Island of Death

by Barry Letts

  But what was she going to say to the Brig? He’d be back in his way-hay playboy mode, likely, even without a bottle of whisky inside him.

  She’d just have to play it by ear.

  Her mind was still knitting itself into a ravelled mess when she became aware that the mist was fading. She could already see the cliffs, not so far ahead.

  She jumped as she heard two explosions. What now, for God’s sake?

  She turned to go up top. But she paused at the door before she left the safety of the covered bridge, and looked for’d again. Had the mist absolutely gone? There’d be no point in going up if she was going to join them in la-la land.

  No, it was all right. The cliffs were pin-sharp... A bit near, weren’t they?

  Out of the door. No smell. Up the ladder. Yes, there was the blue cloud well astern of them.

  ‘Full ahead, both engines. Steady as she goes...’

  The t-r-r-ring t-r-r-ring of the engine-room telegraphs, repeated back from the engine room.

  It took a moment to sink in, what Pete had said, and what it meant. She could feel the wind in her face as the ship speeded up. What was he up to? He was heading straight for the cliffs! He’d have to give the order soon, or they’d...

  She saw his expression as he leaned over the edge of the bridge, looking ahead: a vacuous smile of pleasure, of anticipation, of...

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Stop!’

  They all looked round, even the Cox’n, who was steering.

  All of them on the bridge from the CO to the signalman had the same expression, an expression of glee. Small boys on a roller-coaster ride.

  ‘Sarah! Where’ve you been?’ cried the Brigadier. ‘We’re going to have a party! Tell you what, UNIT can buy us all a bottle of fizz. No, a case! I’ll fiddle it on my expenses.’

  By now, the ship was approaching its maximum speed.

  HMS Hallaton was on course to smash straight into the cliff; and nobody was doing anything to stop it.

  The Doctor didn’t know whether to watch as Dame Hilda made the effort to turn’ as she called it. Somehow it seemed an intrusion on a moment of extreme intimacy, a sort of voyeurism. But she didn’t seem to mind one way or the other.

  She’d gone into another space entirely, a depth of concentration that quite removed her from the little rocky cell where they were imprisoned.

  As she continued, her chanting became more intense, more passionate, but the volume didn’t increase as it had when he was watching and listening to the whole Skang group.

  Yet it seemed to be working. It took longer, as she had implied, but eventually her voice abruptly stopped and there appeared the strange shimmering that had heralded the moment of transmutation before.

  But this time the process hadn’t been nearly so overwhelming to watch. All the Doctor had felt was that his mind was going slightly out of focus, and as the image of Dame Hilda started to ripple he was aware that it was all happening in his brain, rather than a few yards in front of him.

  But just when he expected the change (and he was determined not to miss the moment), the mirage effect faded away.

  Hilda dropped her head. She was as out of breath as if she’d just run a champion’s one hundred metres. She swayed, as if she were about to pass out, and gratefully accepted the Doctor’s help as he guided her back to her chair.

  ‘It’s no good,’ she said at last. ‘I couldn’t quite reach. It was just beyond my grasp - a few inches from my fingertips.’

  This was a disaster! It was their only hope of escape.

  She shook her head. ‘I know quite well that this old body has no substance. I know that I’m not really an old woman.

  But knowing it with my mind - Hilda’s mind - just isn’t enough. It has to be experiential. And after the last few days... Do you realise that if I lost my concentration, the village and the temple would disappear? I just haven’t enough Skang energy left.’

  The Doctor, who had squatted next to her, holding her hand, stood up and walked to the gap in the window they’d managed to make so far. He gazed down into the empty amphitheatre.

  They weren’t going to get out.

  They were going to have a view from the royal box of the last act of this comedy - and the consequence would be tragic: the wiping out of everybody on Stella Island, if not the whole human race.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  This was turning out to be one of the best operations he’d been involved in since he joined UNIT, thought the Brigadier.

  He hadn’t taken enough time off in the past. Whenever he went on leave there always seemed to be some family duty to be taken care of. Things were going to change in the future!

  His ruminations were interrupted by a shout behind him.

  Ah, Sarah! To be honest, he hadn’t even noticed that she’d disappeared. But he was glad to see her come back even if she wasn’t a Betty Grable. Pretty enough, though, and the only female on board after all!

  ‘Sarah! Where’ve you been?’ he cried. We’re going to have a party! Tell you what, UNIT can buy us all a bottle of fizz. No, a case! I’ll fiddle it on my expenses.’

  There was a general cheer from the others on the bridge, even Bert Rogers the signalman, and the two lookouts.

  But Sarah wasn’t even listening. ‘Look! Look!’ she shouted, pointing ahead. ‘We’re going to crash!’

  What the devil was she talking about? He could see the seafront quite clearly now, with its row of shops and bars, but it was still a good six or seven hundred yards away.

  Pete Andrews was actually laughing. Was it meant as a joke?

  Evidently not. His laughter stopped and he watched open-mouthed as Sarah jumped forward and grabbed the brass handles of the engine-room telegraph, pulling them back to full astern.

  This was beyond any sort of joke.

  After an astonished moment, the telegraph answered. But by then Sarah had turned and launched herself at the Cox’n, who was so taken by surprise that he lost his balance and fell onto the deck.

  But before she could touch the helm, Pete Andrews had leapt forward and grabbed her round the waist, lifted her bodily and swung her away from the wheel. She was frantic.

  She was screaming. She was kicking and beating at Andrews with her fists.

  He was still laughing.

  ‘God Almighty!’

  What? What now? The Brigadier swung round. Bob Simkins had appeared in the doorway that led to the bowels of the ship.

  The Cox’n was getting to his feet. Diving forward, Bob shouldered him out of the way, grabbed the wheel and spun it to starboard as far as it would go.

  The ship had hardly slowed at all, and as it answered to the helm it listed to port, and the Cox’n, who had staggered back against Pete Andrews and his hysterical burden, fell over again.

  The Commanding Officer had stopped laughing. He dropped Sarah, who was sobbing with rage and desperation, and charged across the bridge to Bob, and tried to pull him away from the wheel, watched incredulously by Bert and the lookouts.

  The Brigadier found it equally incredible. The two most senior naval officers on the ship brawling like a couple of fourth-formers, for God’s sake!

  He almost lost his balance as he rushed to stop them before they could do anything they’d regret. But as he was trying to pull them apart, he felt a tug at his arm, and a voice screaming in his ear, ‘No, sir! Look!’

  It was the signalman, and like Sarah before, he was pointing towards the shore.

  Despite himself, the Brigadier glanced round. The ship, still turning, was less than twenty yards from the black cliffs, and still slanting towards it.

  Sarah and the Cox’n, just back on their feet, froze, along with everybody else. Nobody could move. They could all see it now; and there was nothing to be done.

  They waited for a time out of time, an endless moment.

  Except for the rumble of the engines and the wind in their ears, silence...

  The Hallaton, still travelling at disaster speed with her hel
m hard astarboard, reached the top of her turning circle, and started to swing away from the cliff.

  It was so near, you could have counted the eggs in the boobies’ nests.

  Alex Whitbread, still in Skang form, looked out over his brothers and sisters (though the individual Skang were themselves sexless) as they took their seats, and revelled in his moment of triumph. The ongoing bliss of unity, controlled by his intention and his alone, was compounded with the deep satisfaction of his human persona at achieving his ambition.

  They had overcome all the obstacles. He could feel throughout his body the rising force that told him that the optimum time was fast approaching for the descent of their parent swarm - the collective individual that was the Great Skang, at once the object of their devotion and the very core of their being. Once Alex’s position had been ratified (he laughed to himself as the dry human term sprang to mind), nothing could stop him from becoming the de facto ruler of the world.

  Everybody knew the form of the ceremony; it was so much part of their evolutionary heritage that it was as instinctive as the urge of a bird to make a nest. Their survival depended on it.

  The first thing to happen would be the Prime Assimilation.

  This would be the sign, the trigger, that would bring down their Beloved, who would grace the Mass Assimilation of the rest of the faithful with the divine presence, absorbing the psionic energy of their vital young bodies, as a token of the richness that would be offered as soon as the Earth had become theirs.

  And he, Alex, would be the privileged one. The first of the candidates lining up again outside the temple would be brought inside, and he, as leader (again the thrill as he relished the word), would be the first to taste the joy and the deep fulfilment he’d already sampled illegitimately in London.

  He lifted his hands in the air to quieten the murmurs coming from the arena. In the silence he raised his voice and called across to the guard standing by the entrance. The time has come. Bring in the first of the faithful!’

  At last he’d managed it! He was first in the queue. But Jeremy had found that it wasn’t quite so simple as he’d expected.

  He’d idly watched - to tell the truth, getting a bit bored after a while - as the guards, with reinforcements garnered by walkie-talkie, ministered to the injured and carried away the dead.

  They did seem to be very slow in going about it. But there you were, it was the same all over. Mama was always complaining that you couldn’t get the right sort these days.

  The faithful retainer was an endangered species, she often said, like the mountain gorilla.

  He liked gorillas.

  He didn’t like being kept waiting.

  He was seriously thinking of making his way down to the village to see what was going on when he saw them all coming back through the rocky bit into the clearing, shepherded by a lot of guards, who were being very officious, pushing people into line ready to go up the steps.

  Including him.

  ‘I was here first!’ he’d complained to the big fellow who looked like a Red Indian, who’d manhandled him into the line about twenty from the front.

  All he’d said was ‘Tough titty’ - which was hardly helpful -

  and turned away.

  By the time he’d got to the top, Jeremy had slipped back another dozen places, and was as fed up as the day he’d lost his wallet in the Burlington Arcade and had to go home on the tube instead of taking a taxi as he usually did.

  But then he remembered. Whenever he’d flown anywhere with Mama, she would never get to the checkin at the proper time, just to stand at the back of the queue. She’d arrive as late as possible, wander up to the very front of the line, and engage whoever was standing there in animated conversation, as if she was with them, part of their party.

  They always seemed a bit bewildered, but the rest of the people behind just accepted it - and only once had anybody objected when she stepped up to the desk first; and then she’d given him one of her looks, and he’d shut up.

  Why hadn’t he thought of it? It worked a treat. The faithful at the front were a couple of rather weedy females he’d never seen before. But when he started chatting about the guns and stuff, they just let him stay. As soon as they opened the big doors, he’d be in there.

  Thank you, Mama.

  ‘Why, there you are, Jeremy!’

  He turned in surprise. Coming up the outside of the queue was his girlfriend - well, sort of - Emma.

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, daarling,’ she drawled.

  Gosh! And there he’d been thinking that maybe she didn’t like him after all.

  Chummily taking him by the arm, she gave him a luscious smile. He could feel her body through the thin muslin. She wasn’t wearing a bra!

  Feeling wobbly in the legs, he opened his mouth to answer...

  ...but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Luckily, at that very moment, one of the great doors swung open, and a guard appeared. ‘First one,’ he said, looking at Jeremy.

  This was it! He’d made it!

  ‘See you around,’ said Emma sweetly, and walked inside.

  No! He made to follow.

  The guard put a hand on his chest. ‘Just the one,’ he said, and closed the door in his face.

  So what now?’ asked the Brig, grimly.

  Good question, thought Sarah.

  ‘Half ahead together. Steady as she goes, Cox’n,’ said Pete.

  ‘Let’s get away from those rocks.’

  ‘Steady as she goes. Aye, aye, sir.’

  Pete turned to the Brig. ‘I was just about to ask you that.

  We don’t carry any more missiles. That was the lot.’

  Thank goodness for that, thought Sarah. At least they weren’t going to kill the Doctor.

  ‘We’ve got a few hand grenades...’

  It was Bob Simkins joining in. A joke? Yeah, a joke.

  They could all thank their lucky stars for Bob (and she didn’t give a toss if that was a cliché). As he’d been down in Gunnery Control, he’d missed the blue fog entirely.

  The silence had gone on for quite a few minutes after their narrow squeak. Once the Hallaton had come to a stop, Bob had cut the engines and brought the wheel amidships. The ship was rocking gently in the slight swell coming from the west. For the moment she was quite safe.

  Bob had turned from the wheel and looked at his CO. At last he’d spoken. ‘What the...?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Pete had said.

  Bob had turned to the Brig. He’d just shaken his head.

  Sarah had come to their rescue. After all, they must be feeling like a couple of right Charlies. And yet it wasn’t their fault. ‘It was that mist, like before,’ she’d said.

  That had broken the dam, and Bob was swamped by words coming at him from every direction, even from Bert the signalman. They weren’t just explaining to Bob, they were explaining to themselves.

  When the torrent had dried up, there was another awkward silence, until Pete had realised that they were still nearer to the shore than he would have liked and did something about it, and the Brigadier had asked, ‘So what now?’

  After Bob’s rather feeble joke, which made nobody laugh, there was another silence.

  They were the experts, thought Sarah. Just because she was stumped that didn’t mean...

  ‘Revert to the landing party?’ said Pete, at last.

  ‘But it must be too late,’ said Sarah.

  ‘We can’t know that. I don’t see that we have any option.’

  ‘And end up in another pea-souper?’ said the Brig. ‘They’ll have us dancing a fandango before we’re finished.’

  There was a baffled silence.

  ‘Hah! Of course! ‘Gas masks?’ said Sarah.

  The time has come. Bring in the first of the faithful!’

  The Doctor turned away from the window, where he had watched the return of the flying Skang.

  Dame Hilda - Mother Hilda, as he had to think of her now -


  seemed not to have heard Alex. She was slumped in her chair, utterly defeated.

  ‘There is a big enough gap for us both to be able to see,’ he said.

  Of course she knew that. But if she heard him, she gave no sign. The grief he felt as he turned back was not for her, nor yet for the stunning beauty who was being ushered in through the front entrance. It was for the world, for all the worlds, and the pain that lay at the heart of things.

  He was about to see a ritual murder. Before his eyes, the perfect body of this trusting child would be reduced to nothing but a bag of bones.

  And yet... there was no way that he could experience in himself the hatred that he knew his companions would be feeling for the Skang. They weren’t fiends from some alien hell, but creatures with as valid a right to existence as humankind, or the natives of Gallifrey, or any other race from the kaleidoscope of living beings he’d met during his epic journeys through time and space.

  The ‘first of the faithful’ had halted at the top of the steps leading down into the arena, a dismayed hand to her mouth as she saw the upturned faces.

  But after the original hesitation, she drew herself up and, with her chin in the air, descended the staircase and walked down the aisle to the stage and the waiting leader of the Skang with a confident stride, the air of the high-couture catwalk, which said ‘I’m-me-and-be-damned-to-you’.

  Hilda’s room, as befitted her position, was the nearest to the platform, so the Doctor had a profile view of the meeting, and was able to hear the murmured voices.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, my dear.’ It was the golden voice of Alex Whitbread encouraging her as she hesitated once more at the bottom of the aisle.

  Gazing up with the wide-eyed innocence of a neophyte at the living figure of the being who had taken possession of her mind and her heart, she slowly mounted the steps to the stage and gracefully knelt, bowing her head in submission.