by Mark Morris
The skylight had been locked with bolts from the inside, but the wooden frame was rotten with age. It took Turlough no more than fifteen seconds and three good kicks to break in. Lifting the skylight he saw a short drop on to a small, landing and a set of stairs leading down. A minute later he was at street level and hesitating about which way to go.
Straight ahead would take him through the main part of the restaurant and out the front door on to the main street.
The opposite way would take him through what he assumed must be the kitchen, where he would hope to find a back door into somewhere narrower and quieter.
It was no contest. He headed towards the back of the building, and opened the door into the kitchen he expected to find. It was large, its stainless steel surfaces gleaming, though no amount of scrubbing could have masked the smell of rice and fish and cooking oil. The back door was green, heavily bolted and padlocked. Beside it and above a large sink was a window covered inside and out with wire mesh.
Turlough selected a large two-pronged implement normally used for skewering meat and set to work on the mesh.
Constantly expecting to hear the thump of booted feet on the floors above, he worked feverishly. Several minutes of hacking and twisting later he tugged the mesh away from the frame. That done, he picked up a three-legged stool and smashed the glass of the window, wincing at the noise it made as it rebounded from the outer mesh and shattered into the sink below.
Using the skewer on the outer mesh was tricky as he had to push rather than pull it away from the frame. In the end he climbed into the sink, glass crunching beneath his feet, and kicked the mesh into submission. When he had created a large enough gap, he squeezed through, wincing at the jagged shards of glass still jutting from the window frame that scraped against his skin. He all but fell into the narrow street that the building backed on to, almost landing on the two-pronged skewer that he had decided to bring with him.
He climbed groggily to his feet, bleeding from a dozen stinging scratches, and looked around. There was no sign of either UNIT soldiers or Xaranti, which, only made him think that they were probably lying in wait somewhere. He had to find a place to hide until it was safe to emerge - if it ever would be.
Left would take him back down towards the promenade, so he decided to go right, despite the fact that it was the street in that direction, that bisected this one, that his hotel room overlooked. He only hoped that the two fully-grown Xaranti he had spotted prowling this street had moved on now; certainly they had been moving purposefully enough to have done so.
He moved forward cautiously, keeping close to the wall, shrinking back from the golden thread of sunlight that lay on the road and lapped over the edge of the pavement on his side. When he reached the intersection he poked his head round the corner and looked right and left, ready to turn tail and flee at the slightest movement. However the street, wider and more prominent than this one, was empty. As a right turn on this occasion would again have taken him down to the promenade, Turlough crossed the road, wincing as he stepped through the band of sunlight, and moved to the left.
He crept along from shop doorway to shop doorway, wondering whether he ought to duck into one of them and keep low or try to get as far away from Xaranti Central as he could. But how far away was that? How far did the aliens’
influence extend? Was the ship that arrived in Tayborough Sands an isolated one or part of an invasion fleet?
He was still trying to decide what to do when he heard a scuttle of movement from the end of the street ahead of him.
He glimpsed two fully-grown Xaranti turning the corner and heading in his direction a split-second before throwing himself out of sight behind a parked car. Praying that they hadn’t seen him and that the scraping, scuttling, clicking of their own bodies would mask his movements, Turlough dropped onto his stomach and crawled beneath the car.
Gripping the meat skewer like a talisman, he drew in his legs and lay there in the shade, willing the Xaranti to pass by. If he got out of this one, he told himself, he would take no more risks, would duck into the next shop he could find that contained food and remain there until it was safe to come out.
He could see the Xaranti’s spiny crablike legs rising and falling as they stalked closer to his hiding place. When they were almost parallel with the car, they separated, moving to flank the vehicle. Turlough prayed desperately that there was nothing sinister in the manoeuvre - and then the sweat on his body turned cold.
In unison, positioned one either side of the car, the Xaranti came to a halt.
At the entrance to the R and D unit the Doctor had exchanged the gun for the keys to the truck. He knew Mike could have tried to stop him them, or insisted on coming with him despite his protestations, but he didn’t. He simply looked the Doctor in the eye, wished him luck and shook his hand.
The Doctor was grateful for Mike’s intelligence, glad that it was not the Brigadier he was dealing with. Not that the Brigadier was stupid - on the contrary, he possessed a sharp mind and a quick, dry wit. However his old friend was ingrained with the gung-ho single-mindedness of many of the top military men the Doctor had encountered in his lives.
Often the subtle approach advocated by the Doctor baffled and infuriated him, seemed to him to undermine everything he stood for.
Mike was different. He was a good soldier - brave and loyal, dependable and efficient and cool under pressure - but also sensitive and sensible, far-thinking but impressionable too.
The Doctor focused on the matter in hand: he needed to find a way of halting the Xaranti infection before it laid waste to the entire population of the planet.
As he stood in the lift which carried him down through the hospital, the Doctor wondered whether he had done the right thing in leaving Tegan behind. She was infected too, of course - though it would be some time yet before she actually became a danger to those in the R and D unit. The Doctor was hoping to have solved the Xaranti problem long before that moment arrived, though if he failed in his mission he would at least be consoled by the thought that Mike had his gun with which to both safeguard the uninfected and provide Tegan with a merciful release. Despite his guilt, the Doctor knew that taking Tegan with him would have been a bad idea. She - or anyone else for that matter - would have been more of a hindrance than a help.
He took out the square, grey object which was his remote link with the diagnostic programmes he had left running in the TARDIS and flipped open the lid. He pressed a button, then perused the columns of numbers and figures and formulaic symbols scrolling down the tiny screen.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting,’ he murmured, then snapped the lid shut and tucked it into his trouser pocket as the lift arrived at its destination.
He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, as the doors opened. Despite appearances he was alert for the slightest sound or movement. However, the only sound was the buzzing of flies which had found their way into the hospital, attracted by the sprawled corpses in Reception. The Doctor set his face grimly as he strode through them to the main doors.
He could feel the infection inside him, tingling across his shoulders and chest and back, trying to gain a foothold in his mind. His shoulder wound ached intolerably, but at least it had been treated and properly dressed. That was one thing Mike Yates had insisted upon, and quite a crowd had gathered to watch the man who was pointing a gun at his own head being patched up by a young and nervous doctor.
After selecting a few items from his coat pockets and transferring them into his trousers, the Doctor had left his ruined coat and sweater behind in the R and D unit (remarking to Tegan that if he didn’t have spares in the TARDIS he would be writing a strongly-worded letter of complaint to the Xaranti government) and had strode to the exit, wearing his torn and bloodstained shirt, still holding Mike’s gun to his head.
Outside he climbed into the UNIT truck and drove away from the hospital. As he passed through deserted streets he switched to autom
atic pilot, allowing the Xaranti part of him to lead him to where it wanted to go. Up until now his mind had withstood the siege that the infection had been conducting against it, but suddenly the Doctor lowered the drawbridge, withdrew his defences. The infection swept in, aggressive and triumphant, filling his mind with Xaranti thoughts.
The first phase of the Xaranti recruitment drive was complete, creating a wave of new Xaranti that had broken through and asserted their dominance. Now the infection was speeding up and the second wave would not be long in coming. The Doctor knew that the first wave had taken the unaffected population by surprise, that the new Xaranti had swept through them, killing and infecting, slaking their bloodlust whilst leaving no stone unturned in their search for new recruits. People had been taken in their homes, in their gardens, on the streets. High population centres -
hospitals, supermarkets, factories - had been targeted and attacked en masse. In other areas of the country the attacks had been swift and invidious, creating ever-expanding clusters of new Xaranti. There was now a lull before the next storm, the streets (around here, at least) quiet because the newly infected, driven by their strange, new alien instincts, had retreated into darkness and solitude to gestate, metamorphosise.
Half a mile from the promenade the Doctor stopped the truck and got out. The new Xaranti, their work done for the time being, had congregated in this area, having felt an instinctive urge to be close to the force controlling their minds. To their queen. To Xaranti Prime. To the brains of the operation. There was no Xaranti word for it, only inadequate human equivalents. Understanding their instinct, the Doctor slipped through the streets, keeping close to the walls, hugging whatever shadows he could. He ducked from one shop doorway to the next, crouching behind parked cars and litter bins, listening and watching not only with his eyes and ears, but also with his mind.
His internal radar - ironically a gift from the Xaranti themselves - allowed him to remain undetected for some considerable time, but at last his luck ran out. The problem was that he was able to detect the presence of other Xaranti only at close-quarters - half a street away at most - which gave him little time to find a hiding place. On this occasion he sensed several Xaranti in the street to his right, heading his way, and so turned to run back the way he had come. As he ran, he realised - too late - that there were more Xaranti approaching from the other end of the street. He skidded to a halt just as this second group came around the corner and saw him.
There were four of them, three males and a female, all relatively young. They were in the mid-stage of transformation, their eyes black, their faces changing shape and bristling with spines, their Xaranti legs and altering musculature causing them to hunch over. Despite this, they moved swiftly, their leader - a shaggy-haired man in a now-ragged denim shirt - actually dropping on all fours to approach the Doctor. The Doctor took a step back, then thought better of it and drew himself up to his full height.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said.
The denim-shirted hybrid hissed at him, which prompted the others to do the same. All four moved in threateningly.
The Doctor stood his ground, looked at them as imperiously as he could, and said, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’
As he asked the question, he mentally gathered up a sample of the Xaranti thought-patterns that were still roaming through his mind, mixed them with his own, and telepathically threw the whole bundle towards them. The leader flinched and blinked and the Doctor knew that the message had stuck.
The hybrid’s mouth opened and in a slurred, guttural voice it said, ‘Doctor.’
That’s right,’ said the Doctor gently as if speaking to a nervous but potentially dangerous animal. ‘I’m the Doctor and I’m one of you now. We are all Xaranti.’
Though he could feel the infection making inroads into his system, for the moment the Doctor was able to control it, to use it. He made his eyes go black simply by letting go, giving in to it for a moment. ‘We are all Xaranti,’ he repeated softly,
‘and I’m on a very important mission. I’m going to see the queen.’
The four hybrids looked mesmerised for a moment, then the denim-shirted one shook his head like a dog with a flea in its ear.
‘No,’ he growled, the effort of talking apparently difficult for him. ‘You... come... with... us...’
‘I can’t do that,’ said the Doctor firmly. ‘I’m going to see the queen. I’ve been told to see the queen. If you try to stop me, it will be bad for you.’
The Doctor could sense the hybrids’ confusion. They understood that he was indeed Xaranti, and that the Xaranti were all one. However they were unaware of the orders he claimed to be following, knew only that their instructions were to find and capture him. The Doctor knew he was fortunate that he had run into this group and not into one which was more fully integrated into the Xaranti communal mind. Not only would those in a more advanced metamorphic state have been aware that he was lying, but they would also have been able to send a telepathic message to every other hybrid and fully-fledged Xaranti in the vicinity, detailing his whereabouts.
‘You’re confused,’ the Doctor said gently, allowing a soothing telepathic pulse to accompany his words. ‘Your minds are still clouded. You are not yet fully Xaranti. You still speak in a human voice.’
The Doctor was taking a gamble that the scintilla of human reason that remained in the hybrid’s mind was still active enough to enable the creatures to understand his words, but no longer analytical enough to think them through. If it was, it would show the hybrids the loopholes in his argument - the fact that he himself was still in the very early stages of infection, for example, and thus presumably even more prone to confusion and misinterpretation than they were. He needn’t have worried. Almost immediately he sensed the hybrids struggling with his arguments. He stepped forward and spread his arms, pressing home his advantage. ‘The queen wants to see me. I’m going to her now. The only way you’ll stop me is to kill me. So if you’re not sure, kill me now, and face the consequences later.’
The female drew herself in and glanced nervously at her companions, her pink - still very human - tongue darting out to lick her lips. The other hybrids hung back, their minds a stew of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The Doctor looked at the leader, keeping his face impassive, trying to project an air of authority not only with his demeanour and his unblinking stare, but also with the steady, uncluttered thought-waves he projected towards them.
The leader groaned and rose from all fours to his feet; it no longer seemed his natural state. He stretched out an arm, the hand blackening, gnarling, and he pointed towards the sea.
‘You... go...’ he said.
Hybrids, both military and civilian, spread out into the streets around the Lombard Hotel, looking for Turlough. The Brigadier, scratching his chest, feeling the Xaranti spines rasp against his clothing, walked beside Benton. Benton had taken a long time to succumb, but now that the infection had taken hold it was rampaging through his system. His face was red and mottled where the spines were lurking beneath the surface of his skin, preparing to break through, and even his back was a little more hunched than the Brigadier’s, who himself had begun to feel a pleasurable tingling between his shoulder blades.
The Brigadier could not now understand why he had resisted the call of the Xaranti for so long. Trying to hang on to the disparate mess of his human thoughts had led only to fatigue and confusion. Finally allowing the Xaranti access had been like seeing the light, admitting a new and astonishing clarity into his life. He was born anew, felt a fresh and glorious future rising from the ashes of his past.
He was Xaranti. They were all Xaranti. They were all one.
Despite their failure to apprehend the boy, and the fact that the Doctor was still at large, the Brigadier felt that their plans were moving inexorably forward, coming to fruition.
The boy would be apprehended soon enough and he would lead them to the Doctor, or at least to the Doctor’s TARDIS.
With
that in their possession it would only be a matter of time before the Doctor succumbed. And when that happened the Xaranti would be invincible. They would spread out across the stars, engulfing planets and populations. They would assimilate the Zygons into their number and any other species that dared to oppose them. And those races impervious to assimilation - the Daleks, the Cybermen, the Movellans - would be wiped out by the awesome, devastating forces at their disposal, forces that the Doctor would give them knowledge of and access to.
Without so much as a qualm, the Brigadier and Benton walked past the smashed remains of the soldier who had fallen from the ledge above. When they had entered the boy’s room and discovered his escape across the roof, the man had gone after him, but the human detritus that still cluttered his mind had resulted in a lack of concentration and he had plunged to his death. It didn’t matter. Individuals were of little importance; the man was simply a tiny part of the Xaranti, the equivalent of a human cell, thousands of which died and were constantly renewed. The Brigadier, who at this juncture was still exercising the human convention of individual hierarchy, decided that their efforts would be best served searching for the boy at ground level, that if he hadn’t already made his way down on to the streets, he would have to do so eventually.
Suddenly the Brigadier and his fellow hybrids within the immediate vicinity stopped dead, their faces blanking over.
As one they turned slowly to face an adjacent street before blinking and swaying as though roused from a trance. There was no need for speech, no need for confirmation; the message each of them had received was clear and unequivocal. Without hesitation, the Brigadier, Benton and their motley crew of infected soldiers and civilian hybrids converged to swarm towards their target.
* * *
Sweat rolled down Turlough’s face and dripped on the tarmac beneath the car. He was shaking as if with fever. The two Xaranti were motionless, their spiny legs so close that Turlough could have reached out from his hiding place and jabbed the meat skewer in to one of them. Surely the creatures knew he was here. Why else would they have stopped? But if they did know, why hadn’t they attempted to root him out? In some ways he wished they would just get it over with. Maybe they wanted him to make a break for it so they could pursue him, hunt him down. He heard movement at the end of the street and twisted his head to look.
