Zamper

by Gareth Roberts

  The Zamps’ mysterious light source dazzled Smith, the luminescence bouncing off the Doctor’s white suit and hurting her eyes. She wasn’t certain, but it seemed to be brightening. As they approached the far side of the cavern she looked over her shoulder at the rear of the artifact. Noticing something, she tugged the Doctor’s sleeve. ‘This side is almost perfectly smooth,’ she said, and pointed to its mist-shrouded sheer face, its appearance in contrast to the crazy angles of the opposite side.

  ‘So it is. And there are fewer Zamps here.’ He tapped his chin with the handle of his umbrella. Smith risked an upward glance to the brilliant core of the light source, which the Doctor seemed to have no problem in facing directly. In the moment before she was forced to look away she glimpsed a ball of white fire, apparently suspended high on the facing rock face, at the centre of an intersection of uncannily straight fault lines. The Doctor went on, ‘They must have constructed it by superheating certain metals. It’s staggering, quite staggering.’

  ‘And very strange,’ said Smith. ‘They don’t need light.’

  ‘No, they don’t. Hmm.’ The Doctor turned away from the light source and returned his attentions to the artifact. ‘Smith. We’re two miles down here, yes? On the same level as the construction yards?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me. How are the newly-constructed ships launched?’

  ‘Well, there are slipways in each yard, leading to outlets on the surface. The ship powers up, under the Management’s remote control, and the buyers pick it up in orbit.’ She had an uncomfortable feeling that the Doctor was ahead of her again; he nodded as she spoke. ‘Well. Are you going to let me in on this one?’

  He raised both eyebrows. ‘Sorry. I mean, haven’t you realized?’ He gestured back over his shoulder at the glowing split in the rocks. ‘That’s a slipway. Thus…’ He nodded to the artifact.

  ‘It’s a ship?’ Smith looked over the artifact again. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Why is it impossible?’ He hopped back the way they had come, offering his hand for her guidance, looking for all the world like a small boy about to embark on a scrumping spree. She remained behind. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Her shoulders slumped. ‘I’ve worked on this problem for eight years. It feels rather galling to be told I’ve got it totally wrong.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked down at his shoes. He had difficulty, she noted, in expressing emotions. ‘Well, failure is one of the basic freedoms. Besides, I’m sure you would have worked it out eventually. There’s another thing to consider, in fact.’ The enthusiasm returned to his face. ‘It’s all rather coincidental, isn’t it? Your geological survey, leading us down here. Why did you carry it out?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I suppose it just…’ She trailed off, realization dawning. ‘It just came into my mind.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He offered his hand again, and this time she took it. ‘Those specimens of yours, I’ll wager, had something to do with it, planting the impulse in your head. The Zamps want us down here, and most importantly of all, they want us to see their product. Hence the light. All of this business has been a somewhat oblique attempt to communicate.’

  ‘Couldn’t they have been more direct?’ she asked as they skirted the narrow route back through the slime.

  ‘Ah, well, the human mind, generally speaking, hasn’t much of a telepathic facility. At least not in the heavily-industrialized societies such as the one your lot come from. One of the Zamps had more success with me, but I grant you they’re not very skilled at it. Not really designed for it, you see.’

  ‘They were hardly designed to go building ships of their own,’ Smith pointed out. She stretched out a leg to follow the Doctor, who had advanced on to the next dry piece of rock, and nearly fell when, without warning he straightened up and took away his hand to smote himself on the forehead.

  ‘Of course!’ he cried.

  Smith lost her balance and toppled into a patch of slime, landing with an unpleasant squelch in the midst of a group of Zamps. She shrieked and tried to rise up, her hands and face covered in the tacky strands of the substance, the Zamps reacting to her presence and slithering over her. A shiver of fear passed over her as she felt their cold, clammy bodies slipping over her arms and legs, brushing wetly over her eyes.

  ‘Grab hold of this!’ she heard the Doctor cry. She managed to raise her head, although her long hair was now coated in the trail, and saw his extended umbrella. The sensation of the soft underside of a Zamp passing over her hand made her gag, and her revulsion gave her the strength to shake it off and grab the umbrella-handle. When her grip was strong enough, the Doctor pulled, displaying a surprising strength. As she emerged from the mire he flicked Zamps from her jacket and trousers, using the tips of his fingers and moving his arm back and forth in a swatting motion so as not to become struck himself. The Zamps squealed as he struck them, each landing back in its group with a revolting plopping sound. Smith pulled her heavy boots from the trail, breaking strands that clung like melted cheese. She fell into the Doctor’s arms, shaking.

  ‘That can’t have been very pleasant,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She sensed the resentment in his voice. Perhaps he’d been right about coming down here alone.

  She wiped away the patches of slime on her jacket sleeve and shuddered. ‘It’s irrational. Why should I feel scared of them?’

  The Doctor wasn’t paying attention. His alert eyes were roving about the cavern, looking in every direction. He seemed to be paying particular attention to the base of the artifact, and the arrangement of holes through which Zamps were passing in and out. ‘I was right,’ he said at last in response to her unanswered question. ‘The curious thing about this place is the eggs.’

  She looked around. ‘There aren’t any eggs.’

  ‘That’s the curious thing.’

  Ivzid stopped abruptly. His journey through the caverns had taken him to a narrow passage through which he could not pass. He checked the structural integrity of the roof, and pondered on its resistance to his strength. By pushing at lines of stress at this side, he might be able to widen the passage. He could not say why, but there was a feeling of expectation building deep in his interior. Certainly, his spiritual guide seemed to be telling him, he would find the answers to all his questions and obtain the means to his vengeance by passing ahead. He weighed the percentages. If he loosened the structure of this area, he might very well bring down a rockslide on his own head.

  He motored back slightly, manoeuvering himself around the sharp corner that led to the narrow passageway. Perhaps a more circuitous, but safer, route would be best.

  Before he had taken three backward steps, a wave of fear flashed through his mind. Something in his imagination shifted, something fundamental to his nature. For a second Ivzid felt his individuality stripped away. His joints froze and he found himself rearing up like an animal, all personal considerations obliterated by a terror that welled up from some walled-off corner of his being.

  The moment passed.

  He motored forward, shaking his head. He must not succumb to such foolishness. There was nothing to be afraid of in these caves.

  The way forward, moments previously half his shell-width, was now wide, and he was able to proceed with ease. He looked back, but there was no other turning he might have taken mistakenly. Deciding not to question the irregularity he hurried on.

  The Chelonian shuttle’s main entrance was concealed beneath its central prow, a circular outline that was firmly closed. Mr Jottipher watched the Secunda, who stepped forward with apparently total confidence. She crouched down and felt for a hidden mechanism. The slight pressure of her palm on the concealed plate caused the interlocking sections of the hatchway to spiral open from the centre. ‘Emergency entrance,’ she told Mr Jottipher. He reasoned that her familiarity with the alien vessel’s fixtures came from a close study of the routine scan made by the defence outposts.

  Half-convinced that either of the Chelonians mig
ht spring out, he followed her through the hatch, still carrying the strongbox. The dimly-lit compartment beyond was wide but low-ceilinged, as might be expected given the stature of its crew. A further reminder of the unpleasant reptiles was the ever-present leathery odour. But there was really no need to take fright. The Secunda had everything in hand.

  Something brushed across his face. Mr Jottipher squealed and fell to his knees, fearing that there might be a third Chelonian concealed inside the shuttle.

  The Secunda laughed a little cruelly. ‘Get up.’

  He opened his eyes. ‘Madam, I…’ He examined the source of his shock, one of four flexible metallic straps ending in loops that dangled from the ceiling.

  The Secunda slipped one of her hands through a loop. ‘They’re lowered up and down using these,’ she explained. ‘It’s an automatic system.’ She gestured for him to copy her, and he did so. Merely to touch an object that was the property of the Chelonians made him feel faint.

  The strap moved, lifting him up. He hugged the strongbox to his chest and closed his eyes, terrified by this strange alien environment. Burglary and theft were not activities he would ever willingly have taken to, and stealing from the Chelonians was not the most ideal way to start. In his mind he saw Ivzid’s gaping jaw and dripping fangs. To comfort himself, he took a peek at the Secunda, who was still smiling. So everything had to be all right.

  The straps carried them up and into the strangest room Mr Jottipher had ever seen. A grating slid beneath their feet, allowing them to relax their grip on the straps. Both he and the Secunda were forced to bow their heads as they turned to examine their surroundings. The prevailing style was functional, but not in the same way as the gleaming white tubeways of the Complex which had so much contributed to his psychological health. No, there was something rather vulgar about the Chelonians’ idea of internal design. Each element, from the flat grey sensor-pads arranged to respond to the manipulations of a Chelonian’s four extremities, to the buttress that jutted across the ceiling, was pleasing in itself, but there had been no attempt made to lighten the effect. At the far end of the chamber were twin console read-outs, indicating that this was some sort of a flight station. The instrument panels were built into the floor; three screens displayed random graphic displays, casting a ghostly orange glow.

  Mr Jottipher sighed. ‘However are we going to be able to fly this blessed thing?’ He indicated the sensor pads on the floor. ‘Look at those, they’re hardly suitable for us to use.’

  ‘There’s a simplification program in-built into their flight computer,’ she answered smoothly. ‘All we need to do is bypass the command circuit.’

  ‘You’re awfully well-informed,’ he said.

  ‘It’s simple. Chelonians think like children, their technology’s like building bricks.’ She gestured to the left readout. ‘Go to that console.’

  ‘Er, well, er…’ He coughed and nodded down at the strongbox, still clasped to his chest.

  ‘Oh, allow me.’ He passed the strongbox over. She lifted it with remarkable ease and stowed it in a darkened corner. ‘Why didn’t you ask me to take it sooner?’ she asked; rather kindly, Mr Jottipher thought. She wasn’t as fierce as she sometimes appeared, despite being one of those people who raise their voices and always seem to get what they want. It was good to be on her side. Maybe people like her needed people like him.

  He knelt before the read-out panel, keeping his head low. The panel was composed of a dark glassy substance, and on closer inspection he could see that beneath it were dormant oblong-shaped sensor-pads, ready for activation.

  The Secunda was working at something behind him, he could hear the tips of her long finger-nails tapping an adagio over one of the foot-manipulated sensor pads. This was replaced by a series of clicks, and then a metallic rattling that sounded something like bolts being drawn back. At that moment the panel below him was illuminated, and he saw the wisdom in the Secunda’s analogy of the building bricks. The oblong pads were connected by a network of simple logical routes. Basic computer technology, probably used by the Chelonians for training purposes, he supposed.

  ‘Now, Mr Jottipher,’ the Secunda called out, ‘do you see the two panels marked in bright yellow on either side of the display?’

  ‘Yes, I see them.’ He felt invigorated. This far ahead, how could they be stopped? This was getting to be quite an adventure.

  ‘Now, put your hands on those panels,’ said the Secunda.

  Oh, the relief, to be obeying orders again! A clear task, clear instructions, a responsible superior. He complied, with a warm heart.

  ‘Are both your hands, palms facing downwards, on the bright yellow panels?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  A ticklish sensation passed over his fingertips, but he held firm, sure enough this was only an effect of the command sequence powering up. More of the oblong symbols lit themselves, and a pleasantly efficient-sounding hum came from all around. The soft orange glow of the lighting gave the interior of the Chelonian shuttle the homely air of a sitting-room bathed in the warmth of a blazing hearth.

  The ticklish sensation increased. A little alarmed, Mr Jottipher tried to take his hands away from the panels.

  They were stuck fast. The skin on his fingers was affixed by a strong force.

  ‘Er, Secunda,’ he said. ‘Er, I’m having –’

  A wave of unimaginable agony surged through Mr Jottipher’s body. He saw his hands suffused by an emerald aura, felt his body twist and jerk, was aware of his legs thrashing from side to side, his head crashing against the ceiling, the flesh on his face blistering as a lethal voltage stripped the skin from his fingers, then travelled up his arms, setting fire to his clothes, blackening his neat grey tunic, making every hair of his well-groomed head stand on end.

  He thought of Nula, poor pretty little thing, her remains hardly more than three chunks of charcoaled gristle, ferried away on a stretcher borne by two buzzing servitors.

  The force of the shock heaved him rigidly upright.

  Now beyond pain, his last thoughts were of the Secunda; it was surely no fault of hers that he had failed, and he hoped that she would be able to escape.

  She was, after all, so much more important than he had ever been.

  Chapter 8

  The chimes sounded, three high notes between which the cheers of the crowd hushed first to murmurs and then whispers. A respectful pause followed. Then the silver-shelled master-at-arms motored forward, took his place on the plinth at the foot of the memorial obelisk, and barked out harshly, ‘Fa-ka-ra!’

  The invocation in narrow dialect rebounded off all points of the triumphal square, in perfect congruity with the aged but indefatigably upright aluminium spires of the ceremonial quarter. The master-at-arms turned to the imperial landau. ‘Ga-ya-za!’ The escort’s bearers moved back in step, their silver tabards flashing in the noonday suns. The raptors that bore the landau, trained by the finest handlers of all Chelonia, remained still, their savage eyes fixed straight ahead, immaculate in the livery of the maternal stables.

  At a signal given by the master-at-arms, the cover of the imperial landau was opened, folding back on silent hydraulics in a single graceful motion. Big Mother was revealed, resplendent in a sparkling green gown. He raised his left front foot and waved regally.

  The martial band played, the crowd roared. Big Mother waved on, and on.

  He paused the recording as the door of the imperial chamber hissed open and his nurse shuffled in, lowered his head and set to work on changing his waste-sacks.

  ‘The jubilee parade of ’736,’ Big Mother wheezed, pointing to the holoscreen. ‘We suppose you are too young even to recall that.’

  ‘I was hatched in ’745,’ the nurse said. ‘But my line was present, in four generations.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Big Mother. ‘You are of Kumzir? A fine breed, and loyal. Physicians of deserved repute and skill.’ He remembered having this conversation before, and to cover the nurse’s embarrassment said,
‘We are an old man, our mind is crowded. Sometimes,’ he confided, ‘we long for the release of death. Only the demise of the usurper sustains us. Only that.’

  The nurse continued his work, exchanging the filled waste-sacks for new. Big Mother closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. In his youth and middle age he had sometimes taken of alcoholic substances for social purposes, and had been particularly fond of the exotically-flavoured sherries imported from the southern flank of the empire. He recalled how his thoughts had become more jumbled the more he drank, and the pleasing merriness he had experienced. His current experience of life was similar. It was impossible to trace a thought or to reason or to extrapolate. New ideas were frustratingly ungraspable. His wandering mind became clear only when his eyes turned to the screen and to recordings of things past. It saddened him that this was so.

  He spoke to the nurse again. ‘How old are you now, boy?’

  ‘Forty cycles, Highness.’

  ‘Forty cycles,’ sighed Big Mother. ‘Oh, to have the body and the mind of a forty cycle-old once more. Yet I feel more pity for you than for myself. Your young life is wasted, cooped up aboard this can. Things were different when we were your age, we –’ his voice faltered ‘– we could never have foreseen the fall.’

  The nurse stood to attention before him. ‘Highness, may I have permission to exchange the fluid tubes in your mouth?’

  Big Mother opened wide in answer. He waited while the tubes were replaced, and then asked, ‘Boy, tell us. When the fall came, why did you remain loyal?’

  ‘My eternal loyalty is to the empire,’ the nurse said hotly.

  ‘Oh yes, that we know. But many others had sworn the same oath and were quick to renounce it.’

  The nurse considered. ‘I had – I have a position in life that suits me, and that position is to serve the empire.’

  ‘I see.’ Big Mother looked back at the screen and the paused image of himself, forty-nine cycles ago, rising to address his subjects. ‘You do not consider the rituals irrelevant?’