Zamper

  ‘Good morning. We’re doomed. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  On the far side of a break in the fabric of space is the planet Zamper, home of a secretive organization that constucts and sells the mightiest warships in the galaxy. It is to Zemper that the last warriors of the fallen Chelonian Empire have come in a final attempt to restore their race’s glory.

  Separated from the TARDIS, the Doctor and his companions are intrigues by the bizarre operations on Zamper. Why are accidents and power failures afflicting the planet? What is the true agenda of the mysterious Management? And what are the strange powers of the alien shipbuilders?

  Full-length original novels based on the longest running science-fiction television series of all time, the BBC’s Doctor Who. The New Adventures take the TARDIS into previously unexplored realms of space and time.

  Gareth Roberts is the author of two previous books in the New Adventures series, The Highest Science and Tragedy Day, and the Missing Adventure The Romance of Crime, all of which have been highly acclaimed. His other credits include comic strips and the novelization of Cracker: To Be A Somebody.

  ISBN 0 426 20450 6

  ZAMPER

  Gareth Roberts

  First published in Great Britain in 1995 by

  Doctor Who Books

  an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd

  332 Ladbroke Grove

  London W10 5AH

  Copyright © Gareth Roberts 1995

  The right of Gareth Roberts to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ‘Doctor Who’ series copyright © British Broadcasting Corporation 1995

  Cover illustration by Tony Masero

  ISBN 0 426 20450 6

  Phototypeset by Intype, London

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd., Reading, Berks

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 1

  Along the eastern edge of the galaxy, a wide arc of gas clouds shone with a harsh bluish light. Around its centre flared a series of nebulosities, strobing the view of the constellations beyond with a contrasting red fire. Between two of these raging points, something directly contradictory to the laws of physics was taking place.

  A roughly circular section of space unfolded flowerlike, violet petals blooming, obscuring the luminescence of the neighbouring stellar remnants. The nearest clouds of freezing stardust were firmly pushed back as the rent grew. There was no violence in the action, nothing of the crushing power of a black hole. Whoever controlled the phenomenon – and the measured pace of the unravelling suggested a controlling intelligence – gave the impression of total confidence in its ability to knock millennia of theoretical study flat.

  The way to Zamper was open.

  Massed not far from the burgeoning gate was a mighty fleet of some thirty space cruisers, lined in a classical horseshoe formation, each of the strangely shaped black craft displaying its weaponry with unbowed arrogance.

  Suddenly, a much smaller ship, a shuttle, detached itself from the nub of the fleet, veered to one side as its boosters fired, and then sped into the cover of the gas clouds, on a direct course to the exact centre of the gateway.

  Mr Jottipher, in one of his many smart grey suits, stepped from the front door of his rooms into a descending tubeway and felt the pavement’s steady shudder as it bore him swiftly downward. As usual, he relished the order and tidiness of the Complex; the sterile unscented air, the empty white tubeways, the featureless blocks and cubes that lined the outer walls. This pacific soullessness had never before failed to calm his anxieties, of which there were many. Today was different. Through the clear plastic of the suspended tube he caught blurred glimpses of the Complex’s servitors at work, whizzing their rounded brush attachments over each geometrically perfect surface until it gleamed. Briefly, as he observed the droning disc-shaped robots slotting back neatly into their pods, their night duties over, Mr Jottipher found himself wishing for a more practical, accountable position in life.

  In the crook of his arm was a stapled black folder containing details of his latest assignment. Although compiled by his superior, the Secunda, with the absolute accuracy and detail she was renowned for, it hadn’t made for easy reading over the past week. The history of the new customers was unusually bloody, even for guests of Zamper. Mr Jottipher had been liaison executive for 22 years and had never been roused to his current level of misgiving. He was so much absorbed in his worries that the polite, disembodied cough from above made him jump. He lost his footing, but the pavement sensed his trip and slowed, allowing him to catch the support rail.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said the Management. Exact vowel sounds, rhythm in every superbly inflected sentence. Too exact; and that was what gave his artificial nature away, that and the flashes of drop-out on his shirt front and the eye movements that lagged half a second behind the rest of his body language.

  Mr Jottipher steadied himself and clasped the folder even more tightly to his chest. ‘I always forget there’s an Inscreen on this thing, sir.’ He nodded up at the box, which hung from the rail above and kept pace with him as the pavement’s rollers sped up again with the gentlest of sighs. Mr Jottipher smoothed his trim grey beard. ‘How may I be of assistance? Anything to help, sir.’

  ‘Our new guests,’ said the Management, fixing him with a keen but friendly blue stare. ‘They must be accorded every courtesy.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ His voice said What an extraordinary thing to say!

  ‘It is not our place to pass judgement on our customers.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Particularly not a moral judgement.’

  Mr Jottipher wondered sometimes if the Management could read his thoughts. ‘The morals of Zamper are my morals, sir.’ This was the truth. Any trace of independent thought had been erased 22 years ago.

  The Management frowned, and moved slightly forward until his lightly-tanned face almost filled the Inscreen. ‘Are you being honest with me? I ask only because you seem uneasy this morning.’

  ‘My unease comes from my fear, sir.’

  ‘Good to see your honesty. Fear.’ The Management toyed with the word, stretching it out, making three syllables of it. ‘Fe‑e‑ar. Fear is our business, Mr Jottipher. Without fear Zamper could not function. Remind yourself of our success. Four hundred and seventy-three years of profitable business. And why? Because one race of beings fears another race. It really is very natural.’

  Mr Jottipher lowered his head. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But you are safe here. Away from the wars. I protect you. It’s part of my function.’

  When Mr Jottipher looked up to utter his sincere thanks, the Management had gone, leaving the Inscreen a neutral green.

  The pavement slowed as the end of the tubeway neared. Mr Jottipher passed through the connecting terminal and walked calmly into his office, laid the black folder down on the v‑shaped console, and asked the operator for a sensor channel.

  ‘The guest sh
uttle is passing through our outer defences,’ said the operator in crisp simulated feminine tones. A graphic lattice representing Zamper’s enclosed system criss-crossed over the office’s large Outscreen. The Management’s six defence outposts glimmered at equidistant points along the borders. There were two other traces. A red T flashed in space to the dark side of Zamper; that was the new test ship, the first of the Series 336s, picking up velocity. The guest shuttle registered as a small pink G, edging past one of the outposts, just this side of the closing gateway.

  ‘Do you request visual link-up, Mr Jottipher?’ asked the operator. ‘The buyers’ shuttle is now within range of direct visual beaming.’

  Mr Jottipher pulled a mirror from a drawer in the console, examined his harried reflection, straightened his collar, reminded himself that the sweat glistening on his nose was a non-verbal signal readable only by other humanoids, and said, ‘Transmit the welcome call.’

  It was a custom of Zamper to welcome buyers in their mother tongue. Mr Jottipher winced as the translator barked a series of gruff consonants out to the newcomers. Sounds similar to ks and zs featured heavily in the thirty second message.

  There was silence from the incoming shuttle.

  Mr Jottipher reached reluctantly for his microphone clip. He tried to keep the tremble from his voice, and smiled as his image was transmitted. ‘I am Mr Jottipher. As customer liaison executive, I greet you in the name of the Zamper independent construction facility, and I hope sincerely that your stay with us will be a pleasant one.’

  The Outscreen flared as incompatible technologies struggled to connect. Through thick crackling bars Mr Jottipher saw narrow yellow eyes, scaly green leathery skin, a set of fiercely bared teeth.

  The guest spoke, each word a gurgling grunt. A brightly coloured leaf was clutched in one of its claws. ‘Why do you disturb us, parasite?’

  ‘I merely wish to welcome you, as customer liaison executive, to the Zamper –’

  ‘You prattle and lie,’ snorted the guest. ‘Your welcome is void. You coo to me like a new-born only because you want our livres.’

  ‘It is our custom to conduct our business courteously,’ stammered Mr Jottipher, ‘in a civilized man–’

  ‘Civilization!’ The creature roared, opening its mouth wide. It was hard to tell, but Mr Jottipher supposed it was laughing. ‘Civilization! You are a parasite. You know nothing of civilization!’

  Mr Jottipher heard something rattling. He realised it was himself, shaking in his chair. ‘Your arrival time is in one hour, sir,’ he said with forced calm, ‘and it will be necessary for you to follow certain standard procedures after landing. Firstly, you will pass through the ger–’

  The Outscreen crackled and went black.

  Mr Jottipher slumped forward. He had followed procedure exactly, and could hardly be held to blame for the idiosyncrasies of buyers. ‘The link to the guest shuttle has been snapped off at their end,’ said the operator. ‘Do you wish to reconnect?’

  He reached for the black folder, and smoothed open the first white page. There it all was in rows of justified type. Chelonians. Natives of Chelonia, former centre of the Chelonian empire. Assessment of temperament: Difficult.

  ‘Sir, do you wish me to reconnect?’

  ‘I wish to speak to the Secunda.’

  He could scarcely admit it to himself, but General Hezzka of the line of Talifar, commander-in-chief of the fifteenth column of the Maternal Guard, who had scored glorious victories against enemy territories in a career as long as it was distinguished, was always rather nervous when duty called upon him to address Big Mother directly. His front left foot reached for the call button hesitantly, and in the short silence as the transmission line was cleared, Hezzka licked both rows of his teeth and hoped his discomfort wouldn’t show.

  Big Mother’s aged eyes were now so sensitive that his rooms on the fleet’s flagship were kept very dark at all times. Picked out by the soothing dim red wash were his massive shell, the bulbous rear of his carapace. His atrophied limbs drooped through holes in the toughened metal support webbing that was hooked up to robust pillars in each corner of the imperial chamber. A thicket of tubing disappeared into his shell just below his neck, supplying him with vital fluids. His face, once renowned and adored up to the furthest limits of the empire, although desiccated, had lost none of its majesty. There remained around Big Mother something of the serenity of the old court, the environs of the now toppled Maternal palace of the Chelonian capital. To look into those unblinking eyes, thought Hezzka, was to doubt the last forty cycles of his people’s history. The empire will endure, they seemed to say, and the coup, the rise of the usurper, these ignoble dealings with parasites, oh, the merest blip, and things will soon enough be set to rights.

  ‘Your trouble?’ The voice was high pitched but rough as a claw-blunting board, the words flowing from the thin slit of Big Mother’s mouth like water from a rusty pipe. ‘This is our resting time. We are not to be disturbed.’ The huge shell shuffled in its webbing. ‘Anyway, who is that?’ He squinted. ‘Are you that captain fellow? Oughtn’t you to be at your flight station?’

  ‘It’s General Hezzka, Highness.’

  ‘Hezzka?’ Big Mother treated the word as if it were an insult.

  ‘Yes. You asked me to report, Highness. At this stage.’

  ‘We asked you? To report?’

  ‘Yes, Highness.’

  Big Mother gnashed his gums. ‘Then report, Hezzka! If we order you to do something, you are to do it!’

  Hezzka cleared his throat. ‘The shuttle has now crossed the gateway to Zamper. We are passing close to the parasites’ defence system and will arrive in under an hour.’

  Big Mother swung sadly from side to side, the only movement he could manage comfortably nowadays, causing the elasticated metal supports of his webbing to creak. ‘Parasite defence systems,’ he muttered. ‘In the days of our youth, such a thing would have seemed laughable. Parasites can have no defence.’ He glowered at Hezzka as if the fall of the empire was wholly his fault. ‘What is the nature of these parasite defences?’

  ‘That we cannot know, Highness. Our detectors cannot penetrate them.’

  ‘This Zamper planet. Truly a technology worth our investigation.’ Ranged before one of Big Mother’s front feet was a hovering oblong shape, a set of buttons laid flat on a transparent unit on top. Hezzka watched as Big Mother brushed the tip of a flaking claw across a button. Instantly a bubble of faintly luminescent data was projected, a translation into Chelonian broad dialect of the Zamper brochure. Hezzka had studied the document at length, soon after the strategic council, after much debate, had decided to authorize the purchase.

  It appeared that the east side of the galaxy, heavily populated by parasites, had been in a constant state of political upheaval for the last thousand Earth years. Various parasite colony worlds were at war with others, and as soon as one conflict was settled, another arose. This had destabilized the region’s monetary system, and about six hundred years ago a consortium of industrialists had been formed with a view to solving the problem. The solution had been the construction of Zamper. The consortium had pooled the scientific resources of a hundred different cultures, and created a fold in space, a mini-universe bang in the middle of the war zone but technically neutral. They then somehow shifted a large planet into the place, and set up an independent shipyard solely concerned with the sale of battleships. This was reckoned to be the most viable industry; people were always going to be at war, it seemed.

  The plan had worked. Zamper ships, better designed and built to last, soon came to dominate the local space lanes. From the day it was registered on East Galaxy’s stock exchange, Zamper had led the markets, bringing huge profits to its shareholders and steadying the economies of the warring worlds. To an outsider like Hezzka, it was apparent that this more than anything else would secure an unsettled future for the region. It was typical of parasites to get themselves into such a mess. What intrigued the General in
particular was that Zamper had now been operational for almost five hundred years, an achievement the brochure credited to ‘the Management.’ The strategic council’s research indicated that this Management was not a living being at all, but an augmented artificial intelligence. Little could be confirmed, and an even greater mystery hung over the design and construction of the ships. Certainly they were faster, larger, better defended and more powerful than any produced by their competitors. Moreover they were almost impossible to duplicate successfully. That was what had brought the fifteenth column here.

  Big Mother skimmed through to the section of the brochure that he wanted and read, ‘The Series 336c Delta-Spiral Sun Blaster. Suited to a crew of twenty. Force-aura shielded against neutronic rays of up to sixty blarks’ intensity. Engines powered by tachyon displacement, repowering range of fourteen light centuries. As used in the Sprox civil war and the death skirmishes of Pancoza.’

  There was a universe of scepticism in his reiteration of the advertisement, but Hezzka sensed something else; a hint of hope borne from desperation, the shell-shrug of the luckless gambler staking his last remaining tokens on the baize.

  ‘And,’ Big Mother went on, ‘this model’s unique facility, the neutrino tickler. It can split a sun in one astral week.’ He tsked. ‘The language of the parasites reduces the glories of conflict to mere farce.’

  ‘It is in their nature, Highness,’ said Hezzka. ‘Their lives are short and lack meaning. The value placed on these goods confirms that.’

  ‘Indeed. Six billion livres. A currency we do not even recognize.’ He returned his attention to Hezzka. ‘This vulgar dealing irks me. But the outcome… we must hope, no; we must be certain of the outcome.’ A thin line of drool fell from his mouth, forming a long sticky strand that stretched to form a pool on the floor. ‘The demise of the usurper.’ His eyes closed. ‘Our own sister. We can still barely credit his treason.’