock was a difficult one, typical of the cumbersome and archaic technology of Osterberg. Its innards contained a series of interlocking bolts and springs that the Doctor had to unpick by feeling their responses to the screwdriver’s sonic waves, one by one.
The timid, frightened voice spurred him on. ‘Come on!’ he urged himself.
‘Please help me,’ said the voice, lost and childish-sounding. ‘There was something in here, something – I don’t know the word – it caused pain and wrong-feelings. . . ’
‘The poor girl,’ said Quilley. ‘She’s got no understanding of pain.’
‘I’m nearly there,’ said the Doctor.
‘Please open the door. It’s dark,’ said the voice.
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The Doctor performed one final adjustment to the sonic screwdriver and there was a satisfying click from the lock mechanism. ‘There!’ he cried.
He grabbed the edge of the Grey Door and with an effort swung it open. Nothing and nobody came out. Inside was pitch blackness.
‘Tina,’ called the Doctor softly. ‘Tina, you can come out now.’
Something was hurled out through the door almost contemptu-ously. It took the Doctor a moment to realise, as it clattered to the rocky ground of the cave, that it was a human skeleton. It was still partially clothed in scraps of blue denim. The name on its badge was TINA.
Quilley looked up at the Doctor. ‘But she was only talking to us a moment ago. . . ’
The Doctor had turned a little paler than usual. ‘I think I’m gonna shut this door,’ he said.
He started to swing it slowly to. Then, with a startling abruptness, a slimy grey six-fingered hand emerged from the darkness and started to push it the other way. The Doctor engaged with his unseen opponent, struggling against it to close the huge metal door.
‘Come on!’ he shouted over his shoulder to Quilley.
‘This must be real fear, mustn’t it?’ said Quilley in a small voice.
‘Terror, technically,’ said the Doctor. ‘Any chance of a bit of courage?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Quilley, and joined the Doctor, taking a firm grip at the edge of the door. He strained his under-exercised muscles, flinging his entire weight against the slowly shifting metal. . .
Just as the Doctor thought he might actually succeed in closing the Grey Door – as the gap narrowed to a fraction of an inch and the ugly hand appeared to lose its grip – the creature on the other side redoubled its efforts. The door burst fully open and he and Quilley were sent reeling backwards onto the floor. The Doctor realised that the struggle had been a sham. The creature was incredibly strong and had been playing with them, allowing them a moment of hope before it emerged.
He looked up. It was at least seven feet tall and appeared to be vaguely humanoid, with a head, two arms and two legs. It looked 89
strangely lumpy and unfinished, as if its grey, putty-like skin hadn’t quite settled yet.
There were two particularly strange things about it. The Doctor had expected a ferocious, snarling beast, but the expression on its ugly, sunken-cheeked face was one of playful politeness under a full head of glossy, neatly parted hair. And it was dressed in a smart black suit, with a long grey tail lashing like a whip from an opening in the seat of its trousers.
‘Thank you for opening the door,’ it said mockingly in Tina’s voice.
‘Did you like my impersonation?’ Then its voice changed to a rasping croak. ‘Are you humans? Are you humans?’
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The creature’s eyelids flicked rapidly. It was staring straight at the Doctor. No, not staring, he realised – it was squinting, as if its eyes were getting adjusted to the light. He thought of the tiny, gummed-up eyes of baby mice, and that gave him an idea as it asked again. ‘Are you humans?’
He pulled himself up to his full commanding height and replied in an equally commanding and disdainful tone. ‘Of course we are not humans.’
The creature continued squinting, viscous tears of concentration pouring from its eyeballs. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure,’ said the Doctor. He pointed to the Grey Door.
‘You are not ready. Return behind the door.’
‘But I’m still hungry.’ the creature wheedled. ‘Tina was nice, but not very filling.’ It pointed to Quilley. ‘That looks fat and tasty. Is it a pig?’
The Doctor shot a quick glance at Quilley, who was shaking with fear.
‘We are not humans or pigs,’ he said importantly. ‘We are superior.
To humans and to you.’ He licked his lips. ‘We might eat you, since we’re hungry too.’
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The creature started back towards the door and the Doctor began to relax. Then it whirled round. ‘Humans lie!’ it squawked. ‘You could be humans, and lying!’
Quilley whimpered. ‘Are you insane?’ he whispered to the Doctor.
‘Barmy, but this is one of my lucid moments,’ the Doctor whispered back.
The creature took a step forward. ‘Are you lying?’
The Doctor thought quickly. ‘Can a human do this?’ he asked proudly. The sonic screwdriver was still in his hand. He brought it up and activated it, pointing it at Quilley. Quilley’s hat spun off his head and onto the Doctor’s. ‘Humans cannot move a part of their head to another human, can they?’
The creature pondered, looking suspiciously between them, then at the hat, then finally at the sonic screwdriver. ‘What is that ap-pendage?’ it demanded.
‘My silver hat-swapping finger,’ said the Doctor coolly. ‘You don’t have one, do you? Neither do humans.’ He levelled it at the creature threateningly. ‘Now, get back inside before I use it on you!’
The creature gave a little cry and then bolted back through the Grey Door.
The Doctor immediately leaped forward, slammed it shut and locked it with the sonic screwdriver. Then he turned, leaned on the door and beamed. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Like any animal, it’ll only attack if it reckons you’re not a threat. I convinced it we were, so it stopped bothering. Good job it was a baby one.’
Quilley’s legs gave way and he sank to the floor. ‘But what was it?
It’s like no animal I’ve seen.’ He coughed. ‘Plus taking specimens isn’t allowed.’
The Doctor popped the hat back on Quilley’s head. ‘That isn’t a specimen. And that creature never walked the earth. Someone here made that thing, using your technology. Genetic engineering. And who would have the initiative to do a thing like that, hide it away in its own metal womb with a supply of power to make it grow?’ He hauled Quilley up and said significantly, ‘Only someone who wasn’t popping the pills.’
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‘I’m the only Refuser here in Osterberg,’ said Quilley. ‘You don’t think I would have wasted the time and effort on bodging something like that together?’
The Doctor gave him a searching look. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said at last.
‘So you aren’t the only Refuser, are you?’
He started to stride away, heading in the direction of the town.
Quilley gathered himself together, settled the hat back on his head and followed.
Three figures were walking towards them, silhouetted against the light. The Doctor identified Jacob and Lene, walking with the usual casual shuffle of the Osterbergers. In the centre, walking with characteristic confidence and purpose, was Chantal.
‘You took a silly risk opening that door, Doctor,’ she said lightly.
‘The Hy-Bractor could have devoured you, which would have been a shame, because I’m very interested in you.’
‘Hy-Bractor. . . ’
The Doctor mulled ove
r the word.
‘You’re its
mother, then. Why?’
‘That isn’t your concern,’ Chantal replied smoothly. She held up a small black box. ‘As you’re so clever, Doctor, know what this is?’
‘Duh. . . remote control?’ said the Doctor.
‘Yes,’ said Chantal. She indicated a knob on its surface. ‘I twist this and a radio signal gets sent to the popper packs worn by Jacob and Lene here. I’m going to do it now.’ She twisted the knob. ‘Quilley, you know that violence thing they do up top, the primitives?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Quilley uneasily.
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Chantal, smiling, ‘but I’ve brewed up the combo that causes it. And it works very nicely with the patch that makes them do everything I say.’
Jacob and Lene advanced, their faces suddenly contorted with anger. They had long wooden truncheons in their hands.
‘But if you just relax, there shouldn’t be very much wrong-feeling,’
said Chantal. ‘Alternatively, come with me. Then there’ll be no wrong-feeling again, for either of you, ever. The offer’s there. . . ’
The Doctor pretended to consider, grabbed Quilley’s arm and shouted, ‘Run!’
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They set off at a furious pace, the Doctor virtually hauling the terrified and confused Quilley along the dark side of the cave, away from the Grey Door. He had a plan to circle the edge of the cave and reach the steps on the other side. He risked a glance backwards – and saw that Jacob and Lene were, impossibly, almost upon them, faces contorted with rage and hate, snorting and growling like animals. The genetic perfection of the Osterbergers made them incredibly healthy and they ran with the ease and grace of wild things.
Quilley was clubbed first, going down under a savage assault from Jacob. The Doctor attempted to pull Jacob off, but then felt the in-evitable smack of the truncheon wielded by Lene against the back of his skull. He fell protectively over Quilley.
Jacob and Lene snarled and gloated over the unconscious bodies of the Doctor and Quilley, as one raising their truncheons to deliver death blows. Chantal sauntered up, twisting the knob on her remote control, and their arms instantly fell to their sides. Beatifically empty smiles returned to their faces and they looked down, confused at what they had done.
‘Chantal, why did we do that?’ asked Jacob.
Chantal pointed the remote control and sent a dose of general warm well-being into their bodies. ‘Because doing what I tell you makes you feel nice,’ she said perfunctorily.
‘That’s true,’ said Lene, laughing.
Rose was dimly aware that somebody had pulled the bag off her head and that somebody else was giving her a sip of water. The sweaty stench of the bag lingered in her nostrils and she fought back an urge to throw up.
Then her consciousness suddenly kicked back in and the meaningless colours, sounds and shapes around her resolved into clarity.
An old woman was stroking her face. She looked at least eighty and her sharp, pointed features were framed by a riot of curly grey hair. She wore a collection of skins much like those worn by the Neanderthals.
‘Ooh, ain’t she pretty, though?’ she cooed in what sounded very 94
much like a London accent. Her teeth were incongruously strong and bright white in her raddled, ancient face. ‘I bet them lot were planning on doing awful, awful things to her.’ She smiled very kindly, and Rose couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Don’t you worry, my pet, everything’s all right now. We’re normal.’
One of the big, bearded men from the raiding party, who looked about thirty, was standing next to her, the stone drinking vessel in his hand. ‘I wonder where she’s from, Mum,’ he said slowly. ‘I bet she came down from the hill country, that’s what I reckon.’
‘Oh, and we all want to hear your theories, don’t we?’ the old woman said scathingly. ‘Let the poor girl speak for herself.’ She jabbed him in his side with a bony elbow. ‘Go and get my shawl. Go on, I’m freezing my bum off out here.’
‘Mum,’ he protested.
She thwacked him. ‘Get!’
He scurried away. His mother sniffed and spat, then turned back to Rose. ‘Are you from over the hills, my dear?’
Rose decided to tell the truth as best she could. ‘Yeah. Up there, up nearer the river.’
‘Ooh,’ said the old woman, surprised. ‘River People? You don’t look like one. What’s your name, then?’
Rose remembered that handshakes seemed to be acknowledged in this time and offered her hand. ‘I’m Rose. Rose Tyler.’
The old woman gave her a big hug. ‘You poor thing, Rose of the Tylers.’
‘No, not Rose of the Tylers, just Rose Tyler.’
The old woman scrunched up her eyes. ‘What’s a tyler, then?’
Rose struggled for an answer. ‘It’s just my surname, doesn’t mean anything.’
‘All names mean something,’ said the old woman. She gave Rose another drink from the cup. ‘Did they treat you bad? They’re an evil lot, Them.’
Rose felt a surge of anger as the memory of the raid returned to her.
‘They’re not, they’re just people who look a bit different.’
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‘No, no.’ The old woman shook her head and said in a gently patro-nising tone, ‘They’re devils.’
‘They call you – they call us – Them,’ said Rose.
‘I’m sure they do, love, but they actually are Them, you see. Did you get a good look? They’re not normal, are they?’
Rose flushed, remembering the casual racism of some of her own grandmother’s friends back home. ‘Why did you attack them?’
‘Why?’ The old woman sighed. ‘You can’t have Them where you come from, otherwise you’d know.’
Rose decided to give up for the moment. As with her nan’s bingo mates, there was no point arguing about it. She decided to risk moving her still woozy head to get a proper look round.
She was in a more hilly area, still overgrown but much more open.
A broad, clear stream came downhill about half a mile away and several fishermen sat on its banks, spears outstretched. There was a fire much like the one in the Neanderthal camp and gathered round it were many more of this tribe. A large group of them looked as if they were playing some sort of game, rolling a stone onto the flattened grass between them and making the same kind of sounds of mock-elation and mock-despair you might hear from a family playing Pictionary. Others – mostly the women – were working on spears or putting together handfuls of berries and greens obviously gathered from the forest. Other women were carrying great bundles of fish wrapped up in rushes. Some men were working on spear-making.
But these spears, Rose noticed, were longer and were made from yew or some other bendy wood, and the men’s movements were more fluid and gracious than those of the Neanderthal spear-makers. The men chatted to each other good-humouredly. Behind this large open area was the wide entrance to a cave, with people drifting in and out. The general atmosphere was relaxed, almost cosy. Rose found that hard to square with the savage behaviour of these people on their raid.
She realised that the old woman was stroking her hair between her fingers. ‘Your Tylers, did they send you down here on your own?
That’s madness, young girl on her own.’ She tutted. ‘Sent to trade, were you? Ain’t got much on you. They must’ve stolen it if you had.
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Did they?’
Rose struggled to reply. ‘I’m only following about half of this,’ she said honestly.
‘Well, your lot, River People, you only come down here when you’ve got something to trade for our flint,’ the old woman continued. ‘Ain’t you got nothing?’
Rose was worried about the note of suspicion creeping into the woman’s voice. ‘Yeah, I came to trade, of course,’ she lied, immediately wishing she hadn’t.
The old woman reached casually inside Rose’s pocket. ‘What you got, then?’ She pulled out Rose’s mobile phone, a n
ail file and a handful of loose change. ‘Pretty necklace.’ She flipped open the phone and frowned at its mini-screen uncomprehendingly, then handed it back.
‘Got a skill, then? Come on!’
Rose searched her mind desperately. A skill. What skill did she have that would be of use to these people? She looked down at her perfectly manicured nails. Of course. . .
She’d seen her mum do it millions of times. And it was something that never seemed to have occurred to these people. So she thought she’d give it a go.
When Rose had finished filing, the old woman held up her manicured hands to the crowd of tribespeople that had gathered round her. ‘She’s done ’em lovely! Look! Ain’t she clever?’
There was a swelling roar of appreciation from the tribe, male and female alike, and cries of ‘Me next!’ and ‘Can I go after you?’ and ‘I asked first!’
Rose coughed and raised her voice. ‘OK, form a queue!’
‘What’s a queue?’ asked a woman.
‘I’ve just invented it,’ said Rose proudly. ‘Stand in a line and wait your turn!’
The Doctor was a happy man.
He woke feeling serene. His thoughts were ordered and calm, one flowing into the next logically. He couldn’t help smiling, and it was 97
not his normal wonky grin but a reaction to his feeling of utter contentment, with himself and with the universe around him. The usual background noise of worry, excitement and head-buzzing ideas was gone, and he felt deeply satisfied down to the soles of his boots. That was very wrong, but he found that he didn’t seem to mind.
‘Hello,’ said a warm, caring voice. ‘And how do you feel?’
The Doctor looked up at Chantal. He couldn’t work out why he hadn’t noticed her outstanding beauty and charisma before. ‘I feel fine,’ he told her. ‘No, I feel really good. Really, really good.’
‘That’s lovely,’ said Chantal. ‘No wrong-feeling at all?’
The Doctor realised he was lying back on some kind of comfy seat, something like a padded dentist’s chair.