Doctor Who: Terror of the Vervoids by Pip Baker, Jane Baker Page B
Authors: Pip Baker, Jane Baker
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across the lounge.
Unlike the blenched faces of everyone else on the ship, Bruchner’s was aglow with messianic elation. Dominating the navigational window, the blood-red inwardly spiralling tentacles of the Black Hole progressed through deepening purple to a sulphurous ebony...
19
A Whiff of Death
Fluctuating turbulence, rippling the outer shallows of the Black Hole, pounded the intergalactic liner with escalating ferocity.
Chaos dominated the lounge. Atza and Ortezo were buffeted by dislodged chairs as they clung to the reception desk. In mutual fright, Janet and Doland hung on to each other and to a pillar.
Affecting an indomitable stoicism, Rudge, staggering drunkenly, made his way to the exit. He had to get to the bridge.
The blistering ray from the laser lance was only held steady by the combined efforts of the Doctor and the Duty Officer. Progress was pitfully slow. The safety barrier to the bridge was not meant to be breached with ease.
‘How long before the ship arrives at the point of no return, Commodore?’ Lasky, wedged in a corner, wanted the truth, however unpalatable.
His brooding eyes shaded by drawn brows, the Commodore paused before replying. ‘That’s a question no-one’s survived to answer!’
Nor did Bruchner intend they should create a precedent.
He regretted this, for he had no wish to harm the crew, the passengers, or those with whom he had worked for years.
But he knew, with every vestige of his considerable intelligence, that if the Vervoids were allowed to reach Earth, then that would be the end of humankind.
They would proliferate wherever there was fertile soil available to nourish them. Man could make a strategic withdrawal to the deserts... yet Bruchner realised the Vervoids were not beyond devising a means of propagating themselves even in the barren wastes.
Transfixed, clutching the console for support, the scientist was mesmerised by the spectacle of the voracious vortex. This rent in the fabric of the Universe would ingest into bone-crushing oblivion the abominations that had been so irresponsibly hatched.
Balefully, these ‘abominations’ glared at their adversary from every airduct ventilating the bridge. His fixation with Tartarus had kept Bruchner’s attention glued to the navigational window. Had he been aware of the proximity of the Vervoids, he would not have worried: the grilles were welded fast; safety experts had seen to that.
But the frustrated creatures were not finished. The genetic engineering so assiduously manipulated by their originators had endowed them with the ability to improvise. Rubbery lips pressed against the meshed grilles and vermilion cheeks ballooned as wispy fumes of gas streamed into the bridge. Almost languidly, the gas shrouded the scientist.
The result was inevitable. Bruchner’s death wish was about to be fulfilled...
Negotiating swaying corridors, Rudge attained the antechamber just as the laser lance completed a circular incision in the barrier.
At a nod from the Commodore, the lock was punched out. Immediately, fetid fumes spewed through. With commendable presence of mind, the Duty Officer stuffed his jacket into the hole, blocking off the rancid gas.
The minuscule quantity of fumes had reduced all in the antechamber to incoherent spluttering and choking.
Bruchner, however, was beyond that.
Lungs corrupted by the vapour, he lay lifelessly across the control console. The Vervoids had succeeded in killing him, but they had failed to abort his objective: the pilotless Hyperion III was unwaveringly plunging to destruction.
‘Marsh gas?’ gasped the Doctor, the first to recover breath.
‘A methane derivative.’ Coughing or not, Lasky was going to be precise.
‘Marsh gas!’ exploded the Commodore. ‘Where the devil’s that come from? What is it you two know that I don’t?’
A din of groaning metal punctuated his demand as the ship’s superstructure was taxed by stress.
‘Explanations later.’ For the Doctor
Unlike the blenched faces of everyone else on the ship, Bruchner’s was aglow with messianic elation. Dominating the navigational window, the blood-red inwardly spiralling tentacles of the Black Hole progressed through deepening purple to a sulphurous ebony...
19
A Whiff of Death
Fluctuating turbulence, rippling the outer shallows of the Black Hole, pounded the intergalactic liner with escalating ferocity.
Chaos dominated the lounge. Atza and Ortezo were buffeted by dislodged chairs as they clung to the reception desk. In mutual fright, Janet and Doland hung on to each other and to a pillar.
Affecting an indomitable stoicism, Rudge, staggering drunkenly, made his way to the exit. He had to get to the bridge.
The blistering ray from the laser lance was only held steady by the combined efforts of the Doctor and the Duty Officer. Progress was pitfully slow. The safety barrier to the bridge was not meant to be breached with ease.
‘How long before the ship arrives at the point of no return, Commodore?’ Lasky, wedged in a corner, wanted the truth, however unpalatable.
His brooding eyes shaded by drawn brows, the Commodore paused before replying. ‘That’s a question no-one’s survived to answer!’
Nor did Bruchner intend they should create a precedent.
He regretted this, for he had no wish to harm the crew, the passengers, or those with whom he had worked for years.
But he knew, with every vestige of his considerable intelligence, that if the Vervoids were allowed to reach Earth, then that would be the end of humankind.
They would proliferate wherever there was fertile soil available to nourish them. Man could make a strategic withdrawal to the deserts... yet Bruchner realised the Vervoids were not beyond devising a means of propagating themselves even in the barren wastes.
Transfixed, clutching the console for support, the scientist was mesmerised by the spectacle of the voracious vortex. This rent in the fabric of the Universe would ingest into bone-crushing oblivion the abominations that had been so irresponsibly hatched.
Balefully, these ‘abominations’ glared at their adversary from every airduct ventilating the bridge. His fixation with Tartarus had kept Bruchner’s attention glued to the navigational window. Had he been aware of the proximity of the Vervoids, he would not have worried: the grilles were welded fast; safety experts had seen to that.
But the frustrated creatures were not finished. The genetic engineering so assiduously manipulated by their originators had endowed them with the ability to improvise. Rubbery lips pressed against the meshed grilles and vermilion cheeks ballooned as wispy fumes of gas streamed into the bridge. Almost languidly, the gas shrouded the scientist.
The result was inevitable. Bruchner’s death wish was about to be fulfilled...
Negotiating swaying corridors, Rudge attained the antechamber just as the laser lance completed a circular incision in the barrier.
At a nod from the Commodore, the lock was punched out. Immediately, fetid fumes spewed through. With commendable presence of mind, the Duty Officer stuffed his jacket into the hole, blocking off the rancid gas.
The minuscule quantity of fumes had reduced all in the antechamber to incoherent spluttering and choking.
Bruchner, however, was beyond that.
Lungs corrupted by the vapour, he lay lifelessly across the control console. The Vervoids had succeeded in killing him, but they had failed to abort his objective: the pilotless Hyperion III was unwaveringly plunging to destruction.
‘Marsh gas?’ gasped the Doctor, the first to recover breath.
‘A methane derivative.’ Coughing or not, Lasky was going to be precise.
‘Marsh gas!’ exploded the Commodore. ‘Where the devil’s that come from? What is it you two know that I don’t?’
A din of groaning metal punctuated his demand as the ship’s superstructure was taxed by stress.
‘Explanations later.’ For the Doctor
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