Authors: Simon Guerrier
Beyond the ballroom, and through a discreet door, the small cocktail lounge awaited. Her nostrils flared at a sudden tang of oranges and lemons. For a moment she thought the lounge must be perfumed, but as she stepped through the door she realised the sweet stench came from the tentacled aliens.
There were maybe a dozen of them, tubby, egg-shaped creatures, either all-orange or all-pale-blue. They crowded around the great bay window, looking out onto twinkling stars. Martha realised they were right at one end of the ship, where the passengers could sip elegant drinks and admire the view. Their ball gowns looked expensive and floaty, and they wore lots of heavy jewellery all down their long and nimble tentacles. Martha watched them busy with chatting and drinking, and ignoring her arrival. For all she couldn't name the species, she felt like she must have seen them before. And then it struck her: it was like going to a party with Mr Tickle's family.
'Hello!' she said brightly, like her sister did at parties. The aliens stopped talking to look at her. There was a sudden, horrible silence.
'Er . . .' said Martha. She hated being the centre of attention. And these aliens had big, staring eyes. It didn't help that she knew their posh party through the stars depended on those sorry, mouthless men, slaving away downstairs.
'Might I get you an aperitif, Ms Martha?' said Gabriel. The party of aliens clearly took this to mean they could carry on with their urgent conversations. Martha was again ignored. She couldn't thank Gabriel enough.
'That'd be nice,' said Martha. 'What have you got?'
Another robot manned the long bar on one side of the lounge. The menu offered all kinds of brightly coloured drinks that Martha had never heard of. The only thing she recognised on the list was 'hydrogen hydroxide' – or water, as they called it back home. Martha could have it in a glass, in a bowl or in an 'immature Mim'. She thought she could live without knowing exactly what that last one was.
She sipped her water, feeling under-dressed in her jeans and vest-top, and terribly tall and awkward around the dumpy aliens. It was no fun being so noticeable at a party; it made her all self-conscious. She just wanted to be invisible. Slowly, Martha made her way to the great bay window and looked out into the darkness beyond. The stars seemed tiny, so distant that she couldn't tell if the ship were moving towards them or away. Perhaps one of those tiny pinpricks of light was her own sun. Or perhaps she was too far from home even for that. She would never get used to that feeling.
'And what do you make of it all, dear?' asked an orange alien beside her, so suddenly Martha spilt her glass of water.
'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Martha, feeling even more stupid as other aliens turned to look at her.
'No, no,' said the alien, kindly. 'We're all a little unnerved. I'm Mrs Wingsworth. My friends call me Mrs Wingsworth.'
'I'm Martha,' said Martha, holding out her hand.
Mrs Wingsworth peered at it suspiciously. 'Is there something the matter with your paw?' she asked.
'No,' laughed Martha. 'It's a custom on my planet. We shake hands when we make friends.' She slowly reached for the tip of Mrs Wingsworth's right tentacle and showed her how it was done. The tentacle felt rough and wrinkled, like an elephant's trunk.
'How marvellous!' laughed Mrs Wingsworth. 'I must remember that for my brother. He's a great enthusiast for primitive cultures.'
'My pleasure,' said Martha, though she didn't feel it. Last time she'd been so patronised she'd been washing floors in a school. 'So what are people unnerved about? Is something going on?'
'My dear!' said Mrs Wingsworth, wrapping a tentacle around her in what Martha realised was meant to a friendly manner. 'I'm afraid,' said Mrs Wingsworth gleefully, like this was
such
an adventure, 'that our vessel has been invaded!'
'What?' said Martha. 'By who?'
'By,' teased Mrs Wingsworth, taking her time to explain, 'aliens! It's thrilling, isn't it?'
Martha wished she had asked for something stronger than a glass of water. Of course there'd be an alien invasion somewhere. There always was when the Doctor showed up.
'What kind of aliens?' she said.
'You'll be able to see in a minute. They're making their way down here. Probably want to kill a few of us!' Mrs Wingsworth seemed to find the whole thing delicious fun.
Martha extracted herself from the long orange tentacle and made her way over to Gabriel. 'Has the
Brilliant
been invaded?' she asked the robot.
'I'm afraid so, Ms Martha,' said Gabriel. 'They gave orders that passengers should all remain in this room, and that they would kill anyone who left it.'
'That's why you brought me here, then?' Martha asked Gabriel. 'It was for my own safety.'
'Indeed, Ms Martha.'
'Oh, we'll be perfectly all right, dear,' said Mrs Wingsworth. 'So long as we do as we're told.'
'But Gabriel! The Doctor will walk right into them,' she said. 'The bloke I was waiting for, I mean.'
'I shall return to the engine room and intercept him,' said Gabriel. 'Please do not worry yourself, Ms Martha.'
He turned to go, and Martha ordered a refill of water from his colleague behind the bar. A gasp of excitement from the other passengers made her turn quickly round.
Three burly, humanoid spacemen stood in the doorway to the cocktail lounge, chunky-looking guns in their hands. Their faces were hidden by dark, domed space helmets. A skull and crossbones had been crudely painted on the chests of their battered spacesuits: they were pirates.
'You there,' snarled one of them gruffly, jabbing his gun towards Gabriel. They had just blocked his way out of the cocktail lounge. The robot bowed his head curtly.
'Requests by passengers take precedence over—' he began. The pirate shot him without a second thought and Gabriel vanished in a flash of blinding pink light. Several of the alien passengers screamed. When the light died away, there was nothing left to see of Gabriel – he had been completely obliterated. Martha had learned to keep silent, but still she felt utterly bereft; that had been her fault.
'Right then, you 'orrible lot,' the pirate addressed them. 'No one else 'ere leaves the room. Not even t'go to the toilet.'
The other pirates had positioned themselves round the cocktail lounge strategically, and seemed satisfied that they now held the room. Martha could only keep any two of them in her line of vision at once. The pirate who had shot the robot nodded at his colleagues, and each pirate in turn worked the controls at the necks of their spacesuits. There was a hiss of air as the suits depressurised, and then the robot-killer took off his helmet.
Martha gasped. She glanced back round at the other pirates, who were also removing their helmets. They were the same species. Each pirate wore a thick gold earring in his left ear, so heavy it made the ear droop. They each had the same twin black stripes running down their hairy faces, hiding mischievous, twinkling eyes. And it took Martha a moment to realise what she was looking at.
The pirates. They were badgers.
FOUR
'You're not Martha Jones,' said the Doctor as he stepped out of the scrambled egg membrane that blocked the door to the engine room.
'No, Mr Doctor,' said the slender machine in the shape of a flight steward. It bowed its head politely.
'Well hello anyway,' said the Doctor, clicking off his sonic screwdriver, spinning it in the air and then deftly dropping it into the inside pocket of his suit. He then banged his head on the dark wooden ceiling. 'Cramped in here, innit?' he said. 'Reminds me a bit of the SS
Great Britain.
I helped lay a carpet on that. You're a Bondoux 56, aren't you?'
'Indeed, Mr Doctor,' said the machine. 'Though I have been remodelled for this voyage with the latest accoutrements.'
'Good for you,' grinned the Doctor. 'I was gonna say you were a bit old-fashioned for the fortieth century, even when it's all retro like this place. But these accoutrements of yours. They don't half look like they hurt.'
The machine bent to examine its own battered body. The once highly polished chrome of its chest was smeared purple and black where it had been charred by flame. One slender arm still retained its original, elegant shape, the other had been badly twisted by the fire. The machine hesitated, as if it couldn't think quite what to say. It'd probably have protocols that stopped it slagging off the passengers or crew, thought the Doctor. So if one of them had done this, it would find it hard to say so.
'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,' said the Doctor kindly.
The Bondoux 56 stood stiffly upright, and was probably in need of an oil. The Doctor would just find out where Martha was, have a word with the Brilliant's captain and then maybe they could do a quick repair; he really liked to be fixing things. 'There was . . .' said the machine, and hesitated. It took a full second before it selected the right word. 'An altercation, Mr Doctor. It is of no consequence.'
'Well that's very brave of you,' said the Doctor. 'Now, you seem to know who I am, so I'm guessing you've met my friend Martha.'
'Indeed, Mr Doctor. I have had that pleasure.'
'She is nice, isn't she?' said the Doctor. 'Clever and able and she's got lovely hair. Mind you, she likes to talk back to those older and more experienced, but I was the same at her age. She'll grow out of it by the time she's 300. Where can I find her?'
'The last time I saw Ms Martha she was in the cocktail lounge, Mr Doctor,' said the machine.
The Doctor laughed. 'I might have known. "Don't wander off," I say, and the moment she's out of sight it's "I'll have a white wine spritzer!'"
'Begging your pardon, Mr Doctor, but Ms Martha ordered a measure of hydrogen hydroxide. In liquid form.'
'The scamp! I can't believe she's found a bar
and
got served in less than thirty seconds.'
'Begging your pardon, Mr Doctor?'
A terrible thought struck the Doctor. His eyebrows pressed together as he scrutinised the machine. 'How long's it been since you saw her?' he asked.
'Checking,' said the machine. 'It has been three hours, forty-two minutes and... eighteen seconds since I last saw Ms Martha.'
'What!' said the Doctor. 'Three hours, forty-two minutes and . . . twenty-three seconds? Really? You mean Martha was in the cocktail lounge three hours, forty-two minutes and... twenty-nine seconds ago?'
'Indeed, Mr Doctor,' said the machine.
'Well that's clever of her. It only felt like thirty seconds to me. And I'm usually very good at that sort of thing. Being the last of the—' He grinned, sheepishly. 'Oh, never mind.'
He turned to examine the membrane of scrambled egg blocking the way back into the engine room, prodding it with a finger. It felt soft and warm and rubbery, but didn't yield to him. He buzzed the sonic screwdriver at it, on setting twenty-eight. Nothing. Settings twenty-nine and forty-one did no good either.
'Hmm,' he said, turning back to the machine. That's a bother. So it
only felt
like thirty seconds to me since Martha stepped through, but it's really been three hours, forty-three minutes and... eleven seconds. Approximately.'
'Begging your pardon, Mr Doctor,' said the machine. 'I do not understand.'
'Ah well,' said the Doctor. 'There's this experimental drive in there,' he indicated the eggy doorway with his thumb. 'And it's stalled or something, so the engine room is now cut off in a separate pocket of time. Like the engine room and the rest of the ship are running at different speeds. Which, now I think about it, is why it was so difficult to land here.'
The Bondoux 56 considered this. 'Begging your pardon, Mr Doctor,' it said. 'I do not understand.'
'Well, that's all right, it
is
a bit complicated,' said the Doctor. 'The engine room is running at a different speed to us out here, so when you're in there it's like everything out here is moving really, really fast. Voosh! And out here, it's like everything in there is moving really, really slowly. Like how time stretches out in that bit after lunch break and before it's home time.'
The Bondoux 56 bowed its head. 'Begging your pardon, Mr Doctor,' it began. The Doctor interrupted.
'Never mind that,' he gabbled. 'This is more for my own benefit. It's because they're moving at different speeds that you get this skin of scrambled egg between the two. And it means you can only pass one way through it. Why's that, you say? Well, because . . . um . . . I know! You can only speed up in one direction. Obvious, really, 'cos otherwise you're speeding
down.
And I guess that great big download waiting in the transmat machine in there is someone from this side transmatting down at normal speed.' His eyes widened in horror. 'I hope whoever's in there doesn't notice the delay. That could be pretty nasty.' He clapped his hands together. 'Never mind. Nothing we can do about it just now, is there? I'll have to work out how we get back in there somehow, but first things first I always say. So what's next? What have I missed?' He addressed the machine. 'What's Martha told you?'
'She said, "But Gabriel! The Doctor will walk right into them,'" said the Bondoux 56, doing quite a good impression of Martha's London accent. 'I volunteered to meet you.'
'Gabriel?' said the Doctor. 'She called you Gabriel?'
'Indeed, Mr Doctor.'
'That's her name for you?' he laughed.
'I regret it is my designation, Mr Doctor.'
The Doctor realised he'd been rude – which was good, as he normally needed other people to point that out to him. Probably Martha's influence, he thought. He patted the machine fondly on its less burnt shoulder. 'Oh, don't say that. It's a nice name, Gabriel. If I remember rightly, it means you're here to help us. And are you here to help us?
'Indeed, Mr Doctor,' said Gabriel. 'My function is to serve the passengers.'
'And I bet you do it brilliantly. What did Martha want you to warn me about?'
Gabriel considered. 'Ms Martha did not ask me to warn you about anything, Mr Doctor. I said I would escort you to the cocktail lounge.'
'Right,' said the Doctor. 'I'm going to walk into a "them" some time, but so long as there's nothing you should be telling me.'
'Checking,' said Gabriel. 'Might I enquire as to your berth number, Mr Doctor?'
'My what?' said the Doctor. 'Oh, I'm not a passenger. I'm just helping out.'
Gabriel considered this new fact. 'I have nothing I should be telling you, Mr Doctor,' it said.
'OK,' said the Doctor warily, sure he was missing out on something important. But he had things to be getting on with: find Martha, then find the Brilliant's captain, then work out a way of getting back into the engine rooms, and then – if the ship hadn't blown up by that point – see what he could do to fix Gabriel. 'Come on,' he said. 'You'd better take me to this cocktail lounge.'
Gabriel led the way along the corridor. They turned left, left again and then right, and up a wide staircase into a dining room where the ceiling was a little higher and the Doctor could stand up straight. Two rows of columns held up the low ceiling. An area at the far end of the room was free of columns, which probably allowed for dancing. Stood in this space, definitely not dancing, were two badger-faced people in spacesuits.
The Doctor had met a lot of different species, but he couldn't remember any that looked quite so like humans with badger faces. Which meant, what with the mouthless men downstairs and all, that he could make some educated guesses about what sorts of creature they must be. It helped in working out what they might be doing aboard the
Brilliant
that the badgers each wore a thick gold earring in their left ears, both had a skull and crossbones crudely painted on the chests of their battered spacesuits and both brandished heavy space guns. The fortieth century had quite a vogue for old-school piracy in space, recalled the Doctor. Badger-faced ones were just a bit more distinctive than the ones he'd encountered before.
'Hiyah!' he said to them, keen to appear friendly. 'Have I missed tea?'
'Thought Dash'd done for this one already, Archie,' said one of the badgers. She had a gruff but female voice, and a noticeable accent. Maybe Home Counties. Maybe even Hampshire. Perhaps just down the road from Romsey. The Doctor realised she wore pastel pink lipstick around her hairy, snarly mouth.
'Thought Dash'd done for it an' all, Joss,' said the other badger, raising his heavy space gun. He had the same accent, more broad Southampton than like pirates in old movies.
'Hang on a tick—' began the Doctor. But he was too late. Archie shot Gabriel squarely in the chest, and Gabriel disappeared in a ball of pink light. When the light died away, there was nothing left to see of Gabriel, just a metallic tang in the air – he had been completely obliterated. 'That was a bit . . .' began the Doctor, tailing off as the two badgers pointed their heavy space guns at him. He tried a disarming, goofy smile. 'Wasn't it?'
'What are you, then?' said Archie the badger space pirate.
'Me?' said the Doctor. 'Oh, I'm no one important.' He grinned. 'Well, we're all important, aren't we? But I mean, I'm nobody you want to worry about.'
'Can I kill 'im?' Archie asked Joss gruffly. His wet, black nose twitched with excitement.
'He doesn't have to, you know,' the Doctor told her. 'I might have skills. Or know stuff.'
'What sort of stuff?' said Joss. The Doctor wondered what that name was short for. He'd once been good friends with a Josephine.
'Oh, you know,' he said. 'I can do tricks. Make stuff. I know a few jokes.'
Aw,' said Archie excitedly. 'Go on, tell us a joke!'
'OK,' said the Doctor.
A clean one,' warned Joss.
'Oh,' said the Doctor. 'OK. Um . . .' He racked his brains. 'Ha! Got one. Why are pirates called pirates?'
Archie and Joss conferred in whispers before they both shrugged at each other. 'We don't know,' said Joss. 'Why are pirates called pirates?'
The Doctor beamed. 'Because they ahhhhr!' he said.
The two badgers stared at him. 'I don't get it,' said Archie, scratching his head with a hairy paw. 'Can I kill 'im yet?'
'I've got other jokes,' said the Doctor quickly. 'Funny ones.'
'Not jus' yet, Archie,' said Joss. 'We wanna know where 'e's come from, don't we?'
'Yeah,' leered Archie. 'Where'd ya come from?'
'Just, er, back there,' said the Doctor, pointing to the stairs.
'There wasn't no one down there when we looked before,' said Joss.