Doctor Who and the Scales of Injustice | Page 6

had taken over for
midsummer a few years ago, when they released those pretty doves. Love, peace and
harmony. Ha. No chance -
There it was again. Not really a hissing. It was more regular this time, like breathing.
Perhaps someone else up from the town, then, come for a drink and a chat. The breathing
of someone with a bronchial infection, too much smoking and drinking. He should know.

'Larry? Larry, is that you? Stop mucking about, would you?'
Then he saw it. And wanted to scream, but couldn't. All he could manage was a whimper
as something caught all the noises in his throat and held them back. His eyes tried to take
it in, tell his brain that it wasn't real. He gripped the bottle of whisky tighter, and
something old and forgotten crawled into his mind.
---
Devilback! Run, run for my life. The Devilback is after me, they're all after me, yelling
and screeching. Hissing and spitting, I can hear them... A net. I'm in a net, dragged
backwards. Screaming. Mother. Father. Help me. No! No, don't let them touch me... don't
let them take me back to the pen! I can't stand the pen. Left in the sun for days, no food or
water, with my fur getting drier and mangier as the insects crawl all over it, in my eyes,
ears and mouth. Can't get clean enough. No family. No friends. Just the growling of the
Devilbacks. Must struggle, must get away from them must scream...
Jossey O'Grahame saw the vision of half-remembered terror bend towards him, wobbling
its... its head?
PAIN! Overwhelming pain and heat swept over him as he felt his skin contract suddenly,
growing too tight for his body. His mouth dried up, stalling a scream in his throat. His
eyes hurt. His ears wanted to pop. The bottle in his hand grew hot suddenly, the whisky
inside bubbling and steaming. He tried to let it drop but his hand seemed to be melted to
it. With a frightening calmness, he knew that the pain in his chest meant that his heart had
stopped working. He saw the face of his mother smiling. The bottle shattered, shredding
his hand, spilling its boiling contents over his smouldering coat. He didn't notice.
And for a final flickering moment, Jossey knew for certain he'd never play Lear.
---
No! It can't be dead.
Only wanted to stop it making that awful noise apes always made. This one had that look
in its eye - millions of years later and still they fear us. An adult, this one, surely, so why
did it try to make a noise? Young hatchlings, yes, but adults? Pathetic creatures. Maybe
Baal is right, the best way to deal with vermin is to destroy. But Sula doesn't agree, says
we need their DNA to help us. Who's right?
Curse Sula. Curse Baal, too - he wants a hatchling, he should get it himself. Instead, this
ape sees things it shouldn't and dies. The Apes always mourned their dead, so there will
probably be a family of them here soon. Their telepathy is basic, mostly instinctive and
empathic, but functional.
Nothing yet. Strange. Still, better hide. Yes, shelter - there.
I sense nothing alive in it. Safe. Now to wait until nightfall.

Liz's day was getting better.
First off, she'd gone hunting for some spares for the electron microscope she was trying
to improve. If there was one thing she'd learned from working with the Doctor over the
last few months, it was how to cannibalize various 'primitive' scientific devices and
rebuild, modify and generally improve them.
Mister Campbell, the stores-manager, had been more than happy to delve into his darkest
drawers and cupboards to find what she wanted and load it all into a cardboard box for
her.
'Always willing to help a fellow inmate,' he laughed.
Liz smiled back, thanked him for his time and left with her box, trying to ignore the slight
crawling of her skin that she always felt when talking to the Scotsman. His predilection
for what he thought to be harmless flirting with the few female UNIT officers and staff
was renowned throughout the building. Carol Bell had been the first to warn her about
Campbell's 'charms'.
'He's all right if you just grit your teeth and smile. Anything more than that and he'll take
it the wrong way.'
Maisie Hawke, UNIT's chief radio operator, had concurred. 'There's so few of us that he's
starved for attention. We tried complaining to Jimmy Munro once but he said he couldn't
do anything about it.'
That, Liz decided, was typical of Captain Munro,, who was now back in the regular army.
Nice enough chap, but never one for confrontations or discipline.
It was on the way back