Doctor Who_ The Dalek Factor Part 11

'Those bugs? They're not intelligent, so how can '

'Ah, I never said they weren't intelligent. They are telepathy. They scan our brains for images of people we know and with whom we feel safe. That governs their choice of disguise. Perhaps they have collectively ' he shrugs, 'a collective consciousness.'

'You said you thought you recognised the man?''I believe I do. I don't know where from, or how, or his name. But he once possessed a key that...' He strains to remember. 'He possessed a little key to a box... a box that, although it is very small, is also very large... A key that...' Moisture forms on his face; tension builds, pushing veins out against his skin, then he shakes his head with a sigh that roars

from his lips. 'No... no. It's no good... Gone again. Dash it all.'

'Well, our friend pointed the way, so we should move.' I check that the gun is ready to fire. Two Daleks destroyed, but something tells me there are plenty more haunting the iron gut of this sinister building.

TWENTY-THREE.

[image]

THE Pa.s.sAGEWAY HAS A CURVING WALL THAT FLOWS UPWARD into an arching ceiling. No vegetation reaches this deep into the building. No insects either (other than the walking hive, that is). There is a sterile aspect. It has something of the mortuary about it. Cooler, too. I begin to see my breath misting the air.

The Professor notices something. 'If I'm not mistaken,' he tells me, these are doors.' He indicates what I thought were merely dark oblongs painted vertically on the walls. 'Hermetically sealed. Air tight. Contamination-free zones.' He looks at me. 'Some prison, hmm? Not even the air is allowed to escape.'

'Professor? We've got company again.'His bright eyes dart in the direction I'm indicating. Some thirty paces along the corridor stands the white-haired old man.

The Professor nods, as if beginning to understand sonic problem. 'So, the Dalek is our joint enemy.'

'But he or the hive took the full blast of a Dalek. Nothing survives that firepower.'

'No. All those insects were killed.' His sharp eyes appraise the figure. 'This will be another swarm that's formed itself into... into... someone I am just about beginning to remember.' He taps his fingers against his lips again, thinking hard. 'And of that insect species there must be millions of swarms on the planet. It's unlikely the Daleks will be able to kill them all. Unless they resort to obliterating the entire globe... and that's a little drastic, to say the least.'

The Professor walks forward. He's studying the old man, looking at his clothes, hair, his lined face. When he speaks next it's to the figure, not me. 'Who are you? Are you trying to help us?'

The figure doesn't reply. He it merely watches us without moving; the eyes wide... watchful.

'Indicate if you understand me?'

No reaction.

'Are you trying to show us where our friends are?' The Professor takes another step forward. The old man suddenly raises his hand.

Stop!

'Be careful, Professor.'

'Oh, I don't think you're going to hurt us, are you now? You, or rather the legion of insects that are the building blocks of your body, need us.' His eyes scan the face. 'You can read my mind, can't you? You've found someone significant to me from my past? But what was his name? Why was he so important? And when I look at you, why do certain words occur to me? Key... Time... Companion...' His eyes lock onto the face. I see veins stand out in the Professor's temples he's clenching his fists with the effort of remembering. 'I can almost... almost remember now. I have seen you before. Or at least an incarnation of you. Where have I seen you... Where have I seen you?' Where have I seen you?'

'In a mirror.' The voice is a whisper of dry wings.The Professor, a man years younger than the one he now faces, echoes the words in a murmur: 'In a mirror.' His expression is one of someone close to personal revelation.

I, however, am becoming impatient. 'Sir, where are my friends? Can you show me?'

I step forward, hoping to hear that dry whisper of a voice again. Instead, the old man holds up his hand halt halt and a ripple moves across his face. And just as before, I cannot say with any degree of certainty when the transformation happens; one moment I am looking at a lined face, with wise, benevolent eyes; a face framed by long, white hair; then it dissolves into a cloud of insects. They stream away down and a ripple moves across his face. And just as before, I cannot say with any degree of certainty when the transformation happens; one moment I am looking at a lined face, with wise, benevolent eyes; a face framed by long, white hair; then it dissolves into a cloud of insects. They stream away down

the pa.s.sageway.

'Professor,' I urge. 'We must keep looking.'

He's lost inside his head again. Not moving. Not even blinking.

'Professor'He holds up his hand. 'When he made that gesture. Was he telling us to stop moving toward him? Or' He scans the walls. 'Or was he telling us that the platoon is here behind one of those?' With his finger he taps a dark oblong set in the wall.

'But how do we get through?''My guess is they are automatic. They probably sense one's approach then hey presto.' He gestures with his hands to mime twin doors sliding apart.

'As simple as that?'

'Why not? Why should a door be so complex as to require considerable expenditure of effort to open said door, hmm?'

'But if they are prison doors, then they'll be secure'

'Absolutely. But if the Daleks want to incarcerate us, then how much easier for them if we simply walk into our cells of our own accord.' He steps back, looking the door up and down. 'Jomi. Walk toward it as if you intend to walk right through.' He reacts to the glance I give him with a grim smile. 'Trust me.'

'OK.' I hold my weapon to my side, so as not to damage it. Just in case. I move toward the door. Nothing happens. I shrug.

The Professor's eyes are bright. 'No. You've got to have the body language of someone who expects the door to open. Try again.'

I try again. No luck. The door is inert.

'Try another.'

'Are you sure?'

'Well, seeing as I don't have a toothpick, this is all I can suggest.'

Toothpick? I sigh, and walk toward the next door, trying to a.s.sume the demeanour of someone who ambles through doors such as these many times a day.

This time The door silently slides to one side.

I glance back at the man. 'Hey, Professor. You'Then it hits me. A wave of shrieks, roars, yells, screams. Simultaneously, a blast of movement. I recoil, but it's too late. Ma.s.ses of arms erupt through the doorway. I see wild faces with blazing eyes, open mouths, champing jaws. A dozen hands grab me to haul me through. My gun's knocked from my grasp. The wall of noise winds me as much as the violence of the attack. A hand grips my helmet, dragging it off and ripping my ear as it does so.'Jomi!' It's the Professor; he has his arms around my torso and struggles to pull me free. The man has incredible strength. He's preventing the creatures from dragging me into the room. Only I feel as if I will break into pieces.

With a tug that causes my joints to crackle from my neck vertebrae to my hips, he drags me away from the creatures. We both stagger back from the doorway, then brace ourselves for the attack as the beasts lunge. A huge, man-shaped creature that seems all pointed teeth and bristling red hair, leaps at me. The gun has slid further away down the pa.s.sageway. There's no way I'll reach it in time.

But as I turn to defend myself from the creature that launches itself in a full-blooded leap at me, I see it suddenly stop in mid-flight. A howl of rage explodes from its lips of pain, too. Agony contorts its features as it falls backward into the doorway that's packed with more creatures.

The Professor regains his balance. 'Jomi, no need to run. Look at the poor wretches.'

Those 'poor wretches' struggle in the doorway. They're trying to reach us with outstretched hands. They're still howling, snarling. A powerful animal smell rolls from the room; that alone is enough to make me flinch back. Then I see why they don't attack us. 'They're on leashes?'

'Some leashes, too. Do you see? One end is secured to that pillar in the middle of the cell while the other has been embedded in their bodies. The anchor point is probably the spine or pelvis. The poor brutes are in agony.

'But then we know who their gaolers are.'From the maelstrom of gnashing mouths and wildly waving arms, a long-limbed creature with a froth of pale yellow hair running round its entire face pushes forward. This one isn't savage. The eyes are large and

soulful; full of immense sorrow.

'Please, stranger. Mercy.' Its voice is hoa.r.s.e, as if it whispers from a diseased throat. 'Kill us.'

The Professor takes a step toward the door. This provokes a mad rush at him from the others, but the lines embedded in their flesh snap tight and stop them dead. Once more their faces contort with pain.

The one with the yellow hair implores: 'Kill us. Give us mercy; kill us.'

'Who are you?'

'Take this pain away.'

I glance at the Professor, wondering if he will agree to the request. Instead, he demands: 'Tell me why are you here.'

'The Daleks.'

'Why have they imprisoned you?'

Now the other beasts fall silent; they sense this is the time when their grim existence is about to change forever.

'We are here,' the creature's voice rasps from its burned-out throat, 'because they made our hearts in their own image.'

'The Daleks made you?' He scans the beasts' faces. 'They made you, then caged you. Why?'

I answer for them. 'You were locked in here because they made mistakes. You are rejects.'

The creature looks deep into me, its eyes huge and unblinking. 'No. We are perfect are perfect.'

Retrieving the gun, the Professor hands it to me with a curt order: 'Kill them!' them!'

The creature exults: 'Yesss-ssss!'

The rest let out a high, shrieking howl. It goes on and on without pause.

'What are you waiting for, Jomi?' the Professor barks. 'Kill them!'

I raise the gun. Only I don't fire. I can't.

The doorway isn't there anymore. We're both gazing at a closed door. When we try to open it, we can't. The prison is more secure than t could have imagined. Not even sound escapes. Now there is complete silence in the pa.s.sageway.

I'm panting. I realise that my ear is still bleeding. I look at the Professor as he glowers at the door. A question troubles me. 'It said, "We are here because they made our hearts in their own image." What did it mean by that?'

He takes a deep breath. 'Exactly what it said.'

'Those things in there were Daleks?'

'Jomi, there isn't much time'

'But, Professor? You know what's happening here?'

'I'm beginning to. Come on. Time to knock on some more doors.'

TWENTY-FOUR.

WE DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN, AND AGAIN. ONLY THIS TIME IT'S THE Professor who walks at the door each time. I stand ready with my firearm. Most doors remain locked shut. Then one opens. A quick glance reveals it is an empty cell. Blank grey walls. No windows. No furniture.

The Professor steps out, then shoots glances along the pa.s.sageway. 'There's another thing bothering me, Jomi.'

'What's that?'

'Daleks.'

'But I don't see any.'

'Exactly.' He moves to the next door. 'If we've penetrated so deeply into their jail, you'd suppose they'd come.'

'This place is ancient. A near ruin. Perhaps there aren't any more viable Daleks to defend it?'