Doctor Who_ Winner Takes All - Jacqueline Rayner [46]
‘Yeah, you tell him,’ said Darren, rallying.
The tall man actually laughed. ‘If you knew how pathetic you looked!’ he said to Darren. ‘Trying to ally yourself with the Quevvils, cos you think they won’t hurt you that way. Like they think of you as any different from the rest of the humans! You know what they call people who do that, who betray their own species, who do the “every man for himself” thing? They call them chickens.’ And, to Robert’s absolute delight and amazement, he began to do a chicken impression, clucking and flapping his arms.
The man called Darren looked really mad at that. ‘No one calls me a chicken!’ he yelled, and started forward, looking as if he was going to hit the other man. But one of the porcupines – the Quevvils? – put out a paw and stopped him.
‘Be quiet, human,’ it said. It turned, as another Quevvil came in the room.
‘Three more carriers required, Frinel,’ said the new entry. The Quevvil that had been addressed nodded. Robert’s stomach tightened. Three more carriers. Three more of them to be taken away goodness knew where, for goodness knew what.
The new Quevvil came over towards them.
‘Wait!’ yelled the tall man. ‘If I’m going to play your game for you, you don’t need anyone else playing it! Shut down the connections to Earth. Don’t make any more humans play the game.’
But the Quevvil called Frinel looked like he was smirking. ‘Until you succeed, the game will continue to be played,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there is another controller out there as good as you.’
‘There isn’t!’ said the man, sounding frustrated. ‘As I told your friends before, you’re not going to find a human who can play the game to the end! I’m your only chance. So it’s pointless. You’re sending these people to their deaths for nothing!’
There was a wail from George, and gasps from most of the women. All the husbands clasped their wives to them. Sarah’s mother held her tight. But Robert was all alone. They’d all known it really, of course; all known that the people who were taken away were going to die. But they’d never been totally sure; they’d always been able to hope just a tiny bit.
Robert felt tears start to build in the corner of his eyes, an unpleasant, itchy sensation. He blinked hard.
The Quevvil came over to them. Robert tried to stand tall, to not show his fear. George was still wailing, and Robert thought he was so stupid, drawing attention to himself, that he’d be picked for certain. But the Quevvil took Mr and Mrs Nkomo and Mr Snow. The Nkomos held each other’s hands tightly. Mrs Snow grabbed hold of her husband’s arm and began to scream at the Quevvil, something about it being an outrage, but it was no use. What always happened, happened. The Quevvil pointed a small silver box at their foreheads, and one by one Mr Nkomo, Mrs Nkomo and Mr Snow became rigid, like statues. The discs on their foreheads began to flash red. Then the Quevvil pushed a switch on the silver box, and all three began to walk forward robotically. It would have been funny in other circumstances: the old white man and the young black couple marching stiffly in unison together, they looked as if they were on some silly kids’ programme with those embarrassing presenters who pretend to be talking to you through the screen – ‘Now, everyone pretend to be soldiers. Well done, that’s great!’ But here, no one was finding it entertaining.
Except the ugly man, Darren. He began to chortle, aping their robot walk, his eyes wide and mock‐staring, his mouth doing a ‘Duh, duh, duh’ thing. Robert really, really wanted to hit him.
Another Quevvil appeared in the doorway. ‘Toral,’ it called, addressing the Quevvil with the silver box, ‘a fourth carrier is required.’
‘This isn’t very efficient, if you ask me,’ said the tall man. ‘I wondered why you had to build such a long introduction into the game. Still, hopefully it’s worked out for the best. I bet loads of people have switched off in boredom before it’s even started.’
‘Shall I use him?’ said Toral, pointing at the