Doctor Who: The Devil Goblins From Neptune (19 page)

No! You are not us! You don't belong. Don't belong in mind. Kill you!

Please tell me -

No! Kill! Kill! Kill! Waro kill. Waro kill. Waro kill Waro. For Waro. Waro Kill!

The Doctor collapsed to the floor, screaming, breaking contact with the dying goblin creature. Words flowed out of him, unintelligible at first, but the hatred, the pain, the terrible anger, was obvious. Blood trickled down his chin.

'No!' he shouted. 'No!'

The soldiers instinctively let go of the creature, but it was motionless, its eyes staring blankly.

Liz turned to the Doctor, trying to calm him. Eventually he became still, and she led him away from the catatonic creature and towards a felled tree, on which he sat clumsily.

Liz and Shuskin stood at the Doctor's side. He breathed deeply for some minutes, and then opened his eyes. He flinched back at the sudden light.

'What did you see, Doctor?' asked Shuskin impatiently.

'Terrible, terrible things,' announced the Doctor in a harsh whisper. He coughed, then wiped the blood and spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. 'They're called... They're called the Waro. I saw their world. Triton. One of Neptune's moons.'

'But nothing could live there,' said Liz.

The Doctor smiled weakly. The universe has such a...

diversity... of creatures.'

'What do they want?' asked Shuskin.

The Doctor paused, glancing across at the corpse. The colour seemed to be returning to his cheeks. 'Not much.' he replied eventually. 'The destruction of all life on Earth.'

'Why?' Liz blurted out.

'Why are some people tall and others short?' asked the Doctor. 'It's not something you consciously decide upon at birth. So, with the Waro.' each individual has no choice but to feel a deep rage at... Well, at everything, really.' The Doctor got slowly to his feet. 'That creature is quite dead. It could not tolerate another intruding on its mind. It killed itself, and tried to destroy me in the process.'

Shuskin ordered the soldiers to burn the body. This time the Doctor did not contradict her. Liz watched as the spindly limbs, the bloated face, were swiftly consumed by fire.

'Before the thing died, I saw a glimpse of their facility.'

announced the Doctor. 'I think they're mining cobalt. I'm not sure why. But that fact alone indicates one thing.'

'What?'

'The Waro have been coming here for a long time.

"Cobalt" is derived from the old German word for "kobold", or

"goblin".'

Liz found herself unable to suppress a shudder. 'So why attack now?'

'Perhaps only now is the human race strong enough to offer any sort of challenge to them. Perhaps -' The Doctor turned suddenly, clutching his head. 'I really do feel most peculiar.'

And with that he collapsed face down on the forest floor.

Mike Yates was dreaming. It was the same unfathomable dream as he had experienced so often recently. He was in a field of tall grass with a bottle of champagne in his hand.

Dawn was breaking over nearby hills. Mike sipped from a glass, and then put it on the warm earth at his feet. Nearby he found a wicker basket. He knew that he had to pick it up, that it was vitally important for him to perform some task with it. Just then it began to rain. Fish. Silver fish with obscene plastic faces. Mike had to catch the falling fish in the basket.

He knew this. If he didn't it would be the end of him, and of everyone. Everyone was relying on him to get it right.

The slippery, wriggling fish soon filled the basket, and Mike began to look around for another. But he couldn't find one, and there were fish everywhere. He was drowning in fish, their tails flapping pathetically, their mouths gaping -

The ringing of a telephone awoke him, but for a second he lay still, damp sheets scrunched tightly around his head. A hand lifted the receiver and passed the phone to him.

'It'll be for you.'

Thanks, Sandra,' he said, breathing out slowly and taking the

'Jill,' said the woman with a dignity that belied the circumstances.

'Sure' Mike took the receiver and listened as the news was 'hissed to him. He took it with little outward reaction, but inside his stomach was churning. 'I'll be there in twenty minutes,' he !mid at last, and dropped the telephone back on to its cradle. 'Bit of a crisis, love,' he said.

'I've got to be up for work in the morning,' said Jill. She rolled over, turning her back to him.

For God's sake, thought Mike angrily, what does she want for a meal and three bottles of wine?

'Fine,' he said. 'There's coffee in the percolator, and breakfast

in the fridge. Leave the key under the mat. I'll see you next time'

Mike dressed hurriedly, then reached under the bed for his I SNIT pass and Browning 9mm. He threw a pound note from his wallet towards the woman's bare back. 'Get yourself a taxi,' he said, and left without another word.

Yates's car was cold, the sun just beginning to pull itself into the cloudless sky. As he revved the engine, Mike found himself worrying about the hollowness he felt inside. He'd always assumed that the empty sensation would go, given time - but, if anything, it had been getting worse recently.

He drove through the deserted North London streets, turning things over and over in his mind. When he reached the leafy suburb in which UNIT HQ was situated he was just beginning to recover his composure. As he entered the building it was like slipping on another uniform. One that stopped him thinking too much.

'Sorry about this, sir,' said Corporal Bell, looking a little dishevelled. The duty sergeant reported the death in the early hours. We couldn't raise the Brigadier, and with Major Turner in Iceland, and Major Cosworth on leave...'

It's down to me, thought Yates with a heavy heart. 'All right, what have we got?'

'Bruce Davis is dead, sir.'

'Terrific,' said Yates. 'The Americans are going to love that'

Bell wisely decided not to respond to this. Instead she led Yates down the corridor towards the temporary computer room. 'I'm afraid it's rather messy in there,' she said as they reached the door.

The first thing Yates noticed was a crude chalk outline, indicating where the body had fallen. The second was the acrid stench that permeated the room. 'Where's the body now?'

'In the mortuary. Dr French is about to do an autopsy.'

'I'll bet he was pleased about getting dragged out of bed in the middle of the night,' said Yates with a slight grin. 'He's not used to dealing with human corpses, is he?'Yates crossed the room to the terminal where Lieutenant Carson, UNIT'S senior computer expert, was knee deep in printouts.

'Do you live here, David?' asked Yates sarcastically.

'What? Oh, morning, Mike. This is a right mess-up,' said Carson, tearing another perforated page from the printer. 'If somebody had told me that Billy Donald was capable of these juvenile shenanigans, I'd have... Well, you know...'

'I'd hardly call throwing acid in some poor sod's face schoolboy antics,' said Yates sharply. But he felt a certain empathy with Carson.' it was never easy finding that one of your trusted team is, in fact, an enemy. Yates had experienced similar shock after the Auton invasion. Friends and colleagues had been kidnapped and replaced by exact replicas, destroying what little trust he'd had in humanity.

'You never had cause to suspect Donald of being involved in anything?' asked Mike.

'He just did his job,' said Carson in frustration. 'You know Billy, Mike., he's a good lad. A bit of a bottom-pincher, if you know what I mean, but he knows his stuff. I've played darts with him in the Red lion more times than you've had hot dinners' He made another note on the sheet in front of him. 'I still can't believe it'

Yates glanced down at the printouts. 'It looks like Greek to me.' he commented.

'Hexadecimal notation,' said Carson. 'Amounts to the same thing, I suppose.

'Anything out of the ordinary?'

'No. If this was sabotage, I'd have expected the worst.

Files messed about or deleted. There's nothing like that.

Some surface damage that a six-year-old could have come up with, but nothing that can't be put right in ten minutes. I can even tell where the last message was sent to'

'Really?' Yates raised his eyebrows.

'It's to the New Mexico office.' said Carson.

'Unfortunately, I can't tell what it was yet.'

'Right,' said Yates, a clear course of action opening up to him. 'We can get into the who's and whys later. The desk sergeant said t hat his car was seen leaving at speed?'

'Yeah, a white MG,' replied Carson. 'I've been in it loads of times. Very nippy.'

'Then the first thing to do is find the murdering animal and string him up by his goolies.' He turned sharply. 'Carol, get on your bike down to police liaison and get Green Door into operation'

Bell nodded quickly. Green Door was the UNIT code name for an operation to track a fugitive. It was usually handled in conjunction with the local constabularies, and involved circulating photographs of the wanted person and setting up road blocks and checks at air and sea ports.

'Anything else?' she asked.

'Yes,' said Yates. 'Get me a coffee and two aspirins'

* * *

After slipping out of the back entrance of the hotel, the Brigadier drove through the narrow streets of Geneva's right bank. He found himself thinking about Aden, and Private Bull who had been condemned, on the orders of then Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart (with support from the Chief of General Staff), for cowardice in the face of the enemy. And the last thing he had said to Lethbridge-Stewart before sentence had been carried out. 'War is hell, Colonel. Death can't be worse than that.'

And then they shot him.

The Brigadier rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to massage away the pain. If the pain went then, perhaps, the doubt and the guilt would go, too.

He parked the car a street away from his target and prepared to execute his orders - unsigned, unconfirmed, worthless in international law.

When he reached number 73, he found it to be a huge old warehouse. A quick circumnavigation confirmed that the place was deserted. Puzzled, but knowing that he had little choice but to follow the trail he had been given, the Brigadier returned to the car and settled down to see if anyone would turn up. It could be a long wait.

Thomas Bruce knew he wouldn't get far in the stolen MG -

even the pinheads were capable of organising roadblocks.

The obvious route, south towards the Channel ports, would be swarming with cops and soldiers, so Bruce drove into Bedfordshire, keeping to the narrow country lanes. After thirty miles he passed a farmhouse. The sun was just rising over the horizon as Bruce pulled off the road and into a clump of bushes about half a mile from the farm entrance.

Quickly he changed out of the technician's clothes and into a pair of jeans and a thick navy-style woollen sweater.

Even in these surroundings he looked like a walking advert for Mainly for Men. He shaved, using the car wing mirror, and then removed a bottle of Chanel aftershave from his toiletries bag. There was no need, he thought, even in this uncivilised part of the world, to look and smell like a barbarian.

The farmhouse appeared to be deserted. Bruce banged on the door several times but, clearly, the farmer was in the pastures tilling the land, or whatever the hell he did. He turned, about to leave, but then saw a man striding across the yard from the milking sheds.

'Morning,' said the man.

'Hi.' said Bruce in a flat New York accent. 'I'm sorry to trouble you, but I appear to be having some difficulties with my car. Can't get the darn thing to go.'

'Well.' said the farmer brightly, walking towards his Land Rover, 'Let's see if we can sort the blighter out.'

During the short trip back to the MG, the man told Bruce his life story. Bruce feigned interest in his cautionary tale of being corrupted by life in the city and finding true happiness on the farm. It's a wonderful life.' said the man as they approached the MG, and Bruce had a sudden vision of himself stuck in a Frank Kapra movie. Thankfully Bruce was able to curb his overwhelming urge to resort to violence as much of the man's tale was lost in an impenetrable accent.

'Ah, right.' said the farmer as they came to a halt. 'A sports car. You don't want to be driving one of them.' you want to get yourself a nice Ford Escort. Very practical.'

Bruce breathed in slowly and then pointed to the car. 'I think it's the engine. Or Something.'

'Righto, soon have her back on the road for you,' said the farmer, pulling open the bonnet. 'Now, if you could just try starting her up for me, then we'll -'

Bruce smashed the bonnet down on to the farmer's head, knocking him unconscious. He stood over the man and drew his Colt .45 from inside his trousers, pointing it squarely at the man's head. Then he had second thoughts. 'No, friend.'

he said to the prone figure, 'you and life deserve each other.'

He bundled the farmer into the boot of the MG, then got into the Land Rover and drove off.

Within half an hour he had reached the motorway and, almost immediately, faced a lengthy tailback at a police roadblock.

'What's the problem?' he asked in a thick Irish accent when he finally reached the front of the queue.

'Escaped prisoner, mate.' said the young policeman, checking something on a clipboard. 'Keep your eyes open for this bloke.' He turned the clipboard around, showing Bruce the photo of the technician he had killed earlier.

'B'Jesus, but he's a right evil-looking beast, and no mistake,' said Bruce. 'It's in the eyes, you know. You can always tell. What'd he do? Murder? Rape?'

'Dunno, Patrick,' said the policeman hurriedly, eager to get to the next car. 'Just don't you go offering him lifts, all right?' He waved the Land Rover through the roadblock.