by Doctor Who
If he had his way, that would never happen. He’d been trying to keep a conversation going instead, and had managed it for quite a while now, without, however, finding out anything of use.
‘Bit of a waste,’ he said to the Quevvil guarding him. ‘Blowing up your pawns if they leave the game. Just means you’ve got to get more of ’em.’
‘We cannot risk the carriers returning to our base,’ said the Quevvil.
‘If the primed disruptors were then activated. . . That is, in the game
–’
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Exactly how thick do you think I am? It’s not a game, I have worked that out.’
The Quevvil seemed flustered. ‘Humans do not have the intelligence. . . ’
The Doctor didn’t point out that he wasn’t human. ‘Yeah, you’re right, teleport a couple of humans into your secret underground base, shoot ray guns at them, force them to play – they’ll never work it out.’
The Quevvil snarled. ‘Your mind cannot comprehend the truth.’ It raised its gun. ‘But you will play the game.’
‘Don’t think I will, thanks all the same,’ said the Doctor. ‘I’m a bit anti setting off to kill these Mantodeans who’ve done nothing to me.
And I’m not that keen on risking the life of some poor kidnapped human, either.’
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The Quevvil started to wave its gun – and then lowered it. It had a cunning look in its eyes that the Doctor didn’t like.
‘So far, you are the human who has progressed furthest into the Mantodean stronghold. But it is only a matter of time before others penetrate into the heart of it. We have waited for years; we can wait longer. We came to this planet and started in this small area to see if the idea had merit, if the humans were intelligent enough, if our technology was sufficient on Toop –’ the Doctor grimaced in frustration; they kept merrily mentioning the name of their planet but it meant nothing to him, he’d never heard of it; why couldn’t they drop its galactic coordinates into the conversation? – ‘if it could cope with a small number of carriers and controllers. We hardly expected to find a controller who would succeed immediately – indeed, with hundreds of games out there, only a very few controllers have passed our training level, a mere handful showing themselves worthy of our dedicating our full resources to them. So we are already prepared to extend the plan. We will take it to more towns, across this country, and then to other countries. We will increase the number of winning cards. Humans are greedy: order them to aid us and they would protest, but make it seem like a prize, like something for only a select few. . . ha! They will snatch at any chance of getting something for nothing! The more humans who play the game, the more competent controllers we will find, and the more carriers we will need. . . If you played the game for us now and did as we wanted, got to the centre of the Mantodean stronghold, no more humans would have to die. But until someone succeeds, the game will continue to be played.’
‘Stop calling it a game!’ yelled the Doctor in fury. ‘People are dying!’
‘Our research suggested that death was a common pastime on Earth,’ said the Quevvil. ‘Humans spend much of their time killing.
There is hardly a species on Earth that humans do not kill, including other humans. That, with your greed and cunning, was why you were considered ideal subjects for this task.’
‘Yeah, we humans are a bit rubbish,’ said the Doctor. ‘A lot of us aren’t very nice at all. I can’t defend all that killing we do, all that greed and cunning. So I’m hardly going to sit here and commit geno-74
cide just to save a few of us, am I? What have these Mantodeans ever done to me?’ He threw down the control pad, and slapped his forehead. ‘Oh, hark at me, completely forgetting to mention I’m not human. You won’t get a human to solve this “game” for you. Yeah, they’re cunning and all that, they’re pretty determined, and a few of them might even be geniuses like me. But not all that many. It’s going to defeat them all in the end. You should sack your market researcher.’
The Quevvil didn’t seem to know what to say to that. So it raised its gun again, and pointed it straight at the Doctor.
Rose arrived in town, but she still didn’t have a plan. Get into the Quevvils’ base, find the Doctor, hope he’d know what to do, how to save her mum? She hurried to the newsagent’s shop. It was closed.
She glanced at her watch: 5.40. The whole day had gone by without her noticing. She started to examine the lock, hastily pretending to be tying up her shoelace as a couple of uniformed policemen walked past, hoping they didn’t notice that her shoes didn’t have laces. But it was no good, she didn’t have the faintest idea how to pick the lock, and the shop had a prominent alarm system. She’d be arrested before she got halfway to the cellar.
She turned her attention to the Quevvils’ prize booth, a few metres away. Still didn’t have a proper plan, but she couldn’t just do nothing.
Let’s hope they’re the sort of aliens who think all humans look alike.
They barely saw me, she thought, trying to convince herself; just if they looked out when I was trying to get in with the Doctor, and there was only one of them when I was scattering salt all over the place, and they would have seen me only for a split second before we teleported away. . .
She’d have to risk it. She knew this wasn’t the right plan, wasn’t the one that would work, didn’t have a hope, but it was all she could think of just now, and she’d have to risk them recognising her.
Rose went up to the booth, acting casual, nothing to indicate she knew these were aliens, nothing to say you might have killed my mother.
She got one of the winning cards out of her pocket, stuck it in the 75
reader, waited to be allowed through the door. There was a Quevvil behind the counter. So much for her hope that the Quevvils couldn’t tell humans apart – pot calling kettle, she had no idea if this was the one she’d encountered before or not.
The Quevvil produced a boxed games console and tried to hand it to her.
‘I’ve already got one of those,’ Rose said. ‘I just wanted to ask a question. My mum’s won one of your holidays and I need to get in touch with her urgently. Could you tell me if she’s left yet?’
‘I am sorry, that is not possible,’ said the Quevvil, pushing forward the box.
‘Is there a depot or something?’ said Rose, her eyes darting all around the booth, hoping to discover some sort of clue.
‘I am afraid I cannot give out that information,’ said the Quevvil, still being insistent with the boxed game.
Rose lost it. ‘Tell me what you’ve done with my mother!’ she screamed. She grabbed the box, and threw it across the counter. It hit a pile of games, which collapsed with an almighty crash. The Quevvil’s quills began to stand on end, and it suddenly hit Rose that this was an alien, an alien who didn’t mind killing humans – it wasn’t going to give her any information on Jackie, this was totally the wrong plan, and the door had closed behind her. . .
The Quevvil was holding the gun on the Doctor when a great noise came from above, as if something heavy had been dropped to the floor. The Quevvil glanced upwards, and the Doctor pounced. Pouncing on something covered in pointed quills possibly wasn’t the most sensible move in the world, but the Quevvil was distracted as the Doctor managed to wrench its gun away, and in an instant he was out through the door. A barrage of spines soared through the air after him as he sprinted down the corridor, past the three Quevvils by the ladder to the trapdoor, presumably going to investigate the noise.
He reached the far end of the corridor, and slammed the door behind him. A drumming noise told him that more quills were thudding into the heavy wood of the door. The key was on this side, and he turned 76
it. It might keep them out for a while. He took a deep breath.
Rose had forgotten that the doors opened from the inside. She hit the control and dived out of the booth, praying that the Quevvil wouldn’t follow her. It wouldn’t, would it? Wouldn’t want
to make a fuss, make people think there was something odd going on, that they weren’t what they said they were. . .
She stood by the booth, not knowing what to do next, panic threatening to overwhelm her. She wanted to throw more things.
Then a voice somewhere nearby said, ‘Rose? Rose, sweetheart? Is everything all right?’
Of course everything wasn’t all right, and it took Rose a few moments to calm down and pay attention to the tremulous voice. She finally turned round, to see an elderly lady wearing a pink plastic mac, a flowered headscarf tied over her white permed curls. It didn’t register initially. And then she realised, hardly daring to let herself hope. ‘Dilys?’ she said. ‘But. . . but I thought you were going on this holiday with my mum. . . ’
Dilys looked worried. ‘I couldn’t go on my own, Rose, love. Since my Harold died, you know I don’t like going places on my own, not even the bingo.’ She held out a hand in which was a familiar piece of cardboard. ‘I just came here to see if there was anything they could do about it, about your mum’s. Shame she has to miss out.’ She pushed the scratchcard towards Rose. ‘Look, would you take this, Rose, dear?
I feel so bad about what happened. I couldn’t go now. Maybe your mum’ll still want to, though, later. She can have this one, I know they said we had to go today, but you never know. . . ’
Rose took the card, not really understanding what Dilys was saying, but the hope was growing, blossoming inside her. ‘You mean my mum didn’t go on the holiday either!’
But Dilys was still looking worried. ‘You mean you don’t know?
They said they’d phone you, promised they’d let you know.’
The hope was being replaced by an ache, a heaviness in her stomach, and she blurted out, ‘Tell me what, Dilys? Who was supposed to tell me what? Please, tell me!’
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And poor Dilys, nervous and stuttering, began to tell her. ‘I’m so sorry, Rose, love. I’ve got bad news. . . ’
The Doctor had made it through the newsagent’s cellar and into the shop without hearing any more from the Quevvils, save a few shouts and thuds. The newsagent had a big promotional Percy Porcupine poster on the wall, and the Doctor let out a few feelings by ripping it down and shredding it to bits. What the newsagent would think in the morning, he didn’t really care. The door to the street was locked, but this presented few problems to someone who’d picked as many locks as the Doctor had. It was also alarmed, but the sonic screwdriver took care of that.
The street was fairly quiet when he stepped out of the shop – a few youths hanging around, drinking cheap lager out of cans; an occasional shop worker heading home. The booth where the Quevvils handed out their deadly prizes seemed deserted – whatever had caused the noise obviously long gone. The Doctor decided to leg it before they thought to pop out that way to pursue him. He ran off down the high street, heading back towards Rose’s flat.
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Rose looked at all the tubes and things leading into her mum, and felt sick again. Her mum was so protective of her, always had been. If Rose scraped her knee, Jackie’d be there to pick her up. She’d be down the school if anyone had had a go at Rose, have a word with whoever, not let Rose be left out or upset or picked on. It’d been embarrassing at times, but your mum protected you, that’s what mums did.
But looking at her mum lying on the hospital trolley, black eye and purple cheek and dried blood under her nose, knowing that her mum was just a fragile human being, not a superhero, that was the worst feeling in the world.
And on top of that, now Rose was the one who was trying to save the world, and part of the world that had to be saved was her mum.
That was so wrong.
Jackie’s eyes flickered open. She smiled when she saw Rose. ‘Oh, Christ, you’re all right. My darling, you’re all right.’
Rose stared. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.’ Because why should her mum be worried about Rose, when she was in that state?
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Jackie obviously saw that in her face. ‘He said he was going to get you,’ she said.
Rose leaned down, got closer to her. ‘Who did? Mum, what happened to you? Was it the aliens? Did they find my phone? Did they think you were in league with the Doctor or something?’
Now it was Jackie’s turn to stare. ‘What are you going on about? It was that Neanderthal Darren Pye.’
Rose couldn’t help herself, she almost felt a twinge of relief. Not aliens! Not her phone, not her fault!
But then she looked back at her mother, and the relief didn’t last.
‘They just told me you were in here, that you’d been hurt. What happened?’
Jackie looked reluctant. ‘You’ll only blame yourself. . . ’
‘Mum!’ Now Rose really had to know.
‘Oh, all right then.’ Jackie propped herself up on the pillows. ‘I was trying to find you. I’d called Mickey’s but no one answered, but I thought I’d pop round, just on the off chance, on my way to meet Dilys. But I saw him. That Darren Pye. He was carrying a telly and I was willing to bet it wasn’t his, and I might’ve said something. And he. . . he said. . . he said things about you. And I couldn’t let him do that, so I gave him a piece of my mind.’
Rose closed her eyes, reluctantly picturing it, thinking of the sirens they’d heard, wondering if they’d been coming for her mum. If only she’d gone to investigate, if only. . .
‘And he said that he owed you one for hitting him or something –you didn’t hit him, did you, Rose, what d’you wanna go and do that for, asking for trouble? – and you were going to get it. But for now. . . ’
Jackie stumbled. ‘For now, he’d make do with me.’
‘Mum!’
‘He just hit me a bit. Looks worse than it is.’
Rose knew that wasn’t true. And she knew that for her mum to put a brave face on it, not ask for sympathy, well, it had to be pretty bad.
‘Still, I got to jump the queue. There’s hundreds out there in casualty, and I just got wheeled right in like a proper VIP, cubicle of my 80
own, nurses running around cleaning and stitching and what-have-you.’ She started to smile, but began coughing instead. Rose grabbed Jackie’s hands and held on tight, trying not to cry, trying not to feel so helpless.
‘Nicked everything I had, as well, that lout. Purse, keys, everything.
Even my winning ticket,’ she said, and Rose couldn’t bring herself to tell her mum the truth about that winning ticket, not now, not while her mum looked so weak.
‘Oh, and your phone too, love. Sorry. I’ll get you a new one.’ Jackie sighed. ‘The police won’t get it back, for all their “we’ll do everything we can, Mrs Tyler”. One was in just before you, said they’d been looking for him around the estate and he wasn’t there. Well, of course he wasn’t. Even Darren Pye isn’t stupid enough to stay hanging around where he’d just mugged someone.’
No, he wasn’t that stupid. And maybe he’d think it’d be a good idea to get away until the heat died down. Maybe he’d look at what he’d nicked and see he’d got a winning ticket, a ticket that’d take him out of the country today. And maybe he’d decide to use that ticket.
Looking down at her mum’s bruised and bloodied face, Rose really, really hoped that he did.
The Doctor arrived back at the estate. He went straight up to Rose’s door, and rang the bell. After a few moments, he opened the letter box and shouted through. ‘Anyone home?’
But still no one answered. The Doctor shoved at the door, but it was locked. He peered through the letter box. No sign of life. So he left.
A couple of minutes later, he was outside Mickey’s door. No problems gaining entry here, the Quevvils’ violent approaches had seen to that. He knocked anyway, calling out, ‘Anyone home?’ as he breezed in.
‘In here,’ came Mickey’s voice, and the Doctor went through into the bedroom. Mickey was sitting by the computer, his leg propped up on the bed.
‘What d’ya do to yourself?’ asked the
Doctor, gesturing at Mickey’s blister-covered knee. ‘And where’s Rose?’
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‘I got shot by a porcupine,’ answered Mickey. ‘Bit hurt you don’t remember.’
The Doctor waved a hand dismissively. ‘What about Rose? Is she all right? They didn’t get her as well, did they?’
‘Nah, she’s fine. Thanks for the sympathy.’
The Doctor sighed. ‘Next time, I’ll bring a bunch of grapes. Anyway, where is she?’
Mickey shrugged. ‘Last I knew, she was off out to collect up those games like you asked her.’ He became suddenly serious. ‘Look, there’s something you should see. Might be nothing but. . . well, it’s worrying.’ He turned back to the computer, clicked the mouse a couple of times, and pushed back the chair so the Doctor could get close enough to see.
On the screen were the words ‘KILL ALIEN’S FOR REAL ONLY £50’.
‘Illiterates,’ muttered the Doctor, taking over the mouse from Mickey and scrolling down.
There was a picture of a Mantodean, seemingly a screengrab from the game, and more text: ‘kill alien’s. this game let’s you shoot alein’s for real. they are giant insect’s and EVIL. you can kill them. this is GARANTEED. Email [email protected]’.
The Doctor thumped a fist on the desk. ‘Idiots!’ he said. ‘If someone starts sending these games all over the country – all over the world
– we’ll have no chance of collecting them all. Still, let’s hope no one realises this is actually the truth. Knowing humans, they’d be flocking up. . . ’
Mickey cleared his throat. ‘I think they do think it’s the truth, though. The people who’ll be reading this, anyway. I was just sort of browsing, you see. . . ’
