‘We are
not moving.’ I said to Odda.
‘Can you
stand?’ she asked. ‘I believe the commander may kill Madra if we do not
hasten.’
These were
my first moments on planet Earth.
‘Did
Broton kill Madra?’
‘No, we
intervened in time.’
‘Well, that's
good, I suppose.’
‘Indeed.
We needed Madra's knowledge. The ship was gravely injured.’
‘So you
needed time before you could fly again?’
‘There
would be no flying. It was this, Madra's assessment of our situation that drove
Broton to his murderous rage. But he quickly became reconciled to our fate. We
had no choice but to await rescue, he finally assured us. But the estimated
time of rescue passed. “They will come,” said Broton, “honor demands it. In the
meantime, we will wait.”
‘But you
suspected they wouldn't be coming.’ murmured the human.
‘Yes.
Privately, I was sure our memorial service already had been held. The final
interment of Broton's threat to the Conclave.
‘Centuries
passed but we were not idle. There in the loch, we put down roots. We healed
the Hiskarasa, save for the uncooperative dynacon thrust and communication
systems. The necessary resources simply do not exist on your world. We were
denied the stars. We could travel short distances, but to what end? We were
safe beneath the waves, undetectable and unreachable but able to see all that
occurred above.
‘As we
observed them through the centuries, I grew to admire your species. This land
of the Scots,’ I told him, ‘bred warriors whose battle prowess is almost equal
to our own.'
‘Yes, I've
met a few. I'm not much of a fighter, myself. More of a thinker,’ he replied.
‘We had
our 'thinkers', as well. Many Zygons
believed that peace and cooperation would improve the lives of all. “Stop the
killing!” they bleat, or, “But what of the hatchlings?” Bah! Weaklings!’
‘Survival
of the fittest? That's your motto?’
‘No. The
continued proliferation of creatures ideally suited to an environment is
meaningless. Survival of the strong, those unfit who triumph and go on despite
adversity – that is where glory lies.’
‘Well,
there's something to that. I guess humans don't look very glorious to you,
then.’
‘You are
wrong, friend. You may be warm and well-fed but such was not the case for your
ancestors. Humans were meant to live with the other apes in the jungles of your
warm lands. But you spread into harsh terrain where only by ingenuity and
tenacity did you survive. This is worthy of respect.’
‘That's
awfully big of you.’
He threw a
rock into the loch. It skipped across the surface and sank. In moments there
was no trace of its passing.
‘We
experimented on systems, captive humans and Earth animals. Using body prints we
explored the nearby areas and placed surveillance devices. Unsuspected, we
moved among you. And on a momentous day we released the Skarasen into the loch,
there to be glimpsed and called 'monster'.’
‘The UNIT
report on Stanbridge House claims the Skarasen is a cyborg.’
‘Oh, yes.
As it grew we introduced organic crystallographic growth vectors to its hide,
rendering it impervious to all concussive or energy-based attacks. For a
creature of its size, its dietary needs are minimal; small amounts of any
organic material keep its bio-fusion reactor fully fueled. It is immune to
disease and aging. It thrills me to think, human – the Skarasen may outlive us
all. Perhaps, some day after your species has destroyed itself and this world,
it will still gambol and play in the lifeless seas, its mournful cry echoing
over the empty vastness.’
‘Say,
Grotton, that's pretty poetic.’
‘Poetry is
a Zygon warrior's privilege. Had you a day or two, I would recite one of mine
for you.’
‘Oh another
day or two, maybe. Anyway, the report says you controlled the Skarasen?’
‘Yes. Its
mind is augmented with remote guidance systems, allowing its keeper to relay
instructions from afar.’
Quite
afar, I thought. The beast was taking forever. It must have been at sea.
The human
produced another cigarette. I observed that he lit it but did not smoke it; a
curious custom he had observed throughout my story. I was about to ask him
about it when he spoke.
‘Am I
right that on its own the Skarasen is not dangerous?’
‘This
particular individual is, yes. Some are quite dangerous. An untamed Skarasen is
a mighty prey.’
‘So it only
attacked when you told it to?’
‘That is
correct. Again, it is due to Broton. He had become quieter, less bellicose, as
the centuries passed. He obsessively studied humanity and the Earth
environment. Again and again he hinted at some great plan that he refused to
disclose. Finally, about 300 of your years ago, he returned from a scouting
expedition and declared, “The end of humanity and the Zygon conquest of Earth
has begun!”
‘Long-term
planner, was he?’
‘It seems
he had sent a missive to a human engineer and explained the concept of cooling
condensers as a component of efficient steam engine construction. From that
modest beginning, he envisioned an industrial age such as the one in our own
early history. He would continue to monitor Earth's progression, sending word
to prominent thinkers when development needed to be steered in the right
direction. When the rescue ship arrived, it would find a familiar, hospitable
world of warm seas and swampland. How would this be accomplished? By the
process of selective pollution, resulting in the crude, but effective,
terraforming you call 'global warming'.
‘Broton
did a good job.’
‘Indeed.
He envisioned great glory for himself I am sure, as the architect of a second
Zygon home world, would that he had lived to see it. But your world was
changing so slowly. Even to we Zygons, who sense time in a less constrictive
way than your people, the waiting was insufferable. Broton felt a more direct
method of control was needed. He would one day have to influence humanity as
one of their own.’
‘The Duke
of Forgill!’
‘Precisely!
We tunneled to the foundations of the current Duke's residence. There was no
hurry. We had hundreds of your years before the impersonation was to commence.
Until then, we took rotas of servitude to the generations of Forgill’s,
surreptitiously constructing a hidden door linking the Duke's library to the
Hiskarasa.
‘Finally,
near the beginning of the last century, Broton decided the newly born son of
our laird was to be the one. Broton took the identity of his private tutor and
steered the hatchling's interests in the desired directions. I myself had my
eye on his childhood friend, the one you call Caber, whose body I still wear.
‘Then came
the great catastrophe and the final manifestation of Broton's madness. Human
science had progressed to the point that we were able to obtain the inanimate
materials needed to establish communications with Zygor. To call for help was a
shameful action, but Broton hoped our accomplishments would outweigh our
failure. The Conclave expressed surprise and pleasure at our survival and
promised to send help. But something always chanced to divert the necessary
ships.
‘Decades
passed. Human technology began to worry us. Then, one year, ships using radar
to search for the Skarasen came perilously close to discovering our location.
It was decided to call home and demand action.
‘But as
Broton reluctantly explained our situation to the home world, a burst of
hissing static overwhelmed their voices. Hurriedly searching all bands, we made
contact with an ore freighter orbiting one of the outer planetoids. The Zygon
there was wailing with grief and when we heard his report we joined him.’
I gazed at
the bright reflections dancing in the waters. To my shame, they began to blur.
The eyes of this body leaked when I thought of home.
I controlled
my emotions. ‘My planet was destroyed.’
‘Oh, I
see. Was there a war?’ he asked.
‘No, merely
an astronomical event.’ I gestured to the loch and hills. ‘Once, my world was
fertile and green, not much different than yours... wetter, warmer, but
similar. Our race conquered the lands and oceans. We were fierce, proud and ingenious.
We escaped the binds of gravity and flung ourselves outward to the planets, always
learning, always conquering. When our own solar system was subjugated, we
looked to the stars...But I prevaricate. The answer, human, is that our home,
our race, our accomplishments, were all for nothing. When the end came, it was
not our doing, nor an enemy action. It was... impersonal, shameful. The
universe did not recognize our right to destiny, and a single, cruel stellar
expansion burnt us to ashes.’
‘That's
terrible.’
‘Indeed.
Your sun is no different to ours, human. Remember that.’
He looked
at the sky, sunlight glinting off the frames of his glasses.
‘That's
not an especially comforting thought, Grotton.’
We watched
a flock of birds explode with panic as a hawk swooped among them.
‘It's hard
to imagine, the end of the world,’ he said.
‘I regret
that I am cursed with imagination, for I can see my world's death. A billion
Zygons looked up and cried, “Why?” as our star trebled in size, ignited the
atmosphere, boiled the oceans and reduced the land to slag. Those on the
surface had no chance to escape. There was no time to launch, no underground
shelters. There was no hope for the off-world survivors, no habitable world in
range. The entire star fleet, our only light speed capable vessels, had been
mustered for maneuvers in close stellar orbit and were all destroyed.’