by Alex Scarrow
‘Come from space, yes.’ The Doctor casually fiddled with the salt cellar on the table in front of him. ‘It’s a von Neumann seeding probe.’
‘What?’
‘Von Neumann. Named after one of your scientists, John von Neumann, who theorised about the development of such a creation – a genetically engineered pathogen designed to survive deep space, to drift until it finds a planet with a habitable environment. Then it revives from a dormant state and goes to work.’
‘Goes to work?’
‘It transmits like a virus at first. Starting from just a cluster of particles, infecting, converting cells by reprogramming their DNA. Whatever it comes into contact with, it infects. It reproduces millions of copies of itself from the raw material of the infected organism, then these infected cells work together at breaking down the structure of the victim.’
Chan nodded. ‘Yes … yes, that’s what we saw.’ She looked out of the window at the deserted street outside. ‘Everything organic,’ she said, nodding. That’s exactly what she’d witnessed. ‘Everything … seems to be necrotic, decaying to that black gunk.’
‘The pathogen’s primary stage is that process – acquiring organic mass. As much as it can and as quickly as it can. The liquid has a rudimentary intelligence, if you can call it that. It will attempt to converge on itself. To regroup, if you will. The more of the assimilated mass that is connected together, the more sophisticated its internal structure can become.’
‘Internal structure?’
‘That “black gunk” is a transmorphic fluid. It can restructure itself into anything it has acquired a genetic blueprint from, or even combine blueprints. The more of it that is connected together, the more sophisticated the constructs it can make.’
Captain Chan turned to look at him. ‘How do you know so much about it?’ The Doctor saw her eyes suddenly widen. ‘My God! This is not an isolated outbreak? Has this happened elsewhere?’
‘There have been millions of outbreaks, Evelyn. On many worlds, over billions of years.’
Her eyes narrowed again. She stared at him, silent for a few moments. ‘Just who on earth are you?’
The Doctor considered her question. He supposed he could take the time to explain who he was. He could explain that his people, the Time Lords, had once been attacked by this very pathogen. As a young man, he’d read about the infection on Gallifrey, so long ago now. The Spore had arrived more than a thousand years before he was born. Several hundred thousand Time Lords had died before they’d managed to deal with it, engineering an inherited immunity into their genes so that they would never be vulnerable again. He could explain all of those things, but time wasn’t exactly on their side. He decided to keep the explanation short and sweet. A quick answer would do for now.
‘You’ll find there are a few conspiracy websites that mention me. I suspect one or two governments have rather extensive files on me too. I’m known as “The Doctor”. Suffice it to say, I’m not from round here.’ He pursed his lips. ‘But I have developed a habit of dropping by from time to time.’ The Doctor sat back and straightened his morning coat. ‘But introductions can wait, Captain Chan. We don’t have a great deal of time. You said you were attacked?’
She nodded. ‘Crab-like things. Hundreds of them. Cut through our suits and got inside.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I barely got away.’
‘You were the only survivor?’
Chan shook her head and glanced quickly at the swing doors behind the counter. ‘There was also Rutherford.’
The Doctor noted a dark and bloody handprint on one of the doors.
‘It was one of those black goo threads. Rutherford was trying to gather a sample. We thought it was just liquid.’ She shook her head, trying to make sense of what she’d witnessed. ‘But it kind of reared up and lashed out at him. Punctured right through his mask.’ She looked away. ‘I tried to save him. But he was dying within minutes, seconds even. I dragged him in there …’
‘He’s in there now? Through those doors?’
‘In the kitchen.’
The Doctor looked at the swing doors. Chan had grabbed a tea-towel and tied a knot binding together both the door handles. That wasn’t going to stop anything, but it meant she understood.
Best not to open them. Best not to step inside.
‘Keep that door firmly closed, Evelyn. Whatever you do, do not go in.’
She nodded quickly. ‘I looked in about twenty minutes ago.’ She let slip a choked sob. ‘It was horrible. Rutherford was …’
‘This thing goes through stages. Stage One is biomass assimilation and consolidation. That’s the stage that was happening before you arrived. In Stage Two it starts generating simple constructs – creatures, for sake of a better word. That’s a defensive measure. That’s what you’ve witnessed. Stage Three is … well …’ The Doctor stroked his chin. ‘That’s the most fascinating stage with this thing, actually. Really quite remarkable.’
‘What?’
The most curious thing in the Spore’s infection life cycle was the third stage. What the Time Lords had dubbed the ‘enquiry stage’. The mystery creators of the pathogen – perhaps long gone now – had built in a safety mechanism to ensure that the Spore never erased another advanced civilisation. Perhaps they feared a drifting spore might return one day and destroy their own homeworld? Perhaps they believed it unethical that their own creation might wipe out another intelligent species?
‘What’s Stage Three?’ prompted Chan.
The Doctor looked back at her. ‘At the centre of the infection, ground zero, the Spore will construct an intelligence matrix. A brain, if you will.’
‘A brain?’
‘Well, an intelligence at any rate.’
‘Why?’
‘It has a question it needs to ask.’ The Doctor shrugged. ‘Answer it correctly and the brain instructs every cell in its biomass to switch from reproducing cells to manufacturing a lethal toxin that eventually will destroy itself.’
‘Why would it do that?’
‘Answering the question correctly indicates intelligence. This pathogen is “programmed” to avoid wiping out intelligent life.’
‘And if we don’t give the right answer? Then what?’
The Doctor winced. ‘Then the Spore will continue to develop ever more sophisticated constructs – creatures that can run, swim, fly. Creatures that will carry the infection in all directions. It will become uncontainable.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘A week from now, every organic thing on this planet will have been converted to biomass.’
‘No way!’ breathed Chan.
‘The theory is,’ the Doctor continued, ‘it was created by an alien civilisation to “overwrite” the native ecosystems of other planets with their own. To render those planets hospitable for them centuries – even millennia – before they might one day need them as homes. A form of long-distance biological terraforming. That, or it’s some sort of ghastly weapon.’
‘But you … you’re saying we can communicate with this thing?’ Chan shook her head. ‘Actually talk to it?’
‘“Talk” is somewhat generous. It’s not like we’ll be exchanging penpal details.’
‘But it will ask us this question?’
The Doctor smiled. ‘Yes, and there’s the rub. Humans won’t understand it, let alone be able to answer it. Not for another fifty or so years.’
‘Another fifty years?’ Chan’s eyes widened. ‘Are you saying … you’re from –’
‘The future?’ The Doctor nodded. ‘And the past. You could say I get around quite a bit.’ He looked out of the window again. ‘And I’ve already wasted enough time. I need to locate the intelligence matrix as soon as possible. It won’t wait around forever to decide whether you’re a species worth preserving or not. I need to catch it before it starts creating airborne constructs.’
Chan looked at him. ‘You’re actually going back out there?’
‘Of course. And I suggest you stay right here. K
eep the door closed until I come back.’
Chan shook her head. ‘I’m not staying here. Not alone. No way.’
The Doctor looked at the doors behind the counter. Nowhere was safe, to be fair, inside or out. Not now the Spore was building constructs. Perhaps she’d be better off staying close by his side.
‘All right then,’ he said, shrugging. ‘You can come along if you want.’
3
The Doctor stepped out into the street, Chan behind him. He scanned back and forth with his torch. Threads of black goo criss-crossed the tarmac, fanning out from the humps of mostly dissolved bodies and stripped carcasses; threads seeking each other – converging.
‘The individual colonies of biomass will attempt to join each other – to pool their mass together. The more of this stuff comes together in one place, the more ambitious the constructs it will try to produce.’
‘It can make bigger things than crabs?’
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Much bigger.’
They made their way slowly down the still, silent street. A gentle breeze stirred the night, sending a rooftop weathervane spinning with a clack-clack-clack. A wind chime on the porch of a hardware store gently played solemn, random notes. The wheel of an overturned child’s tricycle spun slowly, the bearings clicking like the aluminium balls of a Newton’s cradle.
‘We’re looking for a pattern – a significant convergence of fluid, threads feeling their way towards a central hub. It will look like a starburst pattern, like dozens of rivers all flowing into a lake.’
‘A central hub?’ Chan looked at him. ‘The brain?’
He nodded. ‘And that, Evelyn, it will most definitely want to defend.’
They made their way past a medical centre, a tangle of cars parked erratically outside, log-jamming the street. It looked like many of the townspeople had been attempting to get to this point, some of them dying before they could even reach the door.
‘My God,’ Chan whispered. ‘It must have been awful. It must have –’
She stopped dead, raised her gun and dropped to an army-trained firing stance.
‘What?’
‘Movement. Over there. Between the cars.’
The Doctor swung the beam of his torch in the direction she was aiming. The cone of light reflected off the dusty windscreen of a farmer’s truck and the wax-polished hood of a Chevrolet.
‘There’s something there,’ hissed Chan.
The smooth, rounded surface of something dark shifted under the harsh glare of the light.
‘Ah yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘I see it.’
Movement again. A black shape, the size of a large dog, with jointed, spider-like legs and covered by a hard, spiny carapace, leaped on to the bonnet of the Chevrolet. The car rocked gently under its weight.
Chan squeezed the trigger and her handgun kicked. The shot cracked through the creature’s organic armour and strings of dark matter spurted out. The creature – dark and glistening – collapsed and spasmed.
‘Rather good shot, that. Well done.’
Chan breathed heavily, fogging her mask. ‘A lucky shot. I-I haven’t used a f-firearm since basic training.’
Another creature emerged from the cluster of cars. She swung her arm and fired. A windshield imploded beside it. She fired again and they heard the dull eggshell crack of impact and the sound of goo spattering against the side panel of a nearby Honda. The creature disappeared from view.
But four more scuttled into view to replace it.
Chan fired at the first one and missed.
She fired several more times as yet more of them appeared. Then the gun was clicking uselessly as her fingers impulsively worked the trigger.
‘Oh no … I’m out.’
There were a dozen of them now, creatures the size of Rottweilers. Dark, glistening, hunched low on insectoid legs, headless, eyeless – a beetle-like menace. They advanced slowly.
Chan whimpered as they closed the gap. The Doctor grasped her arm and pulled her back, then stepped in front of her.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Just a thought,’ he replied quickly. He approached the horde slowly and spread his arms. The beetle-like creatures hissed and clicked in response … and stopped where they were. ‘Yes. What I expected. It’s begun the query stage. It’s waiting for contact with an intelligent life-form. It’s ready to talk. Ready to ask its question.’ He looked back over his shoulder at Chan. ‘But it won’t wait around for that forever. You understand? We have to find it quickly.’
Chan nodded nervously.
The Doctor swung the beam of his torch. ‘Those constructs are gathered here to guard the brain. It must be very close. Look, Evelyn. Look around. Can you see anything?’
She shone her own torch around, following the criss-crossing, snaking dark threads on the road as they converged into thicker tributaries. One particular strand seemed to have acquired the role of main artery, attracting others towards it, like moths to a candle flame. It wound up the street, broadening into a thick leathery trunk, like a fireman’s hose, which pulsated and quivered as a steady flow of organic soup travelled up inside it.
Chan’s torch beam tracked it as it slunk its way towards the rear of a delivery truck parked fifty metres up the road, across a small town square where several dozen stalls had been erected. It looked as if Fort Casey had been preparing for market day when the Spore decided to come to town.
The leathery artery curled up to the rear of the truck, then seemed to spread out across its open loading ramp and disappear inside the vehicle.
‘That looks promising,’ said the Doctor under his breath. He edged away from the creatures and rejoined Chan. ‘I suggest we make our way – in an exceedingly unthreatening manner – towards that vehicle.’
She nodded. They backed up from the creatures and slowly made their way up the street towards the vehicle.
Nearer now, the Doctor could read the logo emblazoned on the side of the truck’s container: Bernard and Sons – Poultry Supplies. Carefully, he stepped over thickening tributaries of the viscous matter, all heading towards the rear of the truck.
All roads lead to Rome.
Finally, they stood at the base of the ramp and Chan shone her torch up. Inside, she could see dozens of stacked wire-mesh cages. Feathers littered the floor of the container like snowfall. Bones and beaks and scaled claws in every cage, the other remains of what had once been hundreds of battery chickens now rendered to black liquid dangling from the cages in sheets of pulsating goo that lined the interior walls of the container. Thick tendrils swayed from the sheets like sightless serpents sniffing the air.
At the far end of the truck, the liquid had converged into a lava-lamplike mass that glistened wetly in the light of their torches – shifting, bulging, extruding bubbles and occasionally larger, firmer shapes that momentarily resembled the torso and legs of a human … the head and neck of a horse … the muzzle of a dog.
‘What’s it doing?’ asked Chan, swallowing hard.
‘I imagine it’s testing out the constructs it can make from the DNA it has so far acquired.’
Smaller, less ambitious creatures scuttled around the floor, creatures that looked like the impossible offspring of crustaceans and rodents. The beam of the Doctor’s torch picked out dozens of them clambering over each other, a seething mess of hard-shelled legs and claws, sharp spines, carapaces and grey fur. He suspected if the creatures turned and swarmed them, their sharp claws would pick them clean of flesh within minutes. He needed to communicate quickly, before the Spore decided it felt threatened and instructed its army of defenders to surge forward.
‘Hello?’ he said softly.
The liquid mass at the back of the container pulsated in response to his voice. It quivered for a moment, then one tendril quickly began to thicken and lengthen, drawing substance from the central mass as it snaked its way towards the Doctor.
‘Doctor,’ whispered Chan. ‘Watch out!’
‘It’
s all right. This is it saying “hello”.’ He looked at her. ‘I hope.’
How do I communicate with this thing?
The Doctor dredged long-forgotten details of the Gallifreyan experience of this entity from the dark recesses of his mind. One thing stood out: a single scientist had allowed himself to be infected, had allowed the cells of this thing into his body, and at some microbiological level a connection had been made.
Taking a deep breath, the Doctor stepped slowly up the loading ramp and into the truck. ‘I’m here to talk to you.’
The black tendril glided towards him, rose up and hovered in front of his face, swaying from side to side like a cobra preparing to strike.
‘That’s right, I’m not a threat,’ the Doctor cooed softly. ‘I’m here to talk.’
Its movement slowed. The tip of the tendril began to grow, producing a bulbous end. From that, a tiny whisker-like tentacle began to emerge. It grew towards the Doctor’s face, thin and flexible as a wire, feeling its way across the air between them. The Doctor suppressed an urge to recoil. He knew the Spore wasn’t going to be able to infect and assimilate him – his inherited immunity prevented that – but that didn’t make the idea of allowing it inside him any more pleasant.
The fine tentacle lightly touched the tip of his nose. Testing it. The gentlest, tickling caress. Then it began to explore his cheeks, his brow, curling round the side of his face and exploring the curves of his ear.
The Doctor fought the urge to pull back. The Spore ‘knew’ how the enquiry stage worked. He was going to have to let it steer negotiations.
The tentacle returned to his face, resting against the side of his nose. He felt a tiny sting as small barbs attached it more firmly to his skin. Then he felt something tickling the rim of his left nostril. He wanted to reach up and scratch his nose. It tickled in an entirely revolting, invasive and unpleasant way.
He felt the tentacle curl inside, a cool liquid sensation sliding slowly up inside his nasal passage. Then a strange tingling spread between his eyes, moving further backwards, past his visual cortex, into his temporal lobes, and on, deeper into his cranium …
