by Doctor Who
‘Yeah,’ said Martha, keen to keep him on her side. ‘It is a bit boring.
What about something to eat?’
Archibald nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m not bored of eating.’
He followed her to the end of the bar and the silver trays loaded with nibbles. The tentacled aliens hurried out of their way, careful to huddle at the other end of the bay window and not to get too close to the door out into the ballroom. Archibald glared at them, reminding them who was boss, then turned back to the waiting nibbles.
There were sausage rolls and posh things wrapped in bacon. Martha watched his eyes light up.
‘I never ate this stuff before,’ he told her. With great care he reached out for the tray of cheese and pineapple on sticks. He took one and scrutinised it closely, like a jeweller examining a diamond.
‘You don’t eat the stick,’ Martha whispered. Archibald nodded at this sage advice. ‘Right,’ he said, but made no move to eat it.
Martha helped herself to her own cheese and pineapple stick and showed him how to eat it. She placed the stick back on the tray, in the little silver box provided. Archibald watched her attentively, as if she’d just performed great magic.
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‘Right,’ he said, and did his best to copy the easy way she’d eaten hers. He nibbled warily at first, but after the first taste of pineapple there was no stopping him. When he’d finished, he dropped the clean stick into the silver box and then grinned a happy, badger grin.
‘Good?’ she asked.
‘S’OK,’ said Archibald.
‘You could always make sure. Have another one.’
Archibald’s eyes opened wide at the thought of this. He waited for a moment in case she changed her mind, then helped himself to another cheese and pineapple stick. Martha laughed to see him so delighted.
‘You’ve really never had food like this before?’ she asked as she watched him take two cheese and pineapple sticks at once.
‘Nah,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘We get food packs. ‘Ave to share
’em. They’re OK. If they get recycled right.’
Martha didn’t understand. ‘Recycled from what?’
Archibald wrinkled his shiny black nose. ‘What else?’ he said gruffly.
‘The toilets.’
Martha could see that yes, perhaps cheese and pineapple on sticks were something of a luxury. She felt her heart going out to him, growing up on a spaceship with the other badger pirates, never going to school or getting his daily five fruit and veg. It would be a dull, brutal, compartmentalised life, and he’d not even been born. Instead, he and his colleagues had been grown in a lab, slaves made to follow orders just like the mouthless men she’d met in the engine room. Despite his slavering jaws working on yet another cheese and pineapple stick, despite his gun, despite everything, she wanted to give him a hug.
But that wouldn’t do any good. Any minute now Dashiel and Jocelyn would come back and, whatever they’d found, the prisoners would be in danger. So she hadn’t been able to get Archibald drunk.
But she had another idea, one that would make him see his prisoners as people and make it harder for him to shoot them.
As he reached for yet another cheese and pineapple stick, she slapped the back of his paw.
‘Ow,’ he said.
‘Where are your manners?’ she said.
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Archibald considered. ‘Think I lost ’em,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ said Martha, acting cross like her mum. ‘But there are other people here, aren’t there? What about them?’
Archibald looked over at the tentacled aliens, still cowering in fright. ‘They don’t like this stuff,’ he said. ‘They’re bored of it.’
‘Are they really?’ said Martha, folding her arms. ‘Why don’t you offer them the tray and see how bored they are?’
Archibald muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, picking up the tray of remaining cheese and pineapple sticks with one paw and stalking over to his prisoners. In his other paw he held his gun, also pointed at the prisoners.
‘Here,’ he said to the first prisoner, the orange lady Martha had spoken to earlier. With the gun pointed right at her, Mrs Wingsworth didn’t dare to refuse. A long tentacle looped up and round and del-icately took hold of a stick. With everyone watching her, she took a tiny, ladylike bite of cheese and fluttered her eyes in false delight.
‘Why, dear,’ she told Archibald quietly, eager to please him. ‘That is simply a delight!’
Archibald grinned at her. ‘Yeah,’ he said, pleased with himself. He glanced back at Martha, still stood at the bar. She nodded encouragingly at him and he moved into the throng of tentacled aliens, who took the proffered food from him more and more eagerly. Archibald seemed overawed by the attention, grinning at everyone for all he brandished a gun. Soon there was a hubbub of comfortable chatter and even a bit of laughing.
‘That was good,’ said Martha as Archibald returned to her with the empty tray. He placed it carefully beside the other trays of food and helped himself to a sausage roll. ‘Yeah,’ he said, about to say something further. But he’d bitten into the sausage roll and his eyes widened in amazement at this incredible new flavour.
‘Wait till you try the scotch eggs,’ Martha told him. While Archibald tried each of the different nibbles on offer, Mrs Wingsworth came over to join them. ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if there are any more of those delightful cheese and pineapple ones.’
‘Sorry,’ said Martha. ‘All gone.’
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But Archibald then offered Mrs Wingsworth a whole tray of them.
Mrs Wingsworth let out a high, girlish giggle as she deftly took one.
‘Oh, you are an angel,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Archibald.
‘Hang on,’ said Martha, pointing at the tray laden with cheese and pineapple on sticks. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘It was ’ere,’ said Archibald, indicating the end of the bar where all the trays of nibbles waited. ‘Did I do it wrong?’
‘But there was only one tray of these things,’ said Martha. ‘And we finished it.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Archibald.
Martha looked again at the bar. ‘Where’s the empty tray?’ she said.
‘The one you just put down?’
Archibald scrutinised the bar himself but could see no empty tray.
He shrugged, then seemed to notice the full tray he was still holding.
He lifted it up for Martha to see. ‘Here,’ he said.
Martha boggled. The robot barman was at the far end of the bar, and she was sure she would have seen him if he’d come down this end to restock the nibbles. Maybe they had special trays in the future, she thought, which just filled up again the moment the food ran out.
Maybe they used the same technology as the teleporter thing she and the Doctor had seen down in the engine rooms.
‘I never had stuff like this before,’ Archibald told Mrs Wingsworth.
But no, thought Martha, something was wrong. She could feel it.
After all these months travelling with the Doctor, she’d developed a sort of sixth sense for things like this.
Her thoughts were cut short by Mrs Wingsworth’s mocking laughter.
‘Well of course you haven’t had food like this before, dear,’ she told Archibald. ‘You weren’t born to this sort of lifestyle, were you?’ She probably didn’t mean to sound so unkind, thought Martha, but it was hardly wise to antagonise the badger with the gun.
‘Look,’ she said, trying to intercede.
‘I wasn’t born,’ said Archibald proudly. ‘I got grown in a test tube.’
‘Precisely, dear, precisely,’ said Mrs Wingsworth. ‘And you were grown with a purpose in mind. We need someone to do the grubby 51
jobs, don’t we?’
‘Huh?’ said Archibald.
‘What Mrs Wingsworth means –’ began Martha.
�
��She means we’re dirty,’ said Dashiel as he and Jocelyn marched back into the cocktail lounge. ‘And she’s right, ain’t she? We are dirty.
We fight dirty. An’ we don’t care when we kill our prisoners.’
Mrs Wingsworth seemed poised to protest but thought better of it.
Which was just as well, thought Martha, as the pirates were in an even worse mood than before. Judging by the surly looks on their faces they hadn’t found what they were after.
‘What’s been ’appenin’, Archie?’ Dashiel demanded. Archibald carefully put the tray of cheese and pineapple sticks back down on the bar and headed over to his colleagues. His body sagged as he went over, Martha noticed. When it had just been him, he looked taller, tougher, more in control. When the others badgers were around, though, he became like a sulky teenager.
‘I was askin’ ’em questions,’ he told Dashiel.
‘Find anythin’ out?’ Dashiel asked him.
‘Nah,’ said Archibald. ‘They’re pretty stupid.’
Martha couldn’t stop Mrs Wingsworth. ‘Well really!’ she huffed, more than a little too loudly.
‘You got summin’ to say, ’ave you?’ growled Dashiel, jabbing his gun towards her.
Mrs Wingsworth trembled where she stood. ‘No,’ she squeaked.
Martha reached out her hand and took hold of Mrs Wingsworth’s tentacle. There was little she could do if the badgers turned on any of the prisoners, but Mrs Wingsworth seemed grateful for the gesture and her trembling began to ease.
‘Don’t annoy them,’ Martha whispered.
‘I don’t mean to, dear,’ Mrs Wingsworth whispered back. ‘But, you know, I mean really. . . ’
The three badger pirates conferred by the door back into the ballroom. Martha edged forward to better hear what they were saying, but Mrs Wingsworth held her back.
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‘Don’t, dear!’ she whispered. ‘They’ll kill you.’ And Martha didn’t need to get any nearer; Dashiel was so angry he didn’t bother to keep his voice down.
‘We found the bridge,’ he growled, ‘but couldn’t get in there.’
‘An’ we couldn’t find the engines,’ said Jocelyn.
‘It’s that door with the stuff,’ Dashiel told her. ‘I bet you.’
‘Could be,’ said Jocelyn. ‘But you know what Captain Florence’d say. You can’t prove it, can you?’
‘An’ what about the others?’ asked Archibald.
Dashiel glanced over at Martha and the tentacled aliens before he said anything further. He whispered, but Martha didn’t need to hear the words. To want to keep it secret could mean only one thing: these three badgers were all there were. And Martha could deal with three badger-faced pirates.
‘There’s food here if you want it,’ she said, gathering up the tray of cheese and pineapple on sticks and taking it over to them. Again the tray had replenished itself; despite what Archibald had taken just a moment ago, the tray was full again.
‘What’s this?’ asked Jocelyn warily.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Archibald. ‘You should try these.’ He showed his colleagues how to eat the cheese and pineapple and what to do with the sticks. Dashiel and Jocelyn followed his example, and like him their eyes widened with amazement.
That’s amazing!’ said Dashiel. That’s like. . . ’ He trailed off, unable to think of words to describe what it tasted like.
‘It’s nice!’ agreed Jocelyn, wowed by the very idea that food could taste good.
‘You,’ said Dashiel, prodding Martha with his paw. ‘What’s this stuff called?’
Before Martha could answer she heard a tutting behind her. She didn’t need to guess who that was.
‘You,’ said Dashiel. ‘Come ’ere.’
Martha watched in horror as Mrs Wingsworth came forward. Her tentacles trembled with fear but Martha saw her struggling not to show that she was scared.
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‘I really didn’t mean anything by it,’ said Mrs Wingsworth, talking quickly. ‘But really, dears, it is funny. I mean, imagine! You’ve never even seen a canapé.’
‘Canner-peas,’ growled Dashiel, still holding a half-eaten cheese and pineapple stick. ‘That’s what they’re called?’
‘Yeah,’ said Martha, trying to calm the situation. ‘That’s a posh name for finger food. I call them “nibbles”.’ It was like any family party, with her having to be the peacemaker. Except when her parents argued, they weren’t also wielding guns.
‘Nibbles,’ said Dashiel slowly.
‘Cos you nibble on ’em.
Yeah.’
He seemed quite taken with the word, and finished the cheese and pineapple stick as he considered. Martha stepped forward, proffering the tray so he could put the stick into the little silver box. She didn’t withdraw, waiting in front of him until he took another cheese and pineapple stick from her tray. Anything to keep his mind off the gun in his other hand.
‘We’ve also got sausage rolls and scotch eggs,’ she told him, ‘and those things like baby pizzas.’
‘Cor,’ said Dashiel and Jocelyn together.
‘“Things like baby pizzas”!’ said Mrs Wingsworth, aghast.
‘What now?!’
shouted Dashiel, storming over to her.
Mrs
Wingsworth threw her tentacles up in front of her wide and orange face. The other tentacled aliens quickly withdrew to the far side of the room, leaving Mrs Wingsworth on her own with Dashiel.
‘She didn’t mean it!’ said Martha quickly. She wasn’t sure what she could do to stop him, especially with the tray of cheese and pineapple sticks in her hands.
‘You shut up,’ Dashiel snapped at her.
‘Now,’ he said to Mrs
Wingsworth, prodding her egg-shaped body with his gun, ‘you tell me. What?’
Mrs Wingsworth seemed to consider her predicament and conclude she had nothing to lose. She visibly relaxed, meeting Dashiel’s gaze and holding it.
‘I know you can’t help it, dear,’ she said. ‘But you three are just an absolute shambles. Coming aboard like this, all threats and violence.
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And you don’t even know what you’re eating! My boys could tell you what made the best blinis – that is what they’re called, young woman –before they were fully hatched!’
Dashiel seemed transfixed by the performance. He knew he was being insulted, Martha could see, but he didn’t quite understand how.
The cheese and pineapple sticks were a brief taste of a life he and his colleagues had never even known. And for all this tentacled alien prisoner taunted him, the insult also gave a tantalising glimpse of a life where you could take this luscious stuff for granted. A life where food had different names.
Martha glanced over at Jocelyn and Archibald. They too were watching avidly, hanging on what Mrs Wingsworth had to say. It was just possible, she thought, that the tentacled alien had made them rethink their pirate ways.
‘Yeah,’ murmured Jocelyn.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Archibald hungrily. ‘Go on, do it, Dash.’
And Martha suddenly saw that she had got it wrong. They weren’t hungry at the thought of Mrs Wingsworth’s world of canapés. They were excited because she’d just given them an excuse to kill her.
‘Please,’ said Martha, taking the tray of cheese and pineapple sticks with her as she went over to Dashiel.
‘I said shut up!’ he snapped at her, his eyes never leaving Mrs Wingsworth.
Mrs Wingsworth did not look away from him. ‘It’s all right, dear,’
she told Martha. ‘I’d rather get it over with now than spend any more time with this riff-raff.’ She smiled with satisfaction, like somehow she’d just won a board game.
Dashiel took a step back from her and raised his gun.
‘No!’ cried Martha, dropping the tray to one side as she ran forward.
Dashiel swiped her away with one paw, sending her sprawling across the floor, on top of the spilt cheese and pineapple sticks. Stunned, s
he looked up in time to see Dashiel pulling the trigger.
Mrs Wingsworth didn’t scream. She stood tall and sure and haughty as the pink light dazzled round her. Martha watched appalled until there was nothing of Mrs Wingsworth left to see.
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More than three hours later, the Doctor stood in the same cocktail lounge watching the space where until a moment before Mrs Wingsworth had stood.
The air was rich with a stink of roasted
lemons, and wisps of ash floated from the ceiling, but only the Doctor seemed in any way bothered about what had just taken place.
‘You disintegrated her!’ he said, appalled.
‘Yeah,’ said Dash. ‘S’only language these lot unnerstand.’
The Doctor blinked at him. ‘You disintegrated her!’ he said again.
Dashiel grinned. ‘You catch on quick,’ he said.
The other Balumin prisoners huddled by the bay window, though not from fear, the Doctor noticed. They really didn’t seem to give a stuff that Mrs Wingsworth had just been killed and that it might be anyone of them next. He ran a hand through his thick hair, not caring that it probably made it all stick up oddly.
‘Right,’ he said, addressing the badger pirates. ‘Well maybe before anyone else gets hurt we can discuss what it is you lot want. From us, from the Brilliant, from life in general if you like.’ He grinned at them.
Dash regarded him coolly. ‘We gotta mission,’ he said.
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That’s good,’ said the Doctor. ‘Something to work towards. I like that.’
Dash nodded but said nothing further. The Doctor could see he was going to need some prompting.
‘Your mission wouldn’t be to pinch the Brilliant’s experimental drive, would it?’ he said. The badgers stared at him.
‘Yeah,’ said Archie.
‘No,’ said Dash at the same time. He glared at Archie, then said to the Doctor, ‘It might be.’
‘Figured,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s what I’d be after, if I was a pirate.’
Dash leered at him. ‘We ain’t pirates,’ he said. ‘We’re entrepreneurs.’
‘Oh right,’ said the Doctor. ‘Sorry, I always get those two the wrong way round. Pirates are the ones with the suits and pink shirts, aren’t they? Anyway. I’m thirsty. Aren’t you lot thirsty, what with all the entrepreneuring? Is there anywhere round here we can get a drink?’