Doctor Who_ Placebo Effect Part 1

Placebo Effect.

By Gary Russell.

Introduction.

There is a school of thought somewhere that equates the Borg from Star Trek with the Cybermen from Doctor Who . And superficially there are a great many similarities. However, I believe the Borg owe just as much to the Wirrn (orWirrm as the novelist Ian Marter revised them - brrr, verrry crrreepy that). That unrelenting self-drive to survive, to dominate and then learn. Whereas the Cybermen would take humanity and convert it to their likeness, the Wirrrn would rather absorb it, or 'a.s.similate' it as our Trekking bad guys would say. On top of that, as Seven of Nine is forever pointing out, she carries the knowledge of the entire Borg Collective in her head, quoting species numbers and medical facts relating to the many different races the Borg have a.s.similated. So it is with the Wirrrn, as viewers of The Ark In s.p.a.ce, the Bob Holmes masterpiece in which they made their television debut, will recall.When the Wirrrn absorbed Technician Dune, so they immediately had access not just to his individual knowledge and skills, but to the entire history of humanity or as much as Dune knew. a.s.suming he had, at some point, skimmed through a pretty detailed encyclopedia or had an Al education, well, the Wirrrn knew everything they needed to know.

So forget the Borg as the ultimate 'Resistance is futile, you will be a.s.similated' bad guys - Doctor Who via the Wirrrn was doing this fifteen years earlier. Now, add to all this the obvious insectoid paranoia encouraged by the Alien movies and you have the Wirrrn of this adventure for the Eighth Doctor and Sam Jones.

A quick round of thanks here - to Steve Cole at BBC Books who so good-humouredly nodded at me when I said I wanted to do a Nimon-versus-Macra story. And equally good-humouredly smiled when I said.'Oh, all right. How about the Wirrrn and the Foamasi?'

And to the other Eighth Doctor authors, particularly Peter Anghelides,John Peel, Kate Orman and Jon Blum, who answered my questions, queries and other irrelevant e-mails.

Grateful thanks also to: Trey Korte for the theology discussions John Binns for the 'qualityness'; David Bailey for scans; Nick Pegg for having a surgeon for a father; David Mclntee for patience and, of course, Johnnie, without whom...

A nod of appreciation to the folk at Gallifrey '98, Especially Rhonda,Jill, Shaun, Chad, Eric and Ingrid. And everyone at Marty's surprise party.

And a'save big money' thanks to those who sat in the hotel lobby on the Sunday night after Gallifrey '98, discussing weird American store adverts.

Particularly Kathy Sullivan, Gary Gillatt, Greg Bakun and Michael Lee. It was very surreal but by far the most relaxed and pleasant few hours of an entirely wonderful weekend. And as for that green goo in the plastic tube...

Plus a special hug for Andrew Pixley, whose contributions to Placebo Effect, indeed all my novels, are subtle things that float around my subconscious simply because of many happy hours spent talking Who and enjoying doing so because we love this unique concept in drama for what it truly is/was/should be again - just a d.a.m.n good television programme.

Gary Russell March 1998

Chapter 1.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Quite some time past...

No one knows exactly where they came from. Legends on some planets believe they came from another galaxy, another universe perhaps. Other planets offer up the idea that they were created by the same giants for whom the universe is nothing more than a rose garden, a garden needing a blight of sorts to keep the rest of the life therein in check. And some planets simply don't care about their origins - just that they exist, they threaten and they seem to be unstoppable.

One thing that all these planets agree on is that the Andromedan Galaxy would be a safer, more pleasant and peaceful place if this blight were to be eradicated. Millions of bloodstones had been exchanged for weapons that proved ineffectual. Millions of lives had been fruitlessly laid down in an effort to fight them. And millions more lived under the constant threat of extinction -or worse - under their relentless pursuit of galactic supremacy.

How could anyone hope to survive the onslaught? How did you destroy an enemy whose body was so hardened that even a diamond-edged knife could not cut through it? How did you defeat a foe that could live as easily in the harsh, gravity-less areas of s.p.a.ce as comfortably as in the heat of Tyrexus or the harsh arctic wastes of Livista? How did you thwart an enemy who picked clean the planets of the Phylox system in less than five days, killing or 'converting' everything they encountered?

No one throughout the Andromedan Galaxy had any answers, but from the furthest reaches of Coscos and Salostophus to the rim worlds of Golos and Vysp, every living creature breathed a sigh of relief when the enemy left the Andromedan Galaxy behind and moved on to the rich pickings of what lay beyond. The Andromedans knew nothing of the galaxy that lay beyond, but they hoped and prayed that somewhere among the billions of planets it housed, a champion would arise to take on their apparently unstoppable foe and find a weakness, exploit it and eventually destroy the enemy, once and for all. Because if they failed, then that galaxy, then the next and the next and the next, would surely fall, leaving the entire universe dominated by just one malevolent, relentless, self-preserving species.

If they had the means, they would have sent out a message, a cry of despair, a plea for help. Just one word, guaranteed to bring fear to any who read it.

Wirrrn.

Chapter 2.

Face to Face

A little more recently...

The shuttle was due in two hours. Not long enough by any means, but that was life. Never enough time to do all the important things like packing extra underwear in case you fell in a pond, or extra caps in case the sun burnt the top of your skull and you'd run out of blocking gel.

Never enough time...

Dr Miles Mason zipped up his holdall and gave his office one last look. The loc.u.m, a Dr Bakun, would be arriving in the morning, but for the next two months, this practice was no longer his, and that made Dr Mason a little sad. He'd spent most of his life savings creating this small business and, successful as it was, leaving it in the hands of another panicked him far more than it should. Nevertheless, business was business, and this new venture was an opportunity to get a very important tag-line on his CV. With a final stroke of a leaf on his rubber plant, Dr Mason turned and left his office.

'Well, Miss Rutherford, see you on my return: His receptionist beamed up at him. 'Good luck, sir. I'm sure you'll have lots of fun and very little work to do.'

He nodded and looked up as a buzzer sounded. "That'll be the cab, then.

Au revoir.'

He felt Miss Rutherford's beady eye on his back as the gla.s.s doors slid aside and let him exit the small building and walk out into the harsh sunlight of Cape City. He shielded his eyes to check the cab, and, yes, it was driven by Ntumbe - just as he had requested.

Ntumbe jumped out of the little vehicle, causing it to wobble slightly as the antigrav compensators allowed for the shift in internal weight. It wobbled a couple more times as first the luggage and then the two men added their bulk to it.

'Shuttle dome, sir?'

'Yes please. I'm very early, but you know me. I like to get there in good time.'

Ntumbe smiled. Ntumbe always smiled, come to think of it. Dr Mason had never seen him cross, even after an accident he'd had when his previous cab was shunted by a cargo loader. Something about the clean South African air no doubt made for a higher quality of life. Certainly Mason had felt happy since moving here eight years previously, from his old, rather suffocating job as a junior partner in a major Chicago practice.

'Heard from your son, sir?'

Mason shook his head. 'Not for ages. Last I heard, Matt was on his way to lo with the others in his division.'

'Nice to have a major for a son,' Ntumbe said. 'My son wants to be an astronaut one day like yours. I told him he'd be better off staying on Earth.

Earth needs people right now, don't you think, Dr Mason?'

Mason nodded. 'Since the expansionists got into power, I've been feeling that too many people are heading to Mars or Saturn. If we're not careful, the administration won't be able to support itself because everyone they've trained properly will be offworld and we'll all...' Dr Mason trailed off.'Sorry, Ntumbe. Soapbox time again.'

Ntumbe laughed. 'Not to worry, Doctor. If you didn't talk about it, I'd worry.

Think you were sick or something. Nothing worse than a sick doctor, eh?'

Mason nodded and the cab glided through the gates of the Shuttle Dome.

He pointed towards Bay S With a nod of acknowledgment, Ntumbe turned the cab into the bay and Mason got out, hitching his holdall over his shoulder. He leaned back into the front of the cab, jabbed his card into the slot on Ntumbe's dash and winked slowly. He waited as the red light turned to green. It had recognised his retina print and accepted his credit transfer.

With a cheery farewell wave, Ntumbe and his cab skittered away.

Mason wandered into the Dome entrance and started looking for the right queue for the shuttle. Twenty thousand years of civilisation, with wars, invasions, empires and declines - and still humankind queued for everything.

'Excuse me. Dr Mason? Miles Mason?'

Mason looked at the stranger who had touched his arm. He was no slouch when it came to alien species (which was just as well, bearing in mind where he was headed) but he simply didn't recognise the race of the person in the dark-grey uniform. It - he? - had a dark, bluish skin with a tinge of green, and a couple of tusks jutted out of yellow-spotted, membrane-lined, bloated cheeks. He couldn't spot a mouth (but, as the alien didn't appear to have trouble speaking, he a.s.sumed there was one somewhere) but the nose was an elephantine affair about thirty centimetres long. The eyes were two large red ovals that blinked slowly on a domed forehead. Mason acknowledged his ident.i.ty, and the stranger offered a smallish hand, which Mason shook, cautiously.

'My name is Labus. I'm a huge fan of your work and -'

Mason whipped his hand away suddenly. It was burning -whatever this Labus's skin was made of, it wasn't designed for contact with humans. A thin greenish film covered his palm and he casually wiped it on his jacket.

Labus (male, Mason decided) looked alarmed, and his trunk-like nose receded into his face, leaving a lumpy nodule in its place - which at least provided Mason with a view of Labus's tiny slit-like mouth. Mason then put his hand up, to show it wasn't damaged. 'I'm so sorry, Labus, but your skin is rather... warm to the touch. It took me by surprise, that's all.'

Labus seemed to relax. His trunk extended itself again, and his eyes seemed to widen a fraction, which Mason hoped was a sign of pleasure.

Or, at least, not open hostility.

Labus indicated a nearby lounge. 'Could I buy you a coffee before your journey?'

'Well, I do need to check in...'

Labus produced a ticket from inside his grey jacket. 'Already taken care of.'

'Are you from Carrington Corp?'

Labus shook his head, and indicated his order to a service droid. 'Although I am affiliated to them. But yes, I have been sent to meet you. My...

a.s.sociates have followed your work in xen.o.biology with great interest.'

'Yes, well, some xenospecialist I am. First rule is "Don't whip your hand away rudely on first contact" - and I messed that up.'

Labus laughed, and Dr Mason found himself smiling. But his hand still stung somewhat.

The droid arrived with a jug of coffee and two cups. Labus poured and pa.s.sed one to his guest. 'Tell me about your trip to Micawber's World, Dr Mason...'

Across the way, another figure watched the conversation with extreme interest.

At his feet was an attache case. He lifted it and rested in on the table, deliberately aiming one corner at the conversation across the way. The tiny recorder inside couldn't possibly pick up the sound - even if it tried, the local ambience would drown it out too much and, no matter how good a job was done on filtering, they'd never be able to get a good enough recording.

But at least by videoing the human doctor's side of the conversation, a degree of lip-reading would be possible back at the labs.

Someone was going to be paying him a lot of money for this information.

'You're not Suki Raymond!'

J. Garth Wilc.o.x swallowed. A few seconds earlier, the thing facing him had been Suki Raymond, his loyal adjutant and personal a.s.sistant and secretary and dogsbody and gopher and...

And now she was a considerably larger green reptilian thing with rotating eyes, spiky whiskers and three-clawed hands.

'How astute of you to notice. Sadly, poor Ms R - how can I put this? - fell out of favour some weeks back.'

Wilc.o.x frowned.'Nonsense, she was here yesterday.'

'No. I was here yesterday. And the day before that. And before that. And -'

'Oh, G.o.d... Sunday night?'

'Oh yes, indeed. Oh that was certainly me. Oh wow, Mr Wilc.o.x, just how do you humans do that thing with your -' Eerily, the inhuman... thing was speaking in Suki's voice. Some kind of vocoder no doubt.

Wilc.o.x let his head fall into his hands and then let himself droop across his white vinyl desk. 'No, no, no, no,' he murmured, somehow trying to imagine that when he lifted his head up, his lovely neat office on the eighteenth floor of PharmaChem and Medico Inc. (Ganymede office) would be as it should be, with Suki Raymond sitting cross-legged on the white stool in front of him, tapping out notes on her little datapad, nodding serenely, and licking those very luscious lips every so often.

He looked up.

The room was in disarray. Drawers and filing cabinets were ripped open.

His computer screen was cracked. The holos of his wife and two daughters were spluttering slightly as their combined function matrix was being disrupted by an upturned chair.

And facing him was every businessman's nightmare, green skin rippling with each breath, leaving a very slight damp patch on the carpet.

'How do you do it?' he asked eventually. The million other questions in his mind about how long his department had been infiltrated, how many secrets, deals and financial transactions were no longer confidential, how poor Suki had met her end and just how he had had s.e.x with said green reptile last Sunday seemed bizarrely irrelevant at that moment. And far too awful to consider rationally - especially the last question.

'Our skeletons have hollow bones with double-joints every few centimetres.

This means we can compact our natural forms quite comfortably inside a full replica-human bodysuit for up to eighteen hours at a time.' The creature sn.i.g.g.e.red. 'It's actually rather pleasant, like rolling in jelly for a while. Much of our body is liquid, our organs are small and our tails retract. Anything else you'd like to know? We're rather proud of our abilities. Makes industrial espionage so much more fun.'

'What did you do it for? Why do the Foamasi government need my department's secrets?'

The Foamasi sn.i.g.g.e.red again. 'Government? Do I look like a government representative, Mr Wilc.o.x?'

'I... I don't know,'Wilc.o.x whispered.'I wouldn't know what a Foamasi government representative should look like.'

'No, I don't suppose you do. Rest a.s.sured, I'm not. I represent an...