by Nick Walters
They were walking along the ship’s main artery, passageways and tunnels leading off, the sound of the excavator thrumming through the earth floor and the soles of Kikker’s boots, a constant reminder of the Great Mission.
‘We have been searching for centuries,’ Kikker explained.
‘Following every hint, every legend, the tiniest scent of the Gods. We have traversed vast tracts of the galaxy - though I estimate we have barely begun our search. There are still thousands of possible locations. Thousands more planets to survey. More centuries of searching - centuries until I can taste meat again!’ The Doctor regarded him curiously, and Kikker realised he’d got carried away. ‘I have vowed not to touch meat until the mission is successful.’
The Doctor’s eyes widened. ‘You’re that convinced of success?’
Kikker considered. ‘Yes, I am – now. There are many things about this world that tally with the legends. The garden-retreat of the Gods, the distance from the sun, the actual size of the sun itself, the presence of artificial chambers underground - I can feel it, Doctor! The Gods are here!’
‘Hardly seems worth all this effort, if all you’re going to do is kill them.’
‘You do not understand the concept of Valethske honour!’
snarled Kikker.
The Doctor regarded him with mocking eyes. ‘No, you’re right -I don’t.’
Kikker bunched his fists, but reined in his anger. If the Doctor’s insolence was the only price he had to pay for the glory of bringing the gift of time travel to the Valethske, it was a small one.
‘Then I will tell you,’ said Kikker, ‘and maybe you will understand.’
He walked on in silence for a while, searching for the right words. He had never needed to explain the Great Mission to anyone. His crew - the Vale Guards, the hunters, the technicians
- all knew the purpose well. Perhaps this Doctor, in his travels through time, had encountered the Gods himself. Maybe he could offer new clues.
‘Many thousands of years ago, the Gods ruled the galaxy,’ began Kikker. ‘They called themselves the Khorlthochloi, or the Korlevalulaw, or a number of other names - but to us, they were always the Gods.’
The Doctor stopped walking, the Vale Guards almost crashing straight into him. ‘Those names - I’ve heard them before.’
Kikker licked his lips. ‘Have you ever encountered them?’
The Doctor ran a hand through his fair hair. ‘No, but I’ve heard of them - in myths, legends, travellers’ tales and various religious texts. They’re supposed to be one of the oldest species in the galaxy, acting as shepherds to the younger species, making sure no one of them gets too big for its, ah, boots.’ He stared down at Kikker’s feet.
Kikker felt a thrill of excitement - what the Doctor said fitted exactly with the legends. ‘Do you know any more?’
The Doctor regarded Kikker with a strange distant look in his eyes. ‘You know, if the Khorlthochloi were your Gods then that must make you an incredibly long-lived species.’
‘Our creation myths date back hundreds of thousands of years,’ said Kikker. ‘Your facetious remark about boots - I now understand what you mean. Many thousands of years ago, the Gods decided we were becoming too aggressive, too dominant. We swarmed across the galaxy, colonising system after system. So they smashed our warfleets out of space, and introduced a great plague that affected only Valethske.
They wiped most of us out. The few that survived had to rebuild our civilisation right from the beginning.’
‘I wonder what made them think they had the right to do that,’
said the Doctor, his eyes gleaming, his face in shadow. ‘Not even my lot are so judgemental, so harsh.’
‘As we slowly rebuilt our empire, in myth the Khorlthochloi were transformed into vengeful Gods, who envied our power.’
‘Interesting. No concept of wrongdoing on your part.’
‘Of course not,’ growled Kikker. ‘We exist to reproduce, to colonise, to hunt - we fear nothing. Not even the Gods. After thousands of years of rebuilding, we had re-established our empire, though it was only a mere shadow of its former glory.
We began gathering intelligence on the Khorlthochloi, encountering other species who had heard of them, who had been husbanded by them and had developed legends and religions around them. We discovered one thing common to all those legends - shortly after they all but wiped us out, the Gods vanished. Absconded.
‘Died out?’
Kikker shook his head. ‘How could beings as powerful as the Gods simply die out?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘Some believed they had traversed the intergalactic gulfs, moved on to a new galaxy. Others, that they had evolved into a higher form of life.’ Kikker looked sideways at the Doctor. ‘I’m no scientist, I do not know of such things. One legend persisted
- that the Gods had gone senile, and had retreated from the younger races, hiding themselves away inside a planet of their own manufacture.’
‘And so you set out to look for them,’ said the Doctor.
Kikker stopped walking. They’d come to a nexus point, a shaft that ran from the control chamber at the top of the ship to the engines at the bottom. The sleep cells weren’t far away. ‘Yes, Doctor - to scour the galaxy, find and finally destroy the Gods!’
‘So it’s all about revenge,’ said the Doctor. He sighed. ‘Of course, you must realise how ridiculously impossible this Great Mission of yours is.’
Kikker stepped towards him, snarling.
The Doctor backed away. ‘Or perhaps you don’t.’
‘As we speak, machines are digging down through this wretched planet. If the Gods are here, we will find them.’
‘And if they’re not?’
Kikker shrugged. ‘Then we move on.’ It was time to check on the status of the excavations, prepare to take the search underground. This has been most interesting, Doctor. I have never conversed for so long with a human being before, outside of torture sessions. The next time we speak will be when I need you to pilot the TARDIS.’ He motioned to the Vale Guards. ‘Take him away.’
‘What about my friends? At least let me see them before you put me in the deep-freeze!’
Ignoring him, Kikker turned away, listening to the receding footsteps of the Vale Guards and the Doctor’s imprecations echo down the tunnel.
When he was alone once more Kikker ran over their conversation in his mind. Something the Doctor had said was bothering him. Something about the pointlessness of the Great Mission. No one had ever dared say such a thing before. But now, when Kikker thought about it, to chase about the galaxy after shadows of legends was -
- Was a glorious, righteous thing to do!
And he’d almost let the words of a mere human shake his faith!
Must be the lack of meat, Kikker told himself as he strode off towards the lift that led to the control chamber, tail swishing in agitation. All this synthetic flesh was turning him soft.
* * *
The Garden was changing. A light blue bloom dusted the peach-like fruit on the trees in the acres and acres of orchards. In the endless miles of neat hedgerows, thorny growths sprouted, giving them a dishevelled, neglected appearance. All the flowers had closed up, the petals folding over their pistils, as if they were covering their faces, averting their gaze from a massacre.
Which, in a way, they were.
For the biggest change of all was happening to the Gardeners.
In their pods deep within the Tree - and hundreds of others like it all over the Garden - they mutated. Their beautiful, orchid-like heads (which weren’t really heads at all) retracted inside their compact, gourd-like bodies, which swelled and pulsed.
Their limbs and appendages thickened, growing thorns and spikes flowing with poison.
As the rising sun brought daylight to each part of the planet, the Gardeners emerged from the Trees - hissing, crackling creatures of death. Within the pods they vacated, more grew.
Silently, benea
th the blinded Garden, a plant army amassed.
Captain John Melrose was the only living thing to witness the emergence of the transformed Gardeners. He spent the night hiding from Valethske patrols in the depths of the hilltop forest where he had carried out his initial mission briefing.
To mask his scent, he removed and buried his uniform, smeared himself with the dark, peaty soil of the planet and squirmed his way into the middle of a large bush in the darkest part of the forest. He slept fitfully, at times hearing the distant sound of Valethske copter-packs, and once, a distant scream, definitely human. Dawn broke, bringing with it clammy light filtering down through the pale yellow leaves. Melrose emerged from the bush, shivering in the cool morning air, alert for any sign of movement, any sound of booted foot on twig. But there was nothing, just a sense of stillness and anticipation.
He breakfasted on the little water he’d brought with him from
the canal in his hip-flask - one of the few items the Valethske had left him when they had first captured him - and some sloe-like berries from the bush in which he’d spent the night, half-expecting a Gardener to come crashing through the forest at this transgression.
But he was allowed to enjoy his meagre breakfast in peace, unmolested by either motile plant or vulpine hunter. The berries tasted sharp, and burned his throat as they slid down, but at least it was something. Overnight, the mud had dried on his body, so he dug into a fresh patch of soil and anointed himself once more. Then he unearthed his clothes -
which after a night in their shallow grave were clammy and damp - and dressed, grimly pleased. Now he smelled as if he’d been reborn out of the peaty earth, a thing of the Garden, his human scent totally obscured.
Melrose moved cautiously through the regular ranks of silver-barked trees towards the edge of the forest, gun ready to blast anything that leapt into his way. His head felt clearer this morning, and he remembered his self of the preceding day with a scornful amusement. He felt calm, in control, able to put things right. As he had slept, his plan had become clearer in his mind. Obviously he couldn’t tackle the Valethske on his own; he had to proceed in small steps, count himself lucky each time he achieved an objective.
First objective: secure the Valethske shuttle.
Melrose emerged from the forest, getting his bearings. After escaping from the Valethske ship, they had landed in a fallow field about a mile distant. As he set off, he noticed a movement on the horizon, west to east. A horde of - was it Gardeners? - was spreading through the Garden. From this distance they looked like streams of ants pouring from a nest.
Melrose shuddered, a feeling of disquiet denting his new-found confidence. He realised that he knew nothing of the workings of this strange planet. There could be creatures here inimical to all alien forms of life. Melrose smiled grimly, the drying mud on his face cracking, a few flakes borne away in the morning breeze. If that was so, the Valethske were in for a surprise. As far as he could tell, the distant columns of creatures were sweeping in the general direction of the Valethske mothership, which had landed In some point over the horizon.
Concentrating on his first objective, Melrose jogged around the perimeter of the forest until the fallow field came into view, an apron of dun grassland that only made the fields and gardens on Its border appear all the more verdant and colourful. There, in the middle of the field, was the Valethske shuttle, at the end of a line of scorched grass. Pleased that it was still there, Melrose increased its pace, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of Valethske. He half-hoped to see the Doctor and company waiting nearby - that would solve the problem of the control chip - but there was no sign of them. Perhaps the Valethske had already caught them. In which case they were already dead. He hoped Lt Meharg had taken a few down with her.
He reached the bottom of the slope and waded into the brittle thigh-high grass that whispered as he passed through, frail blades crunching under his mud-encrusted boots. Suddenly, he froze, senses jangling. From above and behind him came the unmistakable droning clatter of rotor-blades.
Melrose threw himself to the dusty earth, pulling armfuls of dead grass over himself. He cursed his stupidity - surely they would see the broken stalks that indicated his passage through I he field? He lay among the cool grass, trying to control a violent trembling that had taken hold of his body. But the sound of the copters passed overhead - he estimated about three or four -
the downdraught from their blades setting up a great susurration within the dry stems.
The sound of their engines seemed to sink into the earth beyond him, and descended into a mechanical splutter as the hunters landed. They’d obviously been sent to retrieve the shuttle. Valethske liked their hardware and always salvaged as much as they could. Which meant that they must know about the escape from the mothership. Which meant that they must have captured and interrogated the others. Which meant that he was alone. But by sending hunters to the shuttle, the Valethske may have provided him with a means for revenge. Melrose pictured himself at the controls of the small ship, face contorted in fury, yelling out the names of the soldiers the Valethske had killed as he rammed the mothership’s engines, aiming for maximum devastation. He might not get them all but he’d certainly give them something to remember him by.
Yes, that was it. That was the way he was going to die.
So, second objective: kill the three (or maybe four) Valethske, take one of their control chips and then the shuttle and then... No, that was too much all at once. Melrose trembled, almost giving in to fear. Concentrate, hone down.
Second objective: Kill the Valethske.
That was better.
Slowly, carefully, he rose until he could see above the close horizon of stems. Not more than a hundred yards away was the shuttle, its sleek, brutal shape rising like a metal hummock.
Next to it, three copter-packs, their blades stilled and drooping, sticking up from the sea of grass like strange metallic palm-trees.
And around the base of the shuttle, red-furred, black-eared heads of Valethske moved about.
Melrose ducked back down as one of them leapt up on to the shuttle, clambering on external access-rungs. Had it seen him?
Melrose sweated beneath his twin coatings of uniform and mud. He had no choice. He had to assume the hunter had seen him, or scented him despite his camouflage. He checked his gun quickly, a grim smile twitching across his face - he was about to kill Valethske with their own weaponry.
With a yell he leapt up from the grass, opening fire, spraying bolts of energy in a tight arc across the side of the shuttle.
Above the sizzling bolts he heard high-pitched screams. He kept on firing, seeing the copter-packs jerk and topple over.
He kept his finger pressed down hard on the trigger until the gun spluttered into silence. Melrose stood there shaking, scanning the scene with wild eyes. The smell of burning leather and flesh reached him and he stumbled towards the shuttle, not quite believing that he’d got them all.
He came upon his first hit some distance from the shuttle, sprawled out, arms reaching in his direction, fingers splayed as if in death it was still trying to grasp at him. It must have started running the moment it had seen him emerge. It had got almost halfway to him. Melrose was impressed despite himself.
He prodded it with his boot - quite dead, its chest pocked with smoking holes.
Melrose tossed the now-useless gun aside and searched the body for weapons. There - a foot-long spike of shining metal. He took it from its scabbard at the dead hunter’s waist and weighed it in his hands, testing the point of the blade. Deadly sharp. A good weapon, made for stabbing rather than cutting.
Melrose stepped over the dead Valethske and walked up to the shuttle, teeth clamped tight to stop his jaw from chattering, knife held ready. The second Valethske was also dead, leaning against the side of the shuttle, the left side of its head burnt away, the rust-coloured hull spattered with bits of cooking brain.
Melrose smiled. This was better than he’d expected, far
better. He turned to the third Valethske.
It was still alive.
He stood over it as it writhed in agony, its powerful legs curling in towards a smoking stomach wound. An idea formed in Melrose’s mind, a way to pay the Valethske back for what they had done to his troopers.
The wounded hunter noticed Melrose and hissed, sending a cloud of saliva up at him.
The wound looked fatal. It would die soon.
He didn’t have long.
Using all his strength, he heaved the dying hunter into a sitting position against the side of the shuttle. Its arms flailed at him but he absorbed its blows, intent on a new objective, one he couldn’t quite put into words. He somehow managed to lift the Valethske into a standing position against the superstructure, its breath wheezing from it in desperate gulps.
He held it there with one hand and with the other drove the knife through its shoulder and into the hull of the shuttle, hammering it down with the ball of his fist. Its piercing scream of pain almost deafened him.
‘This is for Private Wilding,’ he said, ‘and Private Helal...’ He recited a litany of names, his voice choking, his mind filling with images of the faces of his troopers. Good men and women. Fighting the good fight. They hadn’t deserved to die like that, used as playthings by the Valethske.
When he’d finished, Captain Melrose stepped back, admiring his work.
The Valethske hung there, blood oozing over its black uniform,, hand clawing weakly at the hilt of the knife. It couldn’t have much strength left now.
Its eyes fixed on his, yellow slits of hate. There was no fear in them - yet - but Melrose vowed there would be. Before it died, the creature would know some of the terror and humiliation its kind had inflicted on his troopers.
But then the Valethske started laughing, black lips sliding back from blue-white teeth, tongue lolling, body shaking. An unearthly cachinnation rent the air, almost drowning the sound of -
Melrose spun round, and gasped. He’d been so intent on his torture that he hadn’t seen the hordes of Gardeners sweeping across the field towards him. But these creatures were different, masses of thick, spiky limbs. More like giant weeds than giant flowers.
