Winner Takes All (15 page)

Two of the Quevvils came with her, and led her down a depressingly grey corridor. She made no effort to get away – hard to run from creatures who could spray needle-sharp quills down the length of the corridor, and anyway, where would she run to?

At the end of the corridor was a door, and the Quevvils took her into a room.

The first thing she noticed was the window. She'd known that Toop was a desert planet, and she'd seen bits of it on the screen via
Death to Mantodeans
, but it was still a shock to come face to face with it. Somehow she'd expected a desert to resemble an enormous version of Southend, only with fewer ice-cream sellers and more oases, but it was nothing like.

The sky . . . the sky wasn't a glorious holiday blue, it was a dull blue, a grey-blue, so pale as to be almost colourless. The sun was harshly white: glaringly bright, but lifeless. And even the ground disappointed, she could tell it wasn't deep, soft sand, the sort you'd make castles out of – or even ride a camel across – it was more like dead ground: dusty and yellow and parched. And it was bleak. All she could see in the distance was a single structure, a dull ochre mound that did actually look a bit like someone had upturned a bucket of sand and produced a truncated cone with one tap of their spade. She reckoned that must be the Mantodean place. Only a few kilometres away. A local war.

The Quevvil holding her snarled, and she started. But it was snarling at the view. ‘A world blighted by Mantodeans,' it said. ‘But not for much longer . . .'

‘Have you ever thought of, you know, just trying to be friends?' said Rose. The Quevvils ignored that, and the second one grabbed hold of her arm. ‘Ow!' she said. ‘Or you could just put up curtains so they don't spoil your view . . .' They took no notice of that, either.

There were several workbenches in the room, and one Quevvil led – dragged – her over to one on the far side, away from the window. It kept hold of her, as the other picked up a metal disc, and held it to Rose's head. She instinctively tried to back away, but only succeeded in standing on the foot of the Quevvil holding her. It pushed her forward impatiently, and the second Quevvil then slammed the disc against her forehead.

The disc had little claws sticking out of it on one side, and to her horror it didn't stick on to her forehead like she'd expected, it stuck into her forehead. She could feel the claws grab hold, push their way into the flesh, and then clench up, as if they were making a fist. It was a horrible experience, but to her surprise the boy had been right, it didn't really hurt; just a short, sharp shock like having your ears pierced, then a nagging unpleasantness, but no actual lingering pain.

Then one of the Quevvils pressed a button on a small silver box, and the pain began.

Or maybe it wasn't pain. But it was the most unpleasant sensation. Something was happening inside her. The feeling started at the disc on her forehead and slowly spread throughout her body. It was as if tiny wires were threading themselves along every nerve. Worst of all, she couldn't react: couldn't shout or back way; couldn't move a single muscle.

The Quevvil then picked up a small metal cube. Rose realised what it was doing – this was like the beginning of the game, only she wasn't in a title sequence, they were preparing her to play for real.

The cube was on a thick metal wire, and the Quevvil hung it around her neck, twisting it so the wire encircled her like a noose. Two more wires, taken under her arms, were attached behind Rose's back. Without cutting the wire – or removing her head – it would be impossible to get rid of the cube.

She watched the Quevvil who had been holding her go over to a device on the wall, just like one she'd seen on the wall of their underground lair back in London. It spoke into it: ‘Is the controller ready?'

‘The controller is ready,' a voice confirmed. ‘You will dispatch the carrier.'

‘Understood.'

The Quevvil did something at the control panel. Rose had a split second to register the tang in the air that spoke to her of the Quevvils' teleportation devices. And then – she was somewhere else.

FOURTEEN

T
he man had let the wonderful girl be taken by the porcupines. Robert couldn't believe it. He'd only just met her, and she was being taken from him already.

Mind you, the man really didn't seem happy about it. He wasn't doing anything now, but from the way he looked, Robert was pretty sure he wasn't just going to accept the situation.

The tall man turned to the nearest porcupine. ‘I was planning on just rescuing everyone and, you know, maybe destroying your technology so you wouldn't do it again,' he said conversationally, acting totally coolly about it all. ‘If she gets hurt, though, this planet's dust. Just thought I'd mention it.'

Yeah, thought Robert. Dust. If they hurt her, he'd be there helping this man smash it all up.

The other man, the ugly one who had come in with the porcupines, snorted with laughter. ‘You and whose army?'

The tall man turned to him. ‘You know what, Darren? That thing I said about dust? Applies to you too. If she gets hurt.' He really looked as if he meant it, and Robert was pleased to see the ugly man – Darren – look a bit nervous.

But the porcupine didn't seem to care what the man was saying. ‘Your carrier will soon be in place,' it told the tall man. ‘You will come with us and play the game.'

‘Yeah, you tell him,' said Darren, rallying.

The tall man actually laughed. ‘If you knew how pathetic you looked!' he said to Darren. ‘Trying to ally yourself with the Quevvils, cos you think they won't hurt you that way. Like they think of you as any different from the rest of the humans! You know what they call people who do that, who betray their own species, who do the “every man for himself” thing? They call them chickens.' And, to Robert's absolute delight and amazement, he began to do a chicken impression, clucking and flapping his arms.

The man called Darren looked really mad at that. ‘No one calls me a chicken!' he yelled, and started forward, looking as if he was going to hit the other man. But one of the porcupines – the Quevvils? – put out a paw and stopped him.

‘Be quiet, human,' it said. It turned, as another Quevvil came in the room.

‘Three more carriers required, Frinel,' said the new entry. The Quevvil that had been addressed nodded. Robert's stomach tightened. Three more carriers. Three more of them to be taken away goodness knew where, for goodness knew what.

The new Quevvil came over towards them.

‘Wait!' yelled the tall man. ‘If I'm going to play your game for you, you don't need anyone else playing it! Shut down the connections to Earth. Don't make any more humans play the game.'

But the Quevvil called Frinel looked like he was smirking. ‘Until you succeed, the game will continue to be played,' he said. ‘Perhaps there is another controller out there as good as you.'

‘There isn't!' said the man, sounding frustrated. ‘As I told your friends before, you're not going to find a human who can play the game to the end! I'm your only chance. So it's pointless. You're sending these people to their deaths for nothing!'

There was a wail from George, and gasps from most of the women. All the husbands clasped their wives to them. Sarah's mother held her tight. But Robert was all alone. They'd all known it really, of course; all known that the people who were taken away were going to die. But they'd never been totally sure; they'd always been able to hope just a tiny bit.

Robert felt tears start to build in the corner of his eyes, an unpleasant, itchy sensation. He blinked hard.

The Quevvil came over to them. Robert tried to stand tall, to not show his fear. George was still wailing, and Robert thought he was so stupid, drawing attention to himself, that he'd be picked for certain. But the Quevvil took Mr and Mrs Nkomo and Mr Snow. The Nkomos held each other's hands tightly. Mrs Snow grabbed hold of her husband's arm and began to scream at the Quevvil, something about it being an outrage, but it was no use. What always happened, happened. The Quevvil pointed a small silver box at their foreheads, and one by one Mr Nkomo, Mrs Nkomo and Mr Snow became rigid, like statues. The discs on their foreheads began to flash red. Then the Quevvil pushed a switch on the silver box, and all three began to walk forward robotically. It would have been funny in other circumstances: the old white man and the young black couple marching stiffly in unison together, they looked as if they were on some silly kids' programme with those embarrassing presenters who pretend to be talking to you through the screen – ‘Now, everyone pretend to be soldiers. Well done, that's great!' But here, no one was finding it entertaining.

Except the ugly man, Darren. He began to chortle, aping their robot walk, his eyes wide and mock-staring, his mouth doing a ‘Duh, duh, duh' thing. Robert really, really wanted to hit him.

Another Quevvil appeared in the doorway. ‘Toral,' it called, addressing the Quevvil with the silver box, ‘a fourth carrier is required.'

‘This isn't very efficient, if you ask me,' said the tall man. ‘I wondered why you had to build such a long introduction into the game. Still, hopefully it's worked out for the best. I bet loads of people have switched off in boredom before it's even started.'

‘Shall I use him?' said Toral, pointing at the tall man. Robert's heart leapt in fear.

Over the other side of the room, Darren was laughing, still half mimicking the stiff-armed movements of the three people already chosen. ‘Yeah, use the freak,' he said. ‘Show him what you do to people who threaten you, right?'

But Frinel was turning to look at the ugly man now. Robert looked at Darren too, and was filled with contempt tinged with horror – he was acting as if he was with the monsters; couldn't he see that he wasn't, that they weren't looking at him any differently to anyone else? He thought he was safe, and he wasn't.

And Frinel said to the other Quevvil, ‘No. That is the controller who will bring us victory.' He raised a paw. ‘Use him.' He was pointing at Darren.

It took Darren a few seconds to realise what Frinel meant. Then he began to scream. ‘But I helped you! I told you what was happening. I told you about them and their spaceship! They'd have mucked up everything for you if I hadn't warned you, the Doctor freak and that little cow!'

But it made no difference. Robert tried to tear his eyes away, but his brain wouldn't process the request. Toral lifted up the silver box, but then realised that Darren didn't have a metal disc on his forehead. He gestured at the Quevvil who had come in with the request, and it grabbed hold of Darren. They left the room, a grotesque procession: three people marching inhumanly followed by a Quevvil with the control box held out at arm's length, then a struggling, ugly man in the arms of another Quevvil, then a further Quevvil following.

The tall man was gazing towards Robert and the group. His eyes seemed to be trying to reassure them, trying to distract them from the terrible sight. ‘No one else, I promise,' he said, and Robert didn't know how he could possibly promise that, but he sounded so sincere that he couldn't help but believe him. ‘No one else after this. I'm going to stop it.'

The door shut behind the procession. Two Quevvils were left, one of them the leader called Frinel. He turned to the tall man and said, ‘Now you will come with me.' Then he turned to his fellow and said, ‘And bring one of those with us.' He gestured at Robert and the others.

Everyone froze again. They'd – well, not exactly relaxed, but they'd thought it was over for now. The unlucky ones had been picked. The rest were safe, for a little while longer. But they weren't.

Robert felt people begin to back away again, not that there was anywhere further for them to back away to. George started wailing again: ‘Not me! Not me!' Robert looked at him in disgust. Coward, he thought. Coward, coward.

But Robert was a coward too. He'd let other people be taken. He'd done nothing to stop it, nothing to push himself forward to save someone else even at the expense of his own life. He'd let his

He'd let other people do it instead. He was the kid, he should be protected. He was special, he was –

But he wasn't special. He wasn't the Chosen One.

And even if he was . . .

He loved books like that, and telly, and films. He loved stuff where there was a Chosen One, a special person, a hero, and he loved to imagine that one day things like that would happen to him. But there was one thing he'd noticed, and that was that however much the hero seemed to risk his life, all the way through there would be other people risking their lives too, happy to give up their lives so the Chosen One, the hero, could live to fight another day, or do something clever, and everyone accepted that that was just as it should be. Often, the hero didn't even know their names. He certainly rarely gave them a second thought, after the first brief regret of the loss.

Robert knew he wasn't the hero, wasn't special. But looking at this man, the ‘Doctor freak' as Darren called him, he knew that he was in the presence of someone who was.

He remembered what the man had said about no one else being taken. Well, maybe he was almost right. He was going to put a stop to all this, Robert really believed that. So maybe one more person had to go, and then everyone else would be all right: Sarah, and her mother, and old Mrs Pobjoy and the rest. And maybe the person going would be able to help the hero. Maybe be able to give their life for the hero. Maybe be part of the solution, even if they had to die. Maybe even be regretted one day by that wonderful girl, the hero's friend, because he knew the hero would rescue her somehow. She'd never know his name, but perhaps she'd shed a small tear and say, ‘That boy, the last one to die. We'd never have been able to do it without his sacrifice.'