The Dalek Factor Read online

  'No,' Rain cries. 'Keep your visor locked down.' She looks down at her fallen mentor. 'Pelt did the same as you, then-'

  'Help me with him,' Fellebe orders, dropping to one knee beside her fallen comrade. 'He's still alive.'

  'But what's that covering his face?' I ask. Only there's no time for reply. Suddenly the water bubbles as if ferociously boiling.

  Rain snaps a warning. 'It's happening again!'

  I don't need a detailed explanation of what is 'happening again,' because small, hard, black objects - something like slugs - burst from the water with the speed of bullets. I hear them striking my protective suit, helmet and visor. Soon, small black bodies have battened themselves onto my helmet. Just a whisper from my eyes, I see the silvery-grey underside of the black creatures; a muscular orifice pulsates. I see something resembling a fleshy needle with an opening in the end attempt to burrow into the transparent material of the visor. I sweep the nauseating creatures away with my gloved hands, leaving smeary streaks.

  Then I glance down at Pelt. His visor's locked into the open position. He's taken a face full of these parasites. Where he's removed a glove, yet more encase his hand - a moist shell of glistening black.

  With dozens of the creatures still leaping from the water, we drag the fallen ranger back through the bushes.

  'Leeches.' Rain pants the word. 'At least, some kind of leeches… They didn't even wait for us reach the water. They jumped from it… right at us - ugh… Disgusting things.'

  'They're feeding on Pelt,' Fellebe shouts. 'We've got to take him back to the shuttle.' Then she turns to Rain. 'Ranger! Get back there and tell them we're bringing in wounded. We have to get these things off of him!'

  Rain speeds away through the bushes. Fellebe and I have an arm each of the unconscious ranger and we're dragging him. I hear our panted breath, the rustle of branches as we battle through, and all the time, thunder batters our heads. We're both tired. Our limbs ache. My spine runs fiery spasms from the exertion. But we can't stop. There's no time to stop. Time, I realise at this moment, is the most precious commodity of all. And time will decide whether our comrade lives or dies.

  SIX

  'THE CHILD'S BACK.'

  'I don't care.'

  In the passenger cabin of the shuttle, Pelt lies flat on his back along the line of seats; armrests have been raised so that the seat cushions now form a bed. It's a sickening sight. I've turned away to look at the walls, the floor, through the airlock at boiling cloud - anything but that. But every so often my gaze is dragged back. Because we don't know if Pelt will survive. Captain Vay and Rain work with tiny, hand-held lasers from the medi-pack. They're intended to seal torn arteries and to suture wounds. Now they're being employed to burn those loathsome black slugs from the man's hand and face. He's still unconscious. That's a gift in itself. So he's lying perfectly still as the pair work. A little needlepoint of red light gleams as they train the laser on another of the creatures. The parasite's flesh puckers; fluids boil beneath that glossy black skin; then the entire body bursts with an audible crack. Kye tweezers a dead parasite from the man's face before dropping it into a container. There must be dozen parasites left, part-burrowed into Pelt's flesh. I see the white, disc-shaped impressions where the creatures have clung to the skin. In the centre of each depression is a puncture wound that still oozes a drop of Thal blood. Rain was right about the creatures being like leeches; they're thumb-sized bloodsuckers.

  My stomach gives a queasy roll. Think about something else, I tell myself, take your mind off it. But that's a mistake in itself. I guess it's the events of the morning, of seeing the Dalek and then this happening to Pelt, but a memory I've been evading for years comes ghosting up on me. No, don't do this to yourself… Not now…

  I was born and raised on a mining planet. A cold, uncompromising place with flinty soil and houses built from granite boulders that somehow always reminded me of hard, frowning faces. My parents and grandfather rode the rock cutting machines. From my bedroom window I could see the mineral conveyors creep toward the grading plant. They were huge steel hoppers that glided at walking pace just above the ground. From an early age, you were told not to run between them but to use the overways to reach the school and the park safely. My grandfather appeared as hard as the ground he cut day after day, but as you find so often in life, appearances can be deceptive. He grew up with a deep love for animals. He had the usual pets you'd find in a Thal household, but he was the only one to care for the Grimes that the miners found in the deep fissures. These were hard-shelled creatures - something like landlocked shellfish. They had two dull-brown, clam-like shells that nipped together tight; from the top, two tiny stalk eves would poke warily into the open air. They were ugly things. Usually they were pretty elusive, too. But occasionally rotating steel cutters would gouge one from its lair. Most miners would ignore the damaged Grimp or dump it into the waste backfill. Not my grandfather: no sir, he brought them home and cared for them until he could return them to a cave or fissure where they'd anchor themselves to a rock and continue their quiet, immobile lives.

  Only my grandfather discovered something about them. It's hard to love what appears to be a small boulder, but eventually he found that they would open up, given enough care and patience. I can still remember seeing one of the Grimes when it'd folded back its shell so that it stood like a rigid brown sail on its back. The creature within was warm blooded, covered in the softest cream-coloured fur imaginable and possessed of a child-shaped face set with two large, brown eyes that seemed to shine with perpetual surprise. My grandfather called that a 'pleased to see you look.' And he'd been right. Once you'd gently coaxed a Grimp to unshell, its expression was always one of surprise and delight, as if you were an old friend who'd just arrived unexpectedly.

  On my twelfth birthday, my grandfather gave me a Grimp that he'd nursed back to health after finding it abandoned in a spoil heap. By then, his own health was failing; a lung complaint had plagued him for months. But he had got so much pleasure from seeing the Grimp recover from its injuries, that his eyes sparkled with sheer happiness when he handed it to me. Within days, Granddad was dead.

  Of course, life went on. I cared for the Grimp, whom I named Yo, and soon it would unshell itself for me, rewarding me with that 'pleased to see you' look. And it took to following me around on its scurrying little paws. Imagine a large ball of soft, creamy fluff, topped with a brown sail, and you've got the image of Yo in your mind. Yo and I were inseparable. I found myself rushing home from school just so I could look into her huge brown eyes. My spirits lifted as soon as I saw her. And I grew impatient to get home, so to save time I started running between the sluggish train of mineral conveyors. Huge, slow moving, barge-like things, they were. And with a good thirty paces separating them, plus a rash of safety sensors spotting their metal flanks, they shouldn't have been any real danger. The only possible hazard was when the one in the lead would break down; then all the hoppers would butt up to one another to form an unbroken line. It all happened in slow motion. No damage occurred. Then, once the one in the lead was fixed, off they'd go again, hauling minerals to the grader.

  One frost-bound morning I was late for school. Sometimes Yo would come with me, then close up and anchor to a convenient wall until the bell rang for the end of the school day. That morning, I ran out of the house without telling her to stay or to come with me. I darted between the slow moving hoppers and joined the path for school. I happened to look back and saw Yo following. From the way she ran I had the impression she was perplexed as to why I'd left without her. She followed the scent my feet left and scurried straight for the mineral conveyor track. At that moment, I heard the siren sound as one of the lead cars failed. Slowly the heavy vehicles butted up to one another. I'd assumed that Yo would stop, but then how could she know what the warning siren meant? Even as I watched her scurry between the hoppers, I was telling myself she'd be fine. The sensors would detect her presence and stop. Only as that thought went through
my head, I realised they were calibrated to recognise human forms only. Yo was like a slow moving bundle of fur. In horror I watched the hoppers bump into one another. Then I heard the deep cry, so filled with sadness and yearning, that has haunted me all these long years. How Yo made that call to me as she was crushed between the two vehicles I don't know. But that cry still resonates in my dreams.

  And that wasn't the worst of it. When I pulled her from between the vehicles she was still alive but horrifically injured. I knew she was suffering. I knew I had to put her out of her misery. But my attempt to kill her quickly and painlessly was bloody and incompetent. Yet she looked up at me with those brown eyes that were so trusting. Weeping, I used the rock again and again, but with every inadequate blow, with every bloody, ineffectual blow, I knew I'd let Yo down. I'd let my grandfather down.

  That memory haunts me so intensely that, when I at last break free of it, I'm not even sure where I am. I blink, look round, then realise I'm in the shuttle on this swamp planet. Captain Vay and Rain are still working on their patient. Pup stands in the shuttle doorway, looking out.

  'He's still there,' Pup says. 'I could go talk to him.'

  'No.' Captain Vay burns off another parasite.

  'He's closer. He doesn't look frightened now.'

  'We wait until we've taken care of Pelt, then I'll consider what to do. Pelt is priority number one.'

  No one disagrees. The rest watch the operation with more than a degree of anxiety. Pelt appears dead rather than unconscious. It seems those loathsome little bugs have anaesthetised their prey to enable them to suck him dry.

  A moment later the Captain asks: 'What's he doing now?'

  'The boy?'

  'Uh-huh.'

  Crack. Another parasitic body pops. Kye tweezers it away.

  'Still waiting.'

  'OK, so he's patient. Let him wait.' The Captain takes a deep breath, flexing tired arm muscles. 'Last one.'

  'I'll get it, Captain.' Rain burns the final remaining parasite that has lodged just under Pelt's ear. It bursts this time with a hiss of steam to fill the cabin with a mushroom odour.

  The Captain shoots a glance of disgust at the container full of dead creatures. 'Secure those things in storage, Kye. The path lab will have to run a check on them, just in case they're harbouring anything unpleasant.' He gives a grim smile. 'Just double check it's sealed down tight, OK?' Then he crouches down beside Pelt. The man's face is a mess of white discs with those puncture wounds. 'Didn't I always tell you not to feed the wildlife, ranger?' Then his voice softens. 'How you doing, buddy?'

  For a second there's no response. Pelt's deeply asleep. Then, at last, I see a flicker on his face; a grimace as if he's waking but is in pain.

  'Take it easy. No, lie back… stay where you are.' Captain Vay's soft tones soothe Pelt as the man struggles to sit. 'We've got you hooked up to diagnostics. You're looking good, but you're going to have to rest for a couple of days. OK?'

  Pelt nods, then lies back with a sigh.

  Captain Vay pats him on the arm. 'Good work, ranger. What I'm going to do is get you back to the ship as soon as we can get our hands on that kid. All right?'

  Again, a nod. Pelt doesn't open his eyes.

  'You rest here. We'll be right back.' Captain Vay glances back at me over his shoulder. 'That kid doing anything interesting yet, Jomi?'

  'Just standing and watching us, sir.'

  'All right. Bring your weapons, make sure you're wearing protective gloves and your visors are locked in the down position. We don't want this stink hole to spring any more surprises on us.'

  'Captain?'

  'Report, Rain.'

  'Command are transmitting coordinates for a target.'

  'A target? Tell them we've located all the targets. They were just a bunch of Dalek husks that have been rotting away here for a thousand years or more.'

  'This is a new one, they say. It's faint. The trace was probably masked by the electrical storm.'

  'OK, ladies and gentlemen. On top of dealing with the kid, we have a new target to locate. It's probably just another Dalek shell, or what's left of one. But - and listen to me, Pup - take no chances.' He leans over Pelt again. 'Take it easy and rest. We've another chore that requires our attention; we'll be back as soon as we can. I'm going to seal the airlock.' Standing, he pulls on his gauntlets. 'Everyone ready? Rain?'

  Rain's at the comm panel at the end of the shuttle cabin. She's still talking to command.

  'Everything OK, Rain?'

  'I have the target co-ordinates. But…'

  ' "But". There's a word I've come to despise. All right, hit me.'

  'Met warn there's an electrical storm building on the planet. A bad one.'

  'No wonder our comm systems are degrading. What's the prognosis?'

  'We're likely to lose all channels with command until it passes. And that will be eight hours.'

  'How long until it hits?'

  'Less than an hour. It's moving on high altitude jet streams from the equatorial belt.'

  'Great. That gives us an incentive to move fast - very fast. So - we're all ready?'

  We all sing: 'Yes sir.' Then the platoon moves out through the airlock. The electrical storm's building. (You should see those lightning flashes - optic nerve searing, they are). Captain Vay operates the manual switch rather than risk the remote on his sleeve to close the airlock. I catch a final glimpse of Pelt on the seats. He's sleeping again. What's more, he's safely inside, away from the coming storm.

  Gales sweep down at us now, zithering through marsh grass, tugging at our uniforms and conjuring a mournful cry from the trees as air currents flush through their gnarled limbs.

  Against the roar of thunder and rising winds, Fellebe shouts: 'Captain? You want us to split up?'

  'Not this time, ranger. We're sticking together. This place makes my flesh crawl. Far too many surprises for my liking.' He addresses us all, pitching his voice above the storm's noise. 'We'll see if we can talk to the boy first of all. Then we'll follow the trace coordinates to target. My instinct is, all we'll find is another Dalek carcass. It's probably rotted into the dirt, and that's why the trace is so weak.'

  We nod an affirmative rather than speak it. The storm's getting intense enough now to drown out our voices.

  'Platoon.' The Captain checks the comet panel fixed to his sleeve. 'Is everyone's system still down?'

  We all nod again.

  'Then we're reliant on verbal and visual communication. Stick close together. And nobody goes chasing the kid if he cuts and runs again. OK. Move out.'

  SEVEN

  THE BOY DOESN'T RUN. WHEN WE GET WITHIN AROUND TWENTY paces of him he shuffles backward, that's all. No faster and no slower than we ourselves move.

  'Don't scare him.' The Captain holds up a hand. 'Keep moving at the same pace. Only keep your eyes on what's going on around you.'

  I get a closer look at the boy now. I see he's dressed in ragged clothes. Oddly, they look like the remains of a cadet uniform, even though he's clearly too young to have been in the cadet corps. His hair is straggly. Yet there's no suggestion of him being starved, or sick. He appears healthy. He makes no gesture with his arms: they hang by his sides. When he turns to check if we're following, I see there's no expression on his face - only a wide-eyed watchfulness.

  The Captain whispers something to Rain. She nods, then begins to speak in a gentle voice to the boy. 'Hello. Don't be afraid. I'm called Rain. What's your name? Are you here by yourself? Do you have family here?'

  To each question the boy makes no response. All he does is gaze at her with those wide eyes, which have an expectancy about them.

  The Captain turns back to us and speaks above the blustery squalls now rushing in. 'For now, we go where he goes. I can give this an hour.'

  So… we follow. Walking at a relaxed pace. The boy remains just ahead of us, checking every now and again to make sure we're still following. Maybe he is taking us to a crash site? The fact that he isn't speaking
could be attributable to trauma. Whatever… I guess we have to be patient and wait and see. For the next half-hour we walk beneath lowering skies, where clouds scud faster and faster. Every other moment, lighting douses the landscape in brilliant blue light; then, before our eyes recover, it seems as dark as night. Thunder crashes almost constantly. Winds drive the vines and trees and bushes and thorny grasses into ceaseless motion. It's as if the whole world is coming alive around us. A dangerous, turbulent world at that. Beneath our feet, the ground varies between softly yielding to downright swampy. The mud could be some gluttonous mouth sucking at your boot; something you have to fight to free yourself from to take the next squelching step.

  Pup mutters to me: 'We should just run and grab the boy. Following him's a waste of time.'

  I reply that the boy might be taking us to a group of Thal survivors. Only most of my words are lost in bursts of thunder that are so loud they hurt my head. Ahead of us the ground slopes upward. At least we should soon be free of this marshland that sucks at our feet. Raindrops hit our helmets. I find myself wiping my visor almost constantly with a free hand, while the other hand holds my gun. Hot, moist air seeps into my mouth. Sweet life, the humidity's so high that this is closer to breathing liquid than the planet's atmosphere.

  'Wait. He's gone.'

  I stop when I hear the Captain's words. I'm scanning the sodden landscape for the boy. He has vanished.

  'OK,' says the Captain, pointing. 'He's slipped in there.'

  Now we see where he's pointing. The entrance to what appears to be a tunnel leads into the slope.

  'We proceed,' Captain Vay unholsters his handgun, 'with extreme caution. Arm your weapons. Fire only on my orders. Platoon confirm.'

  We chorus 'Yes sir,' then advance. The tunnel entrance is narrow. It admits rangers only two abreast. I glance at the rest of my platoon. There's tension now. This could be a trap. Then again, we might find a group of our people in there who have been clinging to life on this oozing morass of a planet.