02 - Evolution

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EVOLUTION

DR WHO – THE MISSING ADVENTURES

Also available:

GOTH OPERA by Paul Cornell

EVOLUTION

John Peel

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by

Doctor Who Books

an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd

332 Ladbroke Grove

London W10 5AH

The right of John Peel to be identified as the Author of

this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

Corporation 1994

ISBN 0 426 20422 0

Cover illustration by Alister Pearson

Typeset by Galleon Typesetting, Ipswich

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall

not, by way of trade or otherwide, 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. Did you notice the misspelled word?

Scanned by The Camel

Contents

1 Childhood’s End ............................... 8

2 Predators .......................................... 20

Interlude 1 ........................................ 33

3 Bodies .............................................. 37

4 Wild Hunt .......................................... 46

5 Hounded ........................................... 57

6 Swimming with the Sharks ............... 70

Interlude 2 ........................................ 78

7 Grave Events .................................... 82

8 Explanations and Mutations ............... 92

Interlude 3 .......................................... 99

9 Survival of the Fittest ........................ 103

Coda ................................................. 116

Semi-Historical Notes ....................... 119

Author’s Note .................................... 120

This is for everyone who has helped make VISIONS the best conventions:

Organizers: Bob McLaughlin, Dennis Light and especially Debi Smolinske – not forgetting Jeff and

Dana (cousin Dashiell says Woof!)

Staff members: Lisa Albergo, Dee Dee Aquino, Tasha Avon, Jeanna Bloom, Patti Duke, George

Fergus, Louis Galvez III, Mom Geiger, John Golkosky, Jennifer Adams Kelley, Sandy Kinnard,

Nancy Kolar, John Lavalie, Anne Macko, Kate Raymond, Cherry Steffey, Ruth Ann Stern, Dave

Thomas and Charlie Thomson.

Attendees: Emma Abraham, Jean Airey, Paul Scott Aldred, Lee Bahan, Tom Beck, Jane Dietz,

Chrissy Carr and Martin Hunger, Lee Darrow, Jan Fennick, Jenn Fletcher, Alex Franges, David Gee,

Bob and Lorie Kessler (thanks for the photos!) and Bekki Wolf (and for the tie!), Bill Massey, Jr,

Kelly McDonough, Grace Meisel and Scott Tefoe, Dan and Katherynn Murphy, Bea Owens, Kevin

Parker, Howard and Carol ‘Mac’ Rubin, Dean Shewring and Teri White.

As well as all of the wonderful guests.

You all deserve a book dedication of your own, but that would take forever! Thanks, everyone:

every year so far has been terrific – and I’m certain that the best is yet to be.

–

Childhood’s End

e had been human once. He had to remember that.

But it was so hard. When the blood-lust came over him, he could almost taste the kill in his

fangs, feel the small bodies crunching, become intoxicated by the fresh blood that would dribble

down his throat. He tried to fight it again, as he tried to fight it each and every time.

And, as always, he failed.

Night had fallen, burying the humans who lived here in their small houses, huddled together for

companionship and warmth. He had no one. There was nobody to keep him company, no com-

panion to offer him warmth. His only warmth came from the thrill of the hunt, his only compan-

ionship from the prey he ran down and then devoured. He was alone, unique, the sole member of

his kind.

But he had been human once.

Long, long ago. He could barely remember those days. In his new state, time had little mean-

ing. His mind wasn’t working as it had once. Days and weeks blurred together. The only times

were night or day, feast or famine. By day he hid, knowing that if anyone saw him, he’d be killed.

Nights he hunted. If it was a good night, he ate: crunching the fresh bones, draining the delect-

able marrow, chewing on the tough sinews. If it was a poor night, he fasted, waiting for the fol-

lowing day, his belly growling and complaining. That always made the blood-lust worse.

Rabbits were good prey, but they were fast. He had to be faster to catch them. But with rabbits

one bite from his massive jaws was more than sufficient to kill. Foxes were good too, with their

rich, predatory taste and hunter’s blood. Foxes he admired. They were almost as good at killing as

he was. But he could kill them, and they avoided him.

The small ponies were a feast, but much harder to take down. They were wiry and tough,

fighting with their hoofs and teeth, kicking and snorting. And he couldn’t kill them with a single

bite, as he did with the rabbits and foxes. For the ponies, he’d developed a trick of biting their

throats and then hanging on until they died choking in their own blood or until one of his paws

could break their necks. If he took a pony, then he could drag it to his lair and eat for a week

without having to venture out to hunt and to risk being seen.

Not many people came out onto the moors, and virtually no one was foolish enough to try the

trip at night. But humans were tricky, and they were curious, and they were lethal. There was no

animal that could hurt him out here. Even the ponies could only bruise him through his thick fur.

Humans could do more, with their guns. He’d been shot at once, and in the stormy weather he

could still feel the ache from the shot.

They wouldn’t ever get another chance to shoot him.

The clouds covered the crescent moon, and he was satisfied. Sniffing the air cautiously, he

could tell that there were no humans around. They were not smart enough to be able to hide from

his heightened senses. He could detect the faint trail of rabbits, and the merest hint of a fox. The

main scent this night was badger.

Badgers had claws, and they fought hard and long. But his fur warded off their worst slashes,

and they were good eating. He could almost taste the hot, delicious blood in his mouth, and the

blood-lust came down over his senses like a curtain at the end of a play.

He had been human once.

But now he was only a killer beast.

Howling his happiness, his anger, his hunger, his hatred for what he had become, he sprang

out onto Dartmoor. With long, loping strides, he began to cover the distance to his prey.

Tonight would be a good night. Tonight, he would feast.

Tonight, something would die.

Ben Tolliver loved the sea as he had never loved any human being. He’d been married twice and

fathered eight children, but he loved none of them as much as he adored his silvery mistress.

He’d loved these waters as long as he could remember. He’d been born beside them, and he knew

he’d die beside them – or in them, as his father and grandfather had done, and as his brother and

two sons had done.

The sea was a fickle mistress, Tolliver knew. She could be sweet and serene, romantic and flir-

tatious. She could coyly beckon you down to her cold embraces, then turn violent and murderous

in an instant. She was his only mistress, but he wasn’t foolish enough to ever think of trusting her

capricious moods. He was content simply to be with her, sharing the same night breezes that

stirred the dark surface of the waters. He felt an empathy with the sea. When she was calm, he

felt rested. When the waters raged, he felt helpless and imprisoned.

He’d spent more than sixty years here, either floating in his small boat in these waters, or else

in his small cabin where he could look down on the sea. It had been a rough life, and a poor one –

no question at all about that. No Tolliver had ever grown wealthy from the sea. But he was con-

tent. Even with the loss of both wives and his sons, he wouldn’t have wanted anything to have

been different. Then he chuckled to himself. Well, maybe that saucy lass at the Dog and Pony.

Now, if she’d agreed to some of those romps he’d often suggested . . . But aside from that, he

was content. It had been a hard life, true, but a fair one. He’d been able to live as he’d wished.

And here he was as always, floating gently on the sea in his old boat. It was a lot like him:

grizzled, getting no younger, and maybe a slight achy in places, but overall a good, stout craft

that had many a year left to it. And, like him, his boat was built for the sea and would be at home

nowhere else.

Tolliver sighed and straightened up from his nets. He’d checked them thoroughly, as he always

did. One small tear in the mesh could ruin a nights fishing. He’d seen plenty of foolish fisherfolk

lose their entire catch like that, but it had never happened to him. Nor would it. The day he lost a

single fish was the day he’d retire from the sea; the day he’d lie down and die. The sea was his

mistress, and he knew that if he treated her right, showed her the proper respect and care, why

then she’d be flattered and give generously other bounty.

He heaved the net into place, ready to cast it over the side and into the dark, nocturnal waters.

Then he paused, astounded.

There’d been talk in the taverns recently from some of the younger men about mermaids and

fairy fires under the sea, but he’d always dismissed it as the foolishness of poor men in their cups.

He’d believed it was the beer talking, not the youngsters. Why, he’d fished these waters sixty

years and never seen any sights such as they had claimed.

Until tonight.

The moon had hidden itself behind the clouds, and the silvery reflections on the waves were

gone. But the sea wasn’t dark and impenetrable as it should have been. Far below the surface,

Tolliver could see light. The fairy fires, then, were real! With the surface breaking and shivering as

the waves lapped past his small craft, it was impossible to make out much. Just that there were

lights down there, lots of them. Small, pinprick lights shivering and shaking with the movement of

the waters, but real.

Moving to the bows, Tolliver discovered that he had a better view of them. As he stared down-

wards, a pattern started to become clear. It was as if the fires were on the spokes of some

immense wheel, maybe two hundred feet across. The pattern was quite regular, the lights all lined

up, neat as you please. The centre of the wheel lay about a quarter of a mile to starboard of him.

As he watched, utterly wrapped up in this beautiful mystery, Tolliver realized that the wheel anal-

ogy was very appropriate.

The lights were moving, turning about their hub, just like some immense wheel in motion. The

procession of light was slow and ponderous, but it was nevertheless quite real.

Tolliver was captivated. He’d loved the sea in all her strange and often terrifying moods for six

decades, but he had never been a witness to a sight like this. Just like a woman to keep all her

best secrets hidden till it was too late for you to take advantage of them! Tolliver couldn’t tear his

eyes from the sight. What could be causing this? He had no idea.

He’d heard enough foolish talk in his years as a fisherman to know plenty of legends of Davy

Jones and his ilk. He knew for a fact, though, that such talk was utter nonsense. There was plenty

of life in the sea, but it was all victim to line or net or harpoon. None of it was intelligent, none

capable of building the sight he was seeing now.

But neither could man. In this year of grace eighteen hundred and eighty there were many

marvels about that Tolliver had never dreamed of seeing in his simple life, but there wasn’t a man

alive who could have built this wheel of light he was watching. That engineer, Isambard Kingdom

Brunel – now there had been a genius! Building ships the like of which this world had never seen

before. Many folks had laughed at him, but Brunel had been proven right time after time. A man

with vision, Brunel had been. But even he could never have dreamed of constructing anything like

this. Besides, he’d been dead for twenty years now, and there wasn’t a man alive that could hold

a match to his candle.

Then what was he seeing? What could be the explanation for this strange wheel of lights,

turning with grim relentlessness off his starboard bow? Tolliver had heard from some of his col-

leagues about fish that had their own light, a bit like those fireflies whose bums burned bright on

nights they were looking for love. So Tolliver could believe those stories. Still, even granted that

there were fish whose backsides were filled with fire, he couldn’t imagine anything that would

induce them to line themselves up as if they were ready for a dance and then slowly turn around

a common centre. It went against everything Tolliver knew.

So, then, what –

A shape flickered past barely under the surface of the water, blocking the lights for a second,

and it was then gone. It must have been a fish. What else could it have been? It couldn’t have

been what he had thought. It couldn’t have been –

It rippled past the boat again, and Tolliver shivered in shock. Cartwheels of fire were bad

enough. Maybe he was going senile. Or maybe his old mistress was having fun with him.

He had seen a human face, and then the flicker of a fish’s tail.

A mermaid?

Tolliver wished he could laugh at this stupidity. Mermaids were seen more often in the bottom

of a jar of ale than in the bottom of the sea. But he hadn’t been drinking this night. And he had

seen something that looked like a woman’s face. A bit of a body, and then there had been the

fish’s tail, grey and smooth. Not at all like the legends suggested. No green scales or over-ripe

breasts. Just a face, slim form and tail.

He had to have imagined that! There were no such things as merfolk who farmed the pastures

of the sea. They were just legend and tall tales.

On the other hand, if there were some kind of folk who were – God alone knew how! – able to

live under the sea, then perhaps they had made that monster wheel below him. It went against

his experiences and all he knew about the world. But it did make a sort of off-kilter sense of its

own.

Tolliver leaned over to get a better look. Maybe that whatever-it-was would pass this way again

and he’d get a better look at it on its next pass. Maybe –

In a sudden explosion of spume and cold water, something shot up from the sea. Tolliver

reeled back, horrified and screaming, but he was not fast enough to escape this thing. In the last

half-second of his life Tolliver made out sleek skin, the thrashing tail that had propelled this

creature out of the black waters, and the huge mouth filled with pointed teeth.

And then the thing bit his face entirely off.

Sir Edward Fulbright knew precisely what he liked and didn’t like. He liked, for example, Fulbright

Hall, the ancestral home. Portions of it dated back to the fifteenth century, when it had been

founded by William Fulbright, but the majority of it had been either constructed or restored by his

grandfather, Augustus Fulbright, in 1842. There was absolutely no question that the Hall was not

merely an elegant and spacious domicile, but also the most architecturally interesting home within

the boundaries of Devon.

He liked even more the Great Hall. This spacious room had been constructed by old William for

those grand medieval feasts, with a huge stone fireplace in the centre of one wall, the family crest

carved in the stones above the immense mantel. In the old days whole hogs had been roasted

within that fireplace; nowadays, of course, the cooking was all accomplished in the Hall’s capa-

cious kitchens. A huge, cheery fire blazed instead in the grate. The wall opposite the fireplace had

been one of Grandfather Augustus’s main achievements. The old, small windows of the house had

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EVOLUTIONDRWHO–THEMISSINGADVENTURESAlsoavailable:GOTHOPERAbyPaulCornellEVOLUTIONJohnPeelFirstpublishedinGreatBritainin1994byDoctorWhoBooksanimprintofVirginPublishingLtd332LadbrokeGroveLondonW105AHCopyright©JohnPeel1994TherightofJohnPeeltobeidentifiedastheAuthorofthisWorkhasbeenassertedbyhiminaccorda...

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