Doctor Who BBCN13 - Sting of the Zygons

  The TARDIS lands the Doctor and Martha in the Lake District in 1909, where a small village has been terrorised by a giant, scaly monster. The search is on for the elusive ‘Beast of Westmorland’, and explorers, naturalists and hunters from across the country are descending on the fells. King Edward VII himself is on his way to join the search, with a knighthood for whoever finds the Beast.

  But there is a more sinister presence at work in the Lakes than a mere monster on the rampage, and the Doctor is soon embroiled in the plans of an old and terrifying enemy. As the hunters become the hunted, a desperate battle of wits begins – with the future of the entire world at stake...

  Featuring the Doctor and Martha as played by David Tennant and Freema Agyeman in the hit series from BBC Television.

  Sting of the Zygons

  BY STEPHEN COLE

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Published in 2007 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.

  Ebury Publishing is a division of the Random House Group Ltd.

  c Stephen Cole, 2007

  Stephen Cole has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One Executive Producers: Russell T Davis and Julie Gardner Producer: Phil Collinson

  Original series broadcast on BBC Television. Format c BBC 1963.

  ‘Doctor Who’, ‘TARDIS’ and the Doctor Who logo are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

  Zygons created by Robert Banks Stewart.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 I 84607 225 3

  The Random House Group Ltd makes every effort to ensure that the papers used in our books are made from trees that have been legally sourced from well-managed credibly certified forests. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk.

  Creative Director: Justin Richards

  Project Editor: Steve Tribe

  Production Controller: Alenka Oblak

  Typeset in Albertina and Deviant Strain

  Cover design by Henry Steadman c BBC 2007

  Printed and bound in Germany by GGp Media GmbH

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  ONE

  5

  TWO

  13

  THREE

  21

  FOUR

  27

  FIVE

  35

  SIX

  43

  SEVEN

  51

  EIGHT

  59

  NINE

  67

  TEN

  73

  ELEVEN

  81

  TWELVE

  87

  THIRTEEN

  93

  FOURTEEN

  103

  FIFTEEN

  111

  SIXTEEN

  119

  SEVENTEEN

  129

  EIGHTEEN

  139

  NINETEEN

  149

  TWENTY

  157

  TWENTY-ONE

  167

  TWENTY-TWO

  175

  Acknowledgements

  185

  The beast appeared with a shrieking roar.

  Within moments, Bill Farrow’s ears were ringing with the screams of villagers, the shattering of slate, the howling of terrified dogs. The hell-creature had smashed straight through the manor house, its scaly head rising up from the wreckage of stone, savage eyes staring round as if hunting for fresh targets. Then the beast moved forwards, crashing through the ancient stone walls like they were chalk, tearing up the flawless lawns and the topiaries Bill had so carefully cut only days before.

  The Devil himselfs come to judge us, thought Bill fearfully, wishing he’d drunk less and listened more to the vicar’s words that morning.

  He turned, stumbled and ran, spitting snatches of prayer under his breath.

  A gang of young men had grabbed pitchforks and scythes and were gathering in the churchyard. They shouted for Bill to join them as he passed. But Bill ran on. Might as well attack the thing with peashoot-ers – the beast’s strength was hideous, hell-born. It can trample stone, he wanted to hour at the men, it can level a house with a brush of that tail, you can’t stop it.

  But his lips remain d set in a grimace of pure terror as he ran and ran. The yowls of children and the cries of women grew a little fainter in his ears, but the image of the beast was burned into his brain in horrible snatches – massive ivory fangs, the black scales packed over its glistening bulk. Bill heard the rending of rock close behind him 1

  like the boom of thunder – It’s coming after you – and ran faster as the creature’s hunting roar tore through the air. Bill was heading for the canal. If he got into the water, perhaps this thing would lose his scent. . .

  A tremor thumped through the ground, knocking him off his feet.

  He fell heavily on the path, palms stinging, knees grazed raw. A blast of hot, sour breath enveloped him as he struggled to rise.

  Don’t look back, Bill willed himself desperately, but the screams of young men, the wet crush of trampled flesh compelled him to turn.

  The beast was towering above him. Its dark eyes stared down. A thick rope of drool splashed over his chest as the terrible jaws snapped open. . .

  And then the monster stopped dead.

  Bill stared up at it, tears wetting his cheeks, his breath coming in painful rasps.

  The beast’s huge, snake-like head had turned to one side as if listening to something. Its bloodshot eyes were glazing over. And a new sound filled Bill’s ears.

  A rhythmic, whispering, chirruping sound. A sound no creature of God could have made.

  Bill craned his neck to see behind him and saw the girl. It was the Meltons’ lass, barely eight summers old. Her skin was pale and dirt-streaked, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that stared up at the creature, unafraid.

  ‘Get back, Molly,’ Bill called hoarsely. ‘It’s not safe here.’

  Only then did he remember the girl had gone missing days ago and not been seen since.

  The mighty beast growled, snatching back Bill’s attention. He shivered, scrabbled out from beneath its shadow and, as he started towards Molly, saw a slight, well-dressed man push past her.

  ‘Sir Albert!’ Bill said hoarsely. ‘Sir, we must take Molly and flee for our lives. . . ’

  Sir Albert Morton was clutching something in his hand. It was the size of a fir cone, but glistening like wet skin. Bill realised that this was the source of the shivering, whispering sound that seemed to hold the 2

  beast transfixed. He regarded his employer warily, the white skin, the unblinking eyes. It was like Sir Albert was under a spell, enchanted.

  ‘Sir?’ he said quietly. No reaction. ‘For pity’s sake, sir!’

  He grabbed hold of Morton’s free hand and pulled him away. ‘We must get away from here!’

  But then the towering beast jerked awake from its trance. A spasm wrenched through its neck, and the ground thundered as it blundered away, clearing the canal in a single stride, heading for Lake Kelmore.
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  ‘We’re saved!’ Bill shouted. ‘God be praised –’

  ‘You fool!’ Morton turned and smacked him away with the back of one hand.

  The power in the blow knocked Bill to his knees. How could such a slender man be so strong? What was that in Morton’s hand? The questions clouded Bill’s mind, left him kneeling when every instinct told him to run.

  Then it was too late.

  Morton’s face was changing. A devil-red glow had taken his eyes and his proud features were melting like wax, streaking into horrible shapes. His skin was yellowing, toasting to burnt orange, plumping up like the flesh was fungus. Mushroom-like growths erupted from the dome of his head, pushed out from his chest.

  ‘Stay away,’ Bill gibbered. ‘Keep away from me.’

  A hideous demon now stood in Morton’s place.

  It was squat,

  hunched and heavy-set, as tall as a man. Rank, heavy breath hissed from the blotchy slash of its mouth. Bill tried to shout, to warn others

  – the beast is only a hell-hound, here is its master.

  But the demon’s misshapen claws were already closing round his neck.

  3

  The stillness of the hillside was torn apart by the grinding of alien engines. Birds clattered from the gorse and heather as a kind of tall, wooden hut burst into bright blue existence. It proclaimed itself to be a police box, but the reality was far stranger and infinitely more exciting.

  ‘Berlin!’ cried the Doctor, throwing open the doors. Skinny and dark-eyed, he looked to be in his thirties but was really far older. ‘Def-initely Berlin.’ He took in the woods ahead of him, the damp, scrubby grassland all around and the white-tipped mountains that hemmed in the landscape, and his sharp features hardened further in a frown.

  ‘Sort of. Maybe.’ He marched outside, then turned to the slim, attractive black girl who was hovering in the police box’s doorway. ‘Berlin, d’you think, Martha?’

  Martha Jones gave him a look that said, very eloquently, Don’t think so. ‘How many mountains in Berlin?’ she asked.

  ‘Not huge amounts,’ the Doctor conceded. ‘One or two. In fact. . .

  less than one. Probably.’ He brightened. ‘There’s a mountain in the town of Berlin in New York State. . . ’

  ‘I think I’ve had enough of New York for a while,’ said Martha, remembering their last visit there. ‘Anyway, we can’t be anywhere near 5

  a city. Air’s too fresh.’ There was a playful gleam in her deep brown eyes. ‘Is this really 1908, or are we in prehistoric times or something?’

  ‘You suggesting we could be seventy million years off course?’ The Doctor tried to give her a look of disapproval, but he couldn’t help brightening at the thought. ‘That would be fantastic, wouldn’t it! See any dinosaurs about? I’d say it was unlikely with all the glacial activity that’s obviously been shaping the scenery round here, but. . . ’ He beamed. ‘Look at that valley! That tor! Miss Jones, let’s tour the tor.’

  He grabbed her by the hand and yanked her off on a walk through the heather, his long brown coat flapping round his ankles, his dark suit brightened by a yellow-and-red checked scarf that reminded Martha of Rupert the Bear. Her own outfit was dressier: a gauzy green silk dress with a gold leaf pattern and a close-fitting beaded jacket. But then, she had been promised they would be attending a formal function.

  ‘What about this German bloke and his oh-so-important address then?’ she asked.

  ‘Old Minkowski! Yeah, if it is September 1908, he’ll be off to talk to the Assembly of German Naturalists and Physicians, telling them all that space-time is the fourth dimension. Pivotal moment for world physics.’ The Doctor laughed. ‘Well, he’ll just have to bluff his way through without me. We’ll stay here dinosaur hunting, just in case.

  Maybe we could have a prehistoric picnic. Fancy a picnic? I think we should have a picnic. . . ’

  Martha smiled and thought back to her old, normal life. Life before she’d picked up with a man who travelled through time and space in a magic police box he called a TARDIS, who whistled past stars and planets like she passed stops on the Circle Line. ‘Yeah, well, my family never had too much time for picnics. . . ’

  ‘Well, I really, really like picnics. I like picnic baskets. Especially those ones with the separate little compartments for your knives and forks, that’s genius –’

  The Doctor’s enthusiasm was muted by a high-pitched screech of brakes and a loud crashing noise. A cloud of sooty smoke rose up from behind a close-by hillock.

  6

  For a moment, Martha and the Doctor shared a wordless look.

  Then, as one, they ran full pelt towards the sound.

  ‘Car crash?’ Martha panted. ‘The engine sounded –’

  ‘Throaty, inefficient, and probably downright dangerous. . . ’ The Doctor gave her a wild grin. ‘I want a go!’

  He put on a spurt of speed and reached the brow of the hillock ahead of her. ‘Oh, yes!’ he cried in delight at what he saw. ‘Look at that! An Opel double phaeton.’

  ‘And one slightly crumpled driver,’ Martha noted, reaching his side.

  An old red motor car, quite possibly a close relative of Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang, had obviously failed to take a sharp corner and was blocking a narrow lane; its bonnet and fenders were bent and scraped after a close encounter with a dry-stone wall. A tall man in a tartan sports coat with a high-standing collar was attempting to push the car away from the wall. A tweed cap was perched on his head of fair curls. He was covered in dirt and grease and had cut his hand quite badly.

  ‘I say!’ he called upon sighting the Doctor and Martha. ‘Could you offer a chap assistance? Rear wheels locked on the turn. Fiercest sideways skid you ever saw.’

  Martha was already making her way down the steep slope to the roadside. The piles of little ‘black cherries’ dotted around the grass suggested these narrow roads were more used to seeing sheep than motorists. ‘What did you do?’ she asked, studying his injured hand.

  ‘Sliced it on the blasted fender,’ the man said, looking pale. He had a large, beaky nose and brilliant blue eyes. He grinned at her suddenly. ‘Excuse the language, my dear. The name’s Meredith. Victor Meredith.’

  ‘I’m Martha Jones.’ She cast a look at the Doctor, who was lavishing his attention on the car. ‘And this is –’

  ‘– an Opel Ten-Eighteen,’ said the Doctor, ‘pure elegance from Russelsheim.’ He caressed the driving seat, which looked more like a cream leather sofa welded to the chassis, and tapped the walnut steering wheel. ‘And look! Three-speed epicyclic gearbox with pre-selector control. . . ’

  ‘Indeed yes, and all brand new!’ Victor grinned, then winced as 7

  Martha whipped his white racing scarf from about his neck. ‘You an autocar enthusiast yourself, old buck?’

  ‘Used to be, used to be. I’m the Doctor.’

  Victor’s eyes turned back to Martha as she wrapped the scarf around his wounded hand. ‘And you’re his nurse, eh, Miss Jones?’

  ‘Training to be a doctor, actually,’ she agreed. Or I will be in about a century from now.

  ‘Capital, capital.’ Victor smiled. ‘Lady doctor, eh? Well, I dare say they do things differently where you’re from.’

  ‘Some things.’ Martha conceded. ‘Are you all right? You’re looking a bit wobbly.’

  ‘Can’t stand the sight of my own blood,’ Victor confessed.

  ‘But animal blood’s all right?’

  The Doctor had pulled a cover

  from the back seats to reveal a collection of serious-looking shotguns.

  ‘You’ve got some heavy-duty hunting gear here.’

  That’s because I’m here for some heavy-duty hunting,’ Victor agreed, flexing his bound hand gingerly. ‘The Lakes’ll be alive with hunters, I should think.’

  ‘The unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable. . . ’

  The Doctor

  frowned. ‘Hang on a minute – Lakes? What, you mean the Lake District?’


  ‘Goodbye, Berlin,’ sighed Martha. ‘Hello, Pacamac.’

  ‘Lake District, brilliant! I love it round here, the lakes, the waters, the meres. . . and then there’s your tarns, of course, your tiddly little lakes up in the mountains. Tarn. . . ’ The Doctor wrapped his lips around the word. ‘Good name for a planet, isn’t it – Tarn. Tarrrn.

  TARRRRRRR-RRRRRRR-NNNN. . . ’

  Victor looked at him bewildered, then turned back to Martha. ‘Are you sure you’re not his nurse?’

  ‘Miss Jones is an ambassador for the distant land of Freedonia,’

  the Doctor announced. ‘I’m escorting her and seeing she wants for nothing.’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’ Martha muttered.

  ‘Freedonia – is that one of ours?’ wondered Victor. ‘Difficult to keep track.’

  8

  ‘Believe me.’ Martha told him, ‘this is a whole other world for me.’

  ‘Hang about!’

  boomed the Doctor.

  ‘Lakes alive with hunters?’

  He reached into the back of the car and hefted a fearsome-looking weapon. ‘What’s going on? You’ve got an elephant gun here! Elephants in the Lake District?’

  ‘Bigger game than that.’ Victor looked at them both, the colour returning to his cheeks. ‘Have you been out of the country just recently?’

  Martha grinned at the Doctor. ‘ Well out of it.’

  ‘That could explain it then.’ said Victor, reaching under the bundle of guns and pulling out a folded newspaper. ‘Though I’d have thought the whole world had heard of the Beast of Westmorland. . . ’

  Martha took the paper and checked the date. ‘September 16th nineteen-oh- nine, ’ she read aloud, with a pointed look at the Doctor.

  ‘Only a year and a few thousand miles out.’ he protested. ‘Anyway, the car’s from Russelsheim and that’s in Germany. . . ’

  But then Martha’s frown deepened as she saw the headline. ‘Beast of Westmorland Found Dead.’ she read. ‘Battered Prehistoric Killer Washed Up on Lakefront. Experts Baffled.’

  ‘So you can read as well as nurse!’ said Victor, apparently genuinely impressed.

  Martha shot him a look. ‘And if I couldn’t, there’s always this artist’s impression.’ She frowned at the smear of blotchy ink. ‘Looks like. . . a dinosaur or something.’