Deep Blue

by Mark Morris

  The Brigadier looked at him for a moment, pride battling with honesty. Then his shoulders slumped a little and he sighed. ‘Yes, well, I suppose I have been feeling a bit woozy,’

  he mumbled. ‘And I’ve got this... this rash.’ He ran a hand across his chest, over his shoulder and down his arm to show the Doctor the extent of it.

  ‘May I see?’ asked the Doctor gently.

  The Brigadier, clearly embarrassed, said, ‘Is it really necessary?’

  ‘You know it is,’ the Doctor said.

  The Brigadier’s sigh was deeper this time. Reluctantly he unbuttoned the jacket of his uniform, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.

  The Doctor eased the shirt apart and his face tightened. At this the Brigadier looked down at himself. ‘Good grief!’ he said.

  All across his chest, the black, tell-tale nubs of Xaranti quills were beginning to poke through his skin.

  * * *

  A UNIT jeep cruised to a stop beside them. As Benton jumped out of the passenger side, the Brigadier hastily rebuttoned his shirt. Benton poked his head through the open window beside the Brigadier. ‘I thought you were all goners for a moment there,’ he said. ‘What happened? Is everyone OK?’

  ‘Everyone’s perfectly fine, thank you, Benton,’ said the Brigadier brusquely.

  ‘A slight miscalculation on my part, I’m afraid,’ said the Doctor, giving Benton a meaningful look. ‘I overshot the red light. Careless of me.’

  ‘I see,’ said Benton hesitantly. ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re all right...’

  ‘Never better,’ snapped the Brigadier. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else, Benton, I suggest we go and tackle this creature before it dies of old age.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Benton, jumping almost to attention in response to the Brigadier’s tone.

  As he left, the Doctor said, ‘I think a quiet word with Sergeant Benton might be in order.’

  ‘Going to tell him about my funny turn, are you?’ said the Brigadier.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the Doctor, though he looked guilty. ‘In view of the circumstances, I think it might be wise to assess the current state of the troops.’

  The Brigadier regarded him shrewdly for a moment, then gave a concessionary nod. ‘Yes, good idea.’

  Offering a brief smile, the Doctor got out of the car and went round to the passenger side of the jeep. ‘Do you think I might have a private word with you, Sergeant?’ he asked.

  Benton looked surprised. He regarded the Doctor as a good friend, but it was not often the Time Lord confided in him.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said and got out of the jeep. ‘Is everything all right, Doctor?’

  The Doctor led him a few yards away from the jeep and regarded him gravely. ‘How are you feeling, Sergeant?’

  Benton frowned. ‘You mean since eating the fish yesterday?

  This infection thing?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Benton considered for a moment. ‘Not too bad. I’ve been having one or two odd thoughts, but I think I’m holding things together pretty well.’

  ‘Good man. And the troops? How are they?’

  ‘A bit edgy. I’m having to give them constant pep-talks to stop them losing concentration.’ He shrugged. ‘Some are worse than others, mind you. Around a dozen or so have had to be confined to sick bay.’

  The Doctor patted Benton on the arm. ‘Keep fighting it, Sergeant. You’re doing a splendid job.’ His voice dropped, even though they were out of earshot of both the jeep and the Brigadier’s car. ‘The Brigadier’s not too good, I’m afraid. I’m not sure how much longer he can keep going.’

  Benton puffed out his chest. ‘I’ll try and keep an eye on things for you at this end, Doctor. You just find a way to beat these things.’

  They returned to their respective vehicles, and reached the fairground without further incident. UNIT and the local police had done their job well. The place was deserted, the rides silent. As the car approached the gates, where a lone UNIT

  sentry stood guard with his rifle clutched in his hands, the Doctor said wistfully, ‘There’s nothing quite so sad as an empty fairground.’

  ‘Or so eerie,’ said Tegan from the back.

  They stopped beside the sentry. Tegan noticed that the Brigadier, who had been slumped in his seat for the last couple of minutes, was making a concerted effort to pull himself together. She had liked him the first time she had met him, had sensed a kind heart beating beneath his stern exterior, but now she felt a surge of real affection. He was trying so hard to be the leader his men expected him to be.

  Winding down his window the Brigadier leaned out. ‘What’s the situation, Corporal Manning?’ he asked, sounding as strong and alert as ever.

  Manning blinked groggily at the Brigadier and swayed slightly as if he was about to pass out. ‘Corporal Manning!’

  the Brigadier snapped. ‘Pull yourself together, man!’

  Immediately Manning jerked to attention. Flustered he said, ‘Sorry, sir. The... erm... creature’s taken refuge in the Ghost Train, sir. Some of the lads have got the place surrounded. It can’t escape.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Brigadier. His voice softening just a touch, he added, ‘Make sure you keep your wits about you, Corporal.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Manning said. ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Now where’s this Ghost Train?’

  ‘It’s all right. I know,’ said the Doctor.

  The walkways between the rides and stalls were wide enough for the Brigadier’s car to lead the UNIT convoy in single file. They passed the Waltzer and the Log Flume, the Klondike Gold Mine and a looping construction of white tubes that bore the legend: THE TOBOGGAN RUN. The Ghost Train was situated between the Wall of Death and the Viking Longship, and was housed in a tall rectangular building made to look like it was covered in dripping green goo. Its flbreglass, bas-relief surface was further enhanced by a giant rotting-fingered mummy, a witch leaning over a bubbling cauldron, a dayglo-yellow skeleton with a single eyeball hanging from its socket, and a spiky-haired werewolf baying at a cheesy sliver of moon.

  A trio of UNIT marksmen was standing guard outside the Ghost Train, one training his gun on the entrance, one on the exit and one hovering in between, ready to give assistance wherever needed. The two access points were marked by black double-doors, each painted with the huge, grinning head of a snake-haired woman. Three cars in the shape of giant skulls stood bumper to bumper outside the entrance.

  The marksman in the middle turned as the UNIT convoy approached. The Brigadier’s car drew up, and in the time it took for Tegan to reach gingerly for the door handle (her ribs still aching from being slammed into the door during their near-crash), the Doctor had leaped out. As the Brigadier, Tegan and Turlough joined him he finished speaking to the UNIT marksman and turned back towards them.

  ‘Do you have any torches, Brigadier?’ he asked, breathless with the nervous urgency that always radiated from him at the prospect of action.

  The Brigadier seemed momentarily thrown by the question.

  ‘Um... Benton!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ said Benton, hurrying over.

  ‘Do we have any torches?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We should have.’

  ‘Distribute them among the men, would you, Sergeant?’ the Doctor said. ‘Then organise them into two groups for a two-pronged attack. I suggest that you lead one of the groups and the Brigadier and I will lead the other.’

  ‘Couldn’t we just ask someone to turn the lights on in there?’ suggested Tegan.

  ‘We could if our Xaranti friend hadn’t disabled the power supply,’ said the Doctor. ‘He seems to prefer the darkness.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Tegan muttered.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,’ the Doctor said, ‘particularly as you and Turlough will be waiting for us out here.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ responded Tegan hotly, ignoring Turlough’s expression of relief.

  ‘Teg
an, there isn’t time to argue,’ said the Doctor bluntly.

  ‘There’s no point in you and Turlough putting yourselves at risk for no reason.’

  ‘We didn’t come all this way just to sit this out!’ she protested.

  ‘Tegan, the Doctor’s right,’ said Turlough placatingly, taking her arm. ‘We’d only be in the way.’

  Tegan shot him a look of contempt, and was about to respond when the Brigadier said firmly, ‘Besides, Miss Jovanka, may I remind you that this is a military operation under my command, and as such I forbid the involvement of civilians.’

  ‘But the Doctor’s going in with you!’ Tegan said stridently.

  ‘The Doctor still holds the position of UNIT’S scientific adviser.’

  ‘No he doesn’t!’

  The Brigadier closed his eyes briefly. Then he said, ‘May I also remind you, Miss Jovanka, that it is within my jurisdiction to remove all civilians from the immediate area for their own safety.’

  Tegan glared round at the trio of faces regarding her. ‘Oh, you... you... you men!’ she shouted.

  Less than a minute after the two groups had entered the Ghost Train a blue Ford Escort screeched to a halt behind the Brigadier’s staff car and Mike Yates jumped out. Tegan, who had been sitting in tense silence with Turlough in the open-topped back of a UNIT jeep, glanced at him in disgust and muttered, ‘Boy racer.’

  Mike ran up to them. ‘Turlough,’ he cried. ‘What’s going on? Is the creature still in there?’

  Turlough nodded. ‘As far as we know. They’re all inside.’

  ‘How long since they went in?’

  He shrugged. ‘No more than a minute.’

  Mike glanced at the entrance and exit. ‘Pincer movement.

  Am I right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Tegan before Turlough could answer. She jumped down and walked towards him, absently scratching at her arm. ‘Are you going in?’

  Mike reached under the suede jacket he was wearing despite the heat and drew out a handgun, the barrel of which he kept pointed up at the sky. ‘Yes I am.’

  ‘Then I’m coming with you.’

  Mike looked at her almost with amusement. ‘I don’t think so, miss.’

  ‘You haven’t got time to stand here arguing about it,’ said Tegan. ‘And the only way you’ll stop me following you is to shoot me.’

  The amusement on Mike’s face turned to exasperation.

  ‘Come on then. But stay close behind me and don’t do anything stupid.’ Turning to Turlough he said, ‘I suppose you want to come too?’

  Turlough looked both alarmed at the prospect and a little shame-faced as he shook his head. ‘No, thank you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m quite happy to wait here.’

  ‘At least one of you’s sensible,’ Mike said to Tegan, leading the way.

  ‘An abject coward, more like,’ Tegan said, not bothering to lower her voice.

  Something touched the Doctor’s face, and he flinched before realising it was one of several threads of wool hanging from the ceiling. No doubt it was supposed to feel like cobwebs or a ghostly caress. He smiled sheepishly.

  The Ghost Train was a man-sized rabbit warren, full of twists and turns, which made progress tortuously slow as they crept onwards. The passageways were narrow and littered with corners around any of which the Xaranti could have been waiting to pounce. The men were already edgy and aggressive, because of the infection rampaging through their systems, and this situation did nothing but compound that.

  The creature, it seemed, had chosen this hideout with cunning deliberation. Each time a torch-beam struck the luminous paint of a green zombie or a bright yellow ghost, it induced a scuffle of panic, a raising and aiming of rifles.

  Beside the Doctor the Brigadier, handgun drawn, was struggling. He was doing his best to hide it from his men, but up close the Doctor could see the strain on his sweating face.

  It was deeply worrying. The usually well-drilled UNIT soldiers were falling far short of the kind of discipline needed here. If the Doctor didn’t judge this situation exactly right, then things quickly could turn very nasty indeed.

  All at once the Brigadier stumbled, the beam of his torch zigzagging wildly. With lightning reflexes the Doctor turned and caught him before he hit the ground.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ the Brigadier breathed.

  The Doctor glanced back to see what effect the Brigadier’s near-fall had had on the men. Each appeared to be fighting his own internal battle. In the reflected torchlight, their eyes looked glassy, their faces shiny with sweat. The Doctor sighed, and turning to his old friend, whispered ‘How are you feeling, Brigadier? Truthfully.’

  The Brigadier swallowed. ‘I feel a sort of... tugging in my mind. As if... as if something is calling to me with a powerful voice. I can’t... hear what it’s saying, but... but I feel as though I should... go to it.’ His eyelids fluttered and then his head snapped back and he muttered furiously, ‘No. I am Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart. I am a soldier in Her Majesty’s... Her Majesty’s... I will not...’ His face twisted in anguish. ‘There’s something in my head, something... scrabbling in my memories. I can’t stop it...’ All at once his face slackened, his shoulders slumped and he stumbled to a halt.

  ‘Come on, Brigadier,’ urged the Doctor, glancing again at the men. ‘Best foot forward.’ Ahead of them was another twist in the route, a glowing orange skeleton pointing the way.

  He placed a hand in the small of the Brigadier’s back, and eased him forward a little. Suddenly, urgently the Brigadier rasped again, ‘They know you’re here. They know who you are.’

  ‘Let’s worry about that when we come to it, shall we?’

  replied the Doctor, alert for any sound or movement from around the corner ahead. He slowed down, signalling the men to do the same, and reached down to take the Brigadier’s torch from his limp hand.

  In an uncharacteristic blurt of emotion, the Brigadier suddenly said, ‘I’m so sorry, Doctor. This is all my fault.

  Unforgiveable... Absolutely unforgiveable.’

  The Doctor patted the Brigadier’s arm affectionately. ‘There, there, old chap. Don’t concern yourself.’

  He edged around the corner, the torch beam dancing ahead. A huge spider in a glowing yellow web sprang out and confronted them. Hastily the Doctor raised his hand and whispered, ‘Nothing to worry about. Come on.’

  They moved slowly forward again. All at once the Brigadier’s head slumped forward and he whispered despairingly, ‘I can’t go on, Doctor...’

  ‘Nine times seven,’ the Doctor responded.

  ‘What...?’

  ‘Quickly, Brigadier. Work it out. Nine times seven.’

  ‘Um... er... sixty-three.’

  ‘Fourteen times eleven.’

  ‘Er... er... I can’t...’

  ‘You can. Fourteen times eleven.’

  ‘One hundred... one hundred and fifty four.’

  ‘Three thousand, seven hundred and eight minus one thousand, six hundred and forty.’ Slowly, the Doctor firing maths questions at the Brigadier, they moved on.

  Approaching from the other end, Benton too could feel the mental tugging. In his case, it was still feeble, half-hearted, a sensation he was able to shrug off by barking out orders to his men, urging them to concentrate. Some of them were bearing up well, but others seemed less able to cope with the Xaranti infection, pointing their guns at every glowing phantom and cheesily grinning skeleton.

  Benton wondered what would happen if and when they did find the Xaranti. Given the state of the men, he doubted that the Doctor would get much of a chance to communicate with it. It was ironic really: the creature was likely to die at the hands of its own infected prey.

  ‘Go steady there!’ he hissed as the men jostled for position behind him, growling bad-temperedly at one another. ‘Let’s stay in line, stop arguing, and keep an eye out for the real enemy, shall we?’

  His words continued to have a placatory effect for now,
but how long would it last?

  All at once the corridor widened a little, and the track gleaming in the dim torchlight ahead of them cornered sharply to the left. Just before the bend stood a troll-like creature with glowing orange eyes, brandishing a luminous placard announcing: TURN BACK - SWAMP AHEAD. No sooner had Benton taken this in than he heard a commotion behind him. He half-turned, opening his mouth to deliver a few choice words - and someone blundered into the back of him, jabbering incoherently.

  Benton was so surprised that he was caught off-balance and careered into the wall with such force that it jarred his shoulder and propelled him on to his knees. His torch went flying, landing with a crack, its beam remaining mercifully intact. Shuffling toward him was Corporal Burke, one of the youngest of his platoon, eyes wide and staring, a mumbled, incoherent stream of words trickling from his slack mouth.

  He was dragging his rifle along the floor behind him. His right hand was scratching his chest and left shoulder so vigorously that he was probably drawing blood.

  ‘Corporal Burke,’ Benton grated, rising to his feet and stretching out an arm to steady the young soldier. ‘Corporal Burke, back into line this minute.’

  Abruptly the young man’s face contorted with rage, he released a gurgling, animal-like cry and suddenly he was lunging at Benton’s face with his rifle-butt.

  Benton swiftly twisted aside and the butt glanced off his already-bruised shoulder, re-igniting a white flash-fire of pain inside him.

  Burke dropped his rifle with a clatter and ran past him as if he intended to engage the troll ahead in physical combat. He was almost there when something black and huge, moving with scuttling, breath-taking speed, appeared as if from nowhere and plucked the man off his feet like a spider snatching a fly.

  The young corporal looked up into a face full of bristles and black spider-eyes and screamed. The creature’s tail whipped up over its back in a great arc and its scorpion-like sting speared through the back of the man’s neck, killing him instantly.