by Doctor Who
Evehadswivelledherchairroundsoshecouldaccessthewallpanel more easily. Her head was full of the facts and figures of previous extinctions, and now the Doctor had given her the idea it was easy to check up on the other missing creatures, although their original disappearances ranged over several million years.
There was no trace of the other animals. She looked at the quagga, the bluebuck and the paradise parrot. The lights did not so much as flicker.
But there was another light.
If Eve had been one to doubt her own senses, she might have thought she was imagining it.
Even with her self-assurance, she
checked it twice.
The light was definitely there.
There should be no other lights. She was utterly, thoroughly, ruthlessly efficient, and she knew that every ordinary extinction had been dealt with.
Every ordinary extinction.
Her mission was this: to stop any species from dying out. She had to preserve the last example of each species, and let the universe see them all.
45
She did her best, did everything she could, but even so there were circumstances which defeated her. Eve had no magical powers to foretell the future; oh yes, she could make logical predictions, and indeed had utilised these to great effect on a number of occasions, but as to knowing what was going to happen, that was beyond her skill. So she’d been caught unawares, at times – some unseen disaster befalling a planet, destroying every creature within a fraction of a second, when even the most skilful of computers would have been unable to detect which specimen was the last of its kind and there was no time to send a collection agent to retrieve it, even if it had been identified.
Eve prided herself on being free from emotion, but the sensations that occurred at such times could really be described in no other way.
Pain. Regret. Anger. To know that she had failed in her objective, that the collection would never, could never be perfect. But it made her even more determined to succeed in future. Oh, sometimes the universe played tricks, she knew. Take the Daleks, for instance. They’d wink out of existence in the far distant past, then suddenly emerge again as if from nowhere. Their mass extinction had been recorded so many times she’d stopped trying to keep track. But she had other records of their planet, at least. She had specimens from every planet that had ever known life, and that was a consolation to her.
Or it had been. For suddenly there was one planet. . . Had it happened millions of years ago, billions, last week? Even now, seeing the warning light again, she couldn’t pin it down. All she knew was that suddenly, without warning, a planet had been destroyed. Gone forever. The planet had never known an extinction before that, somehow – seemingly magically – even the most fragile of insect species had survived as long as its home. And then – all gone.
All except one. One solitary specimen of one solitary species of all that had existed on that one planet.
And then the one had gone, and with it Eve’s consolation. Free from emotion? No, it. . . hurt.
And something was stirring within her now, something she’d never experienced before. Could it be. . . desperation? Need? Desire? Or 46
just a certain knowledge that if she did not pursue this, she would remain forever unfulfilled? Whatever it was it was strong, so strong.
Her head swimming with unfamiliar thoughts, she leaned back in her chair and pondered her next move.
I’m getting used to the zappy stuff now. The way I’m dealing with it is this: pretending I’ve gone on a long train journey, only without the signal failures, the person next to you who takes up half your seat with their bags and tries to read your newspaper over your shoulder, the £17 per biscuit buffet, the lack of air conditioning and, of course, the train journey. That way it seems like a really positive experience, instead of one where you feel sick and dizzy and get freaked out that half your atoms haven’t made it, and those that have turned up are in the wrong places. I mean, what if something goes a bit skewy and my ear gets reassembled out of my nose or something? (And, believe me, that’s not the worst example I can think of but you’ll have to use your imagination. No, on second thoughts, please don’t use your imagination. Just forget all about it. Please.) Anyway, so we zap away – destination who knows where, but that sort of thing doesn’t bother the Doctor – on the trail of who knows what (but he doesn’t let that stop him, either).
And where we end up – well, total contrast to the warehouse place.
Walls papered in velvet (um, can something be ‘papered’ in non-paper?), carpets you have to wade through, chandeliers and huge vases and gold bits on everything. And right there with her back to us, a kid in a maid’s uniform dusting the knick-knacks. The Doctor coughed and she turned round, saw us and screamed. Two seconds later we were surrounded by what appeared to be armed butlers.
Didn’t faze the Doctor, of course. There we are, about to be thrown out on our ears – possibly with police arrest to follow and, who knows, maybe a bit of violence on the side – but he just calmly states that we have an appointment with the owner of the house. ‘I think not,’
says this one posh-suited butler guy, but the Doctor just replies, ‘Go on, go and tell ’em we’re here. And say “quagga”.’ He said it like it was a code, and even though I knew how serious the situation was it 47
was hard not to laugh, cos it sounds such a funny word, like ‘wibble’
or ‘bibble’. But the guy obediently vanished, and I can only assume he did what the Doctor asked because a couple of minutes later this woman appears in the doorway, and she’s so in control and obviously stinking rich she has to be the person we’re looking for.
Besides, we can see right away that she’s the one who bought the quagga. And suddenly I feel a bit sick.
‘Ooh, nice coat,’ said the Doctor, plonking himself down on a spindly chair that creaked under his weight.
It wasn’t really a nice coat at all. In style it resembled a biker jacket, cut high on the waist and tightly fitted. It was made of coarse skin, the hairs on it lying flat and glossy, like on a horse’s rump. One sleeve and lapel were striped brown and white, the stripes fading to pure brown for the rest of the jacket.
The woman, frowning, gestured for the hordes of servants to leave the room. ‘I shall be fine,’ she said in a deep European accent, as one or two looked ready to protest.
‘Yes, your ladyship,’ said one, the butler who had fetched her, and led the rest out of the door.
‘You requested an audience,’ said the woman, turning to the Doctor and Martha. ‘From the manner of your arrival, I am thinking that I know from where you haf come. And yet I was notified of no such visit.’
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘Please accept our apologies.’
He waved at Martha. ‘Breaking in a new recruit, can’t get anything right. . . ’
Martha opened her mouth to protest, and then thought better of it.
‘. . . lowest rung of the ladder, hasn’t even met the boss yet – I suppose you were expecting to hear from the boss if you heard from anyone at all.’
The woman gave a disdainful half-nod. ‘I do not usually deal with underlings.’
‘And I don’t blame you, Mrs. But he –’ at this, the Doctor stared hard at her expression, but she gave no indication that he was wrong in his 48
assumption – ‘had to delegate this time. Pressures of business and all that. After all, in such a multi-million concern. . . ’ He narrowed his eyes and let them roam over the woman’s body. ‘Yes, that coat’s well worth 3.7 million, if you ask me. Wouldn’t you agree, Martha?’
‘It’s a bit short,’ said Martha critically.
‘I hear what you’re saying.’ The Doctor maintained a look of unconcerned interest. ‘But usually a coat is made up from two or three animal skins – large animals, that is – and obviously in this case that just wasn’t possible.’
The woman nodded. ‘I did consider combining it with the skin of a zebra,’ she sai
d. ‘But the colours, they would haf clashed, and that would haf diluted the effect, no? Diminished it.’
‘Oh, quite. But as it stands, you’re happy with it? Happy with the service you received?’
The woman indicated that Martha should sit down next to the Doctor, then took a chair herself. ‘Well, it is hard to say. Of course, in many ways the skin is not ideal for the purpose, and perhaps the style is not all it could be –’
‘Where I come from,’ Martha put in, unable to help herself, ‘zebra print is considered a bit trashy.’
The woman looked her up and down, clearly taking in the red leather jacket and silver hoop earrings. ‘Ah yes, I see that you come from a place most stylish, most. . . chic,’ she said with one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised. Martha felt her cheeks grow warm.
‘But as I was saying, to possess that which no one else in the world possesses – that is what elevates this above mere style. Skin qua skin, it is nothing. But it is so much more. Just to see Lady Horsley’s face. . . ’
A complacent smile spread across her own face for a moment, then she became businesslike and tossed her hair impatiently. ‘But surely this is not just a customer satisfaction survey? I take it that you haf news for me? My next order, it is ready?’
‘Oh, the Tasmanian Tiger handbag?’ said the Doctor, carelessly.
The woman frowned. ‘The what?’
‘Sorry, my mistake,’ said the Doctor, ‘confusing you with someone else. Maybe Lady Horsley.’ She looked both worried and furious at 49
that, but he pretended not to notice, just carried on speaking. ‘No, actually, this really is more in the line of a customer satisfaction survey.
Young Martha here, learning the business like I said, essential that she sees what goes on. . . I wonder, would you be so enormously, enormously good as to run through the procedure for her, with your opinions on your treatment at each stage?’
She frowned, but gave a short nod. ‘You understand, however, that my time is valuable. . . ’
‘Oh, quite. Half a million discount for next time, guaranteed.’
A smile, as she turned to address Martha. ‘You must first understand, girl, that there is nothing more important in this life than that which is unique. A thing which can be had by anyone – what is the value there? One’s superiority must be demonstrated exactly. I own the largest sapphire in the world. The only portrait ever painted by the genius Johann Illes is of me. The –’
The Doctor interrupted. ‘Johann Illes? He disappeared, didn’t he?’
A lazy, catlike smile spread across her face. ‘Sadly true. And just after rumour had it he was planning a portrait of Arabella Horsley. . . ’
The Doctor half rose from his seat, then sank back down again. ‘Ah,’
he said, then after a moment, ‘Do go on.’
She waved a hand. ‘I am sure the girl has by now grasped the idea.
The quest for uniqueness, however, is never ending, and in the matter of couture it is almost impossible. A one-off by a designer who can be bribed? Pah. The hat of takahe feathers, the komodo leather boots, all can be duplicated by those with money and. . . efficiency to equal mine.’
‘And with an equal disregard for the law and the sanctity of life,’
said the Doctor in a polite, friendly and interested way.
The woman – whose name they did not know and could not ask for without arousing suspicion – acknowledged this as simple fact.
‘True. But in the circles in which I move – well, that –’ she laughed in anticipation of her own joke – ‘that, it is not unique.’
Martha sat on her hands so she would not be tempted to slap the woman.
‘And then a rumour reached me, via my furrier – something was 50
being offered, something unheard of. Something that no other person in the world could possibly possess. And, furthermore, the offer was being made only to me.’ She turned briefly to the Doctor. ‘Your organisation, they do at least understand the necessity of that. I was less pleased, of course, to hear that the offer would be taken elsewhere if I did not respond. Ah well, I suppose that also shows understanding, a brain of business there. For how could I let such an offer get away?
The negotiations, they were long and, I cannot deny, tedious. I had to take a great deal on trust, and perhaps that is something that you could look into, although I admit, perhaps, that such must always be the case when one is in such a. . . delicate situation. And then, of course, there was the handover of goods.’
‘And the boss himself was dealing with you at this point?’ the Doctor asked, as if he already knew the answer.
‘But of course,’ she replied.
‘And you were happy with his personal attentions?’
She laughed, puzzled. ‘The deal was concluded. I had no reason to complain.’
‘He was polite, attentive, all that?’
She looked quizzical still. ‘But of course, I never met him. A rumour here, a message there. . . and then, finally, the. . . sordid conclusion: a transfer of money and goods in a locked room. This room. I do not know how my money disappeared and the skin arrived, but such they did and I am content. And now, about my next order. . . ’
‘Not our department, I’m afraid.’ The Doctor’s face had sunk, and he jumped from his chair with considerably less enthusiasm than he had possessed earlier. ‘Well, we won’t bother you any further, time is money, money is giant sapphires and one-off paintings and easy access to murderers and all that, come on, Martha –’ She leapt up too, as did the woman. ‘We’ll see ourselves out, the normal way this time, no need to summon a butler or anything –’
The Doctor had reached the door to the room by now, and was twisting the handle, squeezing it tight like he wanted to hurt it. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he tossed carelessly over his shoulder as they left, ‘did you know there are twenty-three stuffed quaggas in museums around 51
the world? After all, it’s not even been extinct a couple of centuries.
Bit of robbery, anyone could have a coat like yours. Lady Horsley, for example. And there’s you paying millions for it. Shame. Perhaps that’s even where yours came from. Hardly unique at all. You know what they say, there’s no fool like a one-off fool.’
Martha looked back at the quagga-robed woman. Horror, surprise and fury mingled on her face. She seemed to be trying to say something, and it seemed to Martha to be a very good idea to get out of there before she managed it.
52
THE I-SPYDER BOOK OF EARTH CREATURES
QUAGGA
Equus quagga quagga
Location: Southern Africa
The plains-dwelling quagga is a four-legged, hoofed mammal related to the zebra. Its coat is striped brown and white on its head and neck, the stripes gradually fading over the course of its body until it is plain brown.
Addendum:
Last reported sighting: AD 1883.
Cause of extinction: hunting by man.
I-Spyder points value: 200
THE I-SPYDER BOOK OF EARTH CREATURES
Creature
Points
Dodo
800
Megatherium
500
Paradise parrot
500
Velociraptor
250
Mountain gorilla
500
Aye-aye
900
Siberian tiger
600
Kakapo
900
Indefatigable Galapagos mouse
1500
Stegosaurus
500
Triceratops
550
Diplodocus
600
Ankylosaurus
650
Dimetrodon
600
Passenger pigeon
100
Thylacine
250
Black rhinoceros
300
Subtotal
10000
The D
octor was adjusting coordinates on his neck pendant, instructing Martha to do the same. ‘Probably not wise to stick around,’ he said, with which she agreed wholeheartedly.
‘Was that true?’ she said. ‘Could the quagga have come from a museum instead? Been an. . . already dead one?’
He shook his head, a tense, unhappy gesture. ‘Nope. Not really practical, you know, preservatives and all that. But I hope she goes on thinking it for the rest of her life. . . ’
The wave of nausea that kept threatening Martha broke across her stomach again. ‘I’m not going to say anything,’ she said. ‘Cos, like my dad always says, there’s no point preaching to the choir. But I don’t want to meet anyone like that ever again.’
The Doctor looked at her. ‘Shame, that,’ he said. ‘Because, in case you didn’t notice, we didn’t exactly pick up a lot of clues there. So we’re trying again. Maybe someone will have made a slip. Gotta live in hope. Press your button.’
And, bracing herself for what they might find at the next set of coordinates, she did.
∗ ∗ ∗
55
Their next place of arrival was rather a surprise after the opulence of the previous location.
It was a caravan.
It was in a muddy field in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, and it wasn’t even a particularly nice caravan, at least it didn’t look so on the outside. It was quite small and bits were falling off it. Thick brown curtains masked the view to the inside, although the windows were so dirty that they probably wouldn’t have been able to see much anyway.
The Doctor and Martha looked at each other, and did a synchro-nised shrug. Then the Doctor knocked on the door. There was a sound from inside like a surprised person going ‘eep’, but no call for them to enter. The Doctor knocked again, more forcefully. This time there was no sound at all. The Doctor knocked for a third time, and a male voice shrieked ‘Go away!’
‘No, sorry!’ called back the Doctor, cheerfully, trying the door handle. The door was locked.
‘We only want to talk to you,’ Martha added, in what she hoped was a nice, reasonable, friendly tone, although, after the encounter with the quagga-coat woman, she wasn’t feeling particularly reasonable or friendly.
