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unit. She raked her long finger-nails over her bare knees,
drawing blood. ‘I was so near,’ she said to herself. ‘So near.’
The door slid open and the grizzled old Chelonian entered.
He now wore a green gown and was sliding a pair of rubber
gloves over his front feet.
She stood and backed hurriedly away. ‘No. Keep away
from me!’
He pulled out an instrument from a pouch in his apron and
pressed a button on the handle. A blade shot out and started to
whir. He advanced.
‘Come here, you silly little thing, you silly little thing…’
When the bell tolled, every Chelonian at work or resting in the
ships of the fifteenth column stopped what he was at,
exchanged a disturbed glance with his neighbour, and hurried
to the nearest vision screen. The clang had been simulated
after the fallen bell in the high tower above the old court; its
sounding signalled an address of the utmost import from Big
Mother.
‘Loyal warriors,’ the piping voice said from between
frazzled lips, ‘comrades at arms. You will be aware of the
approach of a powerful hostile spacecraft. The urgency of the
matter has forced us to decide on our response swiftly, without
ample time for reflection. That alters nothing; the following
order, to the Pilots of all divisions, is to be obeyed without
question.’
He paused. The Chelonians were taken aback by the
lucidity of the speech. Most believed secretly that Big Mother
was simply a figurehead, and not a terribly useful one, so his
sudden return to form increased the air of apprehension.
‘Pilots. You are to order the removal of the anti-matter
containment snares from your engines.’
There was an immediate rumble of distress.
‘Let there be no dissent. There is no time.’ The ranks were
embarrassed to see a wetness forming in Big Mother’s eye.
‘We give our lives so that our poor lost hatchlings, and their
own hatchlings, may live. Somewhere, sometime – not too far
away, we are sure – Chelonians will come to see the error in
the path of appeasement. And then the names of all those who
so gallantly offer up their lives this day shall become a call of
angels.’
One of his feet, outside the frame, fumbled for a control.
Seconds later a stentorian bass-drum roll surged out from all
speakers. The crews rose on their back legs, and a guttural
chorus rang out.
‘Chelonia, Chel – o – nia!’
Although he had switched off the central processing unit of his
computer self, with the unwitting help of Ivzid, in order to
open up the gateway, the Management retained much of his
ability to interface with external systems. It was most odd; he
was floating about in the dimension of thought, he supposed,
but didn’t want to get carried away with introspection. He’d
never been a one for navel-gazing. Besides, there were more
pressing matters in hand.
Reading the computers of the fleet was a tortuous business.
Chelonian technology was spiky and awkward. Often a simple
solution to a technical problem acknowledged by the rest of
inhabited space seemed to have passed them by. In other ways
their systems were frighteningly advanced; such developments
he filed away in the memory part of his disembodied
intelligence.
The order to self-destruct came as something of a surprise.
Suicide was against the Chelonian character and he suspected
the Doctor’s hand. Never mind, it was easily dealt with.
He blocked the security clamps on the warp-snares. Try it
now, then, he thought with a contented burble that sent a
continuous ripple of pleasure through the crew of the carrier.
Frinza had listened to Big Mother’s address along with the
bridge team. When the anthem’s last bars had faded –
thankfully, his Highness had curtailed the sing-along to three
verses – the flight crew all turned to face him. They gawped at
him as young hatchlings gawp at zoo-beasts. He wanted to
scream. They relied on him to react. He was sure that if he
shrugged his shell and laughed they would do the same, and
that if he said that Big Mother was clearly insane the crack-
brained old fool would be thrown overboard in the next half
hour.
The weight of the centuries being what it was, however, he
could do neither of those things. ‘Engineer,’ he said, not quite
believing it was himself talking. ‘Follow Big Mother’s orders.’
The engineer moved swiftly to obey. His front feet moved
gracefully over the pads at his station. A yellow light flashed
and a bleeper sounded. ‘Sir, the safety overrides on the warp-
snares have been tripped by an external source. To comply is
impossible.’
The next second, a hidden strength of Frinza’s character
emerged like a new mountain after continental quaking. Its
tongue was such that it tipped the scales, and the weight of the
centuries was forgotten. ‘Countermand previous order,’ said
Frinza. ‘Give me tertiary vision linkage to all Pilots at once,
and block His Highness’s outlet. Now!’
The commands were obeyed with a tangible sense of relief.
When the blue transmission light came on, Frinza drew
himself up and addressed the camera. ‘Pilots. Fellow
Chelonians. We cannot allow the unsupported word of a
parasite to destroy us all! I say to you, join me in standing
against this insanity!’
The screen in the imperial chamber fizzed and then displayed
a white board with a black line running down the middle. Big
Mother almost fell from his support. ‘No! They have blocked
our outlet! How dare they do this!’ An alarm began to warble
shrilly.
‘I remember Marie Antoinette saying much the same
thing,’ said the Doctor. He was edging slowly towards the
door of the imperial chamber. There would be time for him to
debate the morality of his escape later. The fact remained that
in the universal scheme of things he was important, and owed
it to others as well as to himself to stay alive. Even a Time
Lord would have difficulty surviving a warp reaction of this
magnitude.
‘Treacherous fools!’ Big Mother spluttered, his eyes
rolling. One of his back feet slipped from its support and he
tipped forward dangerously with an alarming creaking sound.
He sought his communications unit and punched at a line of
controls without looking up. ‘It is unthinkable for them to
disobey an order!’
‘I never thought I’d say it,’ said the Doctor, stretching out
an arm for the door control, ‘but I happen to agree with you on
this occasion.’
Big Mother saw what he was up to and instantly threw the
communicator box aside. The next instant, and the Doctor
couldn’t be sure how, there was a huge yellow rifle in one of
his feet. ‘Stay right where you are, Doctor. Whatever happens
you are not leaving.’ He chuckled. ‘People may think we are a
senile toothless old trout, but they forget the active service we
saw in defence of our realm.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said the Doctor. ‘I suppose you want
me to put my hands up.’
Big Mother never got to reply. At that moment the door
against which the Doctor was leaning whirred open and a
grotesque figure entered. A grizzled Chelonian wearing a
brocaded garment and lorgnettes shuffled in. In one foot he
was carrying a severed human head. He was wearing surgical
gloves that were spattered with human blood.
‘Where’s that Frinza?’ asked the new arrival. ‘I was told he
was in here. Sorry, Highness. What’s all this singing?’ He
squinted resentfully at the Doctor. ‘Another one, eh? Thinking
of starting a collection?’ He jiggled the woman’s head at Big
Mother. ‘She was lying, incidentally. Wretched fraud.’
At this grisly sight whatever objections to flight the Doctor
might have harboured evaporated. He leapt past the surgeon,
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