The Dalek Factor Read online

'You'd go back?'

  'Me? Retreat? Never.' I check the weapon. The power level has been falling. 'I've still got thirty shots here. If I take even ten Daleks into oblivion with me, then that's fine.'

  I move forward, my training taking over. I'm alert to every movement, whether it's an insect flying by, or a leaf trembling before a breath of that hot, moist air.

  'Stay behind me, Professor. I'm the one with the gun, remember.'

  'Agreed.' He nods. 'Agreed with passion. Lead on.'

  We're inside the building now. This is a vast entrance hall with high ceilings. Grey tubes snake through the air above our heads. Clumps of grass grow from the floor. Maggots swarm in the torn body of a dead toad. A bush with brilliant blue fruit grows from a fissure in the wall; it drips a toxic sap that has killed and stunted all the plants nearby. In here there is nothing that I would recognise as furniture. Merely angular extrusions from the floor. Most of these are black. A number have monitors inset into their flanks. They show my friends at torture. Water. Insects. Pit. Beast. They are weakening. I find myself wondering: who will be the first to die?

  A geometric shape glides from behind one of the monolithic forms.

  'Dalek!' I shout the warning. A split second later, I aim my weapon at the metallic cone with its eye-stalk and gun-stick trained on me.

  'Wait!' The Professor shouts. Faster than I can fire, he scoops a fistsized hunk of metal from the floor debris and lobs it at the Dalek. The scrap metal strikes the Dalek dead centre. There's a thud, rather than the expected clang. Instantly it dissolves into a cloud of insects that disperse into the vast hall.

  'Remember, Jomi. Nothing is as it seems.'

  I glance at the firearm's indicator. That's a precious shot saved. It also serves as a warning. That I should be on guard at all times.

  We move toward the only other exit from the hall. From the shadows, another figure glides forward. This is different. I react on the level of creature instinct. To the Professor I hiss: 'Get down!' At the academy we are trained to do the impossible. That is: to evade Dalek weaponry once it's locked onto us as a target. Only one in a thousand possesses the ability to do this. Those who can are offered the opportunity of a career in the Ranger Division: a posting of unmatched prestige and honour. You must have a gymnast's prowess and be able to move with incredible speed, first in one direction and then in another, fluidly changing course without pause and maintaining sufficient acceleration to break free of the Dalek's targeting system. Simultaneously, the ranger must be able to fire with total accuracy. I do this now. Move forward and left, then snap right.

  The Dalek fires first. I feel the surge of heat through my suit. A miss. Behind me, the structure of the building absorbs the explosive energy of the blast, as it's surely designed to do.

  My turn. The shot hits the Dalek with enough force to shear its limbs. A spilt-second later, the superheated particle stream incinerates the organic content of the monster with such a furious rapidity that the metal carcass explodes, flinging debris the full length of the hall.

  Glancing at the ammo meter, I click my tongue. 'It's drawing the soup out of the cyst like I don't know what. I figure I'm down to ten shots.'

  'We need to move quickly, then.'

  I sprint into the passageway (over smouldering Dalek fragments), with the Professor following. But this place is big… it's huge… Where am I going to find those torture cells?

  TWENTY-TWO

  CORRIDORS RISE, FALL. SOMETIMES I SENSE WE ARE subterranean. Other times we find ourselves following passageways that become bridges high above ground, linking one tower with another. Meanwhile, I try not to guess what we might see if we were to look at the monitor screen the Professor carries in his pocket.

  We reach a point where two tunnels intersect. This is all guesswork. We turn left, following a corridor that runs downward. Then the Professor catches my arm.

  'No. Look back the way we came.'

  I follow his line of sight. At the centre of the intersection I see a figure. 'It's the same one,' I whisper. 'The old man.'

  'And if I'm not mistaken, Jomi, he's showing us the way again.'

  The old man points. He's indicating the passageway that leads straight on, whereas we turned left.

  'He was right before, Professor?'

  'Indeed he was. But then again, is he merely showing us the quickest way to our own prison? Hmm?'

  The answer that comes before mine is far more eloquent and infinitely more convincing than the one I was framing ever could be.

  A ball of light sears a path through the air. It strikes the white-haired old man in the chest. Instantly he dissolves into a vapour that ascends toward the ceiling.

  'Back against the wall, Professor. Here comes another one.'

  Even as I finish speaking, I see the Dalek glide to where the old man was standing. My reflexes are hot. I've aimed and fired before I've even framed the aim-shoot thought.

  The Dalek bursts into blobs of fire that spatter against the walls.

  The Professor takes the lead. 'We should be close,' he tells me. 'These must be the prison guards.'

  'It looks as if we had an ally. I wish he'd lasted a little longer.'

  'Oh, I don't know… I get the impression that our guide might be around somewhere.'

  Where the old man had stood at the top of the slope, a wash of black powder covers the floor. All that remains of him after the Dalek struck. The Professor scans the burnt dust, then crouches and picks up a small object between finger and thumb. It's an insect that has been seared by the intense heat.

  'Our friend the winged parasite.'

  'So the old man really was one of the walking hives.'

  'It looks that way.'

  'But you said these hives tricked their victims into thinking they were safe.'

  'Then the little beauties lay eggs under their skin at the first opportunity. Yes.' He's thoughtful. 'So why are they trying to help us?'

  'Another deception?'

  'Possibly. Or perhaps they hate the Dalek as much you do.'

  '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

  THE PASSAGEWAY 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?'

  '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 - 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 passageway.

  '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 assume 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. Masses 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 passageway. 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 hoarse, 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.'

  Retrieving the gun, the Professor hands it to me with a curt order: 'Kill 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 secur
e than t could have imagined. Not even sound escapes. Now there is complete silence in the passageway.

  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 passageway. '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?'

  'Possibly. Then there are other scenarios that I don't wish to even consider. Ah! Success.'

  Well, part success. The door opens to reveal another empty cell. Then another… and another… all empty. Then…

  'Ah… what a smell.' As the door opens, the Professor clamps his hand over his nose. 'That's not the aroma of peach blossom.'

  I recoil. 'Is that Dalek, too?'

  There in the middle of the cell, rising from the floor in a pulsing mound, is a creature from which masses of tentacles erupt. I see that each tentacle is tipped with a glistening eye. In a moment it has noticed us, and all the eye-tentacles snap in our direction to stare at its visitors. The creature's flesh is a mottling of purples, pinks and glistening whites, and the whole thing is covered with a sheen of slime.