Part 2 (1/2)

The Doctor looked very slightly embarra.s.sed. 'Told you, I'd had enough of the game,' he said. 'Come on, let's go and do something less boring instead.'

It was the least deserted part of the planet Toop, because it had two structures built on it. One resembled a giant pyramid that had had its top sliced off, like a boiled egg. But whereas a pyramid has only one entrance, this had hundreds. Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, it might look as if the building was inside a dome, an immense upturned bowl made of faint purple lines. But there again, that might be a trick of the light.

The other building had no visible doors at all. It would be called big, although it was much smaller than the truncated pyramid, square and solid, constructed with little finesse.

Inside this building were many rooms, including what was known as the main control room. And inside the main control room, there was uproar. Quevvils were running back and forth, checking monitors and dials and read*outs. 'This is amazing!' squeaked one. 'This controller has mastered the game! The speed, the skill...'

'There is a long way to go yet,' said another, but his companions ignored the words of caution.

'The carrier has penetrated another harrier.' called a third excitedly. 'Victory! Victory approaches!'

A stocky Quevvil started shooing a group of his gleeful fellows into a series of booths. 'Ready yourselves! Do not delay! At the exact moment of success, you will be transported into the Mantodean stronghold prepare yourselves for slaughter.'

The spiny backs of each Quevvil bristled as they readied themselves for action. One small Quevvil let a quill fly in excitement; it pinged off the back of the teleport booth and the stocky Quevvil who was in charge swung round at the sound. 'I... I'm sorry, Frinel,' the small Quevvil squeaked, terrified.

Frinel glowered. 'If it were not that I must ready myself for the moment of victory the moment when I, with a single touch on this b.u.t.ton, bring victory to us all... then you would be punished for your indiscipline.' His clawed finger was hovering over a huge red b.u.t.ton, the control of the teleporter. 'Victory approaches...'

'Er... er... victory's stopped approaching,' said another Quevvil nervously, claw tapping a dial to make certain of the reading.

'The humans often pause for a while,' said another. 'They have no stamina. They are not warriors.'

A murmur of agreement pa.s.sed throughout the room.

'No, the game's been shut off,' said the nervous Quevvil. 'We just have to hope that the carrier survives until the game is resumed...'

There was a groan from a Quevvil watching a monitor. 'Mantodeans in the sector...' he said. The others cl.u.s.tered around, even the Quevvils who had entered the teleport booths came out to see what was happening.

'It might not see the carrier...'

'No, two more coming round the corner... They've spotted it...'

'The one on the left's going to get it... Stupid carrier, just standing there...'

'It can't do anything else without a controller...'

'And there it goes. Hook up another carrier, back at the beginning, for when the controller returns...'

The leader, Frinel, grunted. 'I want that controller. No other has shown such skill! This is the controller who will bring us to our destiny at last! Track the signal. Send a message to our Earth agents. He will play the game for us under our control.' He paused. 'And talking of control...'

He lumbered round, till his back was facing the rest. Then with a swish, he sent a barrage of quills flying towards the hapless small Quevvil from the teleport booth. The Quevvil collapsed to the floor.

'Discipline must be maintained,' said Frinel.

Mickey Smith was beginning to regret throwing out the Doctor, not because he wanted the smug git's company, but because it was obvious that Rose wasn't coming back with the milk and biscuits now her older man had left. He began an expedition through the kitchen cupboards, but there was nothing much except an old box of cereal and a giant jar of pickled onions that had been a recent present from Rose's mum. He unscrewed the lid, selected an onion and began to crunch thoughtfully.

So the Doctor was taller than him, and better*looking than him, and had saved the world more times than he had. He could cope with all that. But it was a bit much when the bloke even thrashed him at video games, because that was an Earth thing, a Mickey thing, and he should be allowed to win out there at least.

It was just because it was this new, weirdo game. Grand Theft Auto Grand Theft Auto, or Gran Turismo Gran Turismo, or even Sonic the bleedin' Hedgehog, and the Doctor wouldn't have stood a chance. But this game, with its jerky viewpoint and freaky graphics it took time to get used to. Mickey hadn't played it nearly enough yet. Taking another onion, Mickey sauntered back into the other room and switched the games console back on. He was going to master this thing, and then next time the Doctor turned up on his doorstep he'd challenge him to a game just a little game, Doctor, not scared I'll beat you, are you, Doctor? and then he'd show the time*travelling show*off...

But the console was playing up. There were all these lights flas.h.i.+ng and it was making this high*pitched sound, and there was no picture on the screen at all.

And then Mickey's front door crashed open.

For a second, when he saw Percy Porcupine standing in the doorway, Mickey had the mad idea that they knew his console had gone wrong and had sent someone round to sort it. But he knew that was stupid. That wasn't how things worked. And the bloke or girl, who knew which was inside the costume? hadn't even knocked on the door.

And then, because he remembered the sort of things that happened when the Doctor was about, he suddenly realised that this wasn't a bloke or a girl in a costume after all. So when the porcupine pointed a gun at him, he really wasn't surprised at all.

FOUR.

Robert had always suspected that his mum wasn't his real mum. And he knew, knew with a pa.s.sionate certainty, that deep inside he was different. Special. Not like other boys.

Then one day, the proof had come. The letter. The wonderful, glorious letter. 'Dear Mr Watson, We beg to inform you that you are really a wizard. We will expect you at Dozbin's Magical College at the beginning of next term.'

And his mum had had to admit that he wasn't really her son. His parents had been famous sorcerers, possibly the most brilliant sorcerers there had ever been, but they'd been killed by an evil wizard. It was suspected that the evil wizard had been trying to kill Robert because he was going to be the most powerful wizard that had ever lived. So Robert had been smuggled away as a baby, and given to the most pathetic, feeble, stupid, rubbishy woman they could find, so no one would suspect.

But now the evil wizard was threatening to take over the world, and Robert had to go to Magical College to learn spells so he could defeat him once and for all, and all the kids who had ever teased Robert would look at him in awe and the girls would love him...

He had to pack his suitcase to go to Magical College.

He was packing his suitcase to go to Magical College Magical College.

Not to go on holiday, he didn't want to go on holiday, 'a holiday in the sun, Bobbles, oh, we'll have a wonderful time,' but it wasn't the sun part or the holiday part that bothered him, it was the Mum part. He could be quite happy lying on a beach, sungla.s.ses hopefully hiding the fact that he was watching the girls in their bikinis dreaming that any minute now they'd look back at him, and it wouldn't be with pity or disdain for the skinny kid with pale skin and spots, it'd be with understanding as they divined that his soul was the twin of theirs, and it made them want him, need him, be desperate for him...

But he had his mum with him.

His mum who called him 'Bobbles', even in front of his friends, even in front of girls. His mum, who'd suddenly start rubbing sun*tan lotion on his back while he was chilling on the sand, like he was six years old.

Who read out things from her horrible women's magazines really loudly, so everyone could hear and know that she liked really rubbish things.

Who wore rubbish clothes and rubbish shoes and really hideous sungla.s.ses just to embarra.s.s him.

Who'd tell complete strangers about all the 'funny little things' he'd ever done, from bed*wetting onwards.

Who'd make a fuss in restaurants by actually asking questions about the food, making him want to bury his head in shame.

Mum hadn't thought they'd be able to afford a holiday this year, and he was so glad, because he could stay in his room all summer and listen to CDs and read books and think about how when he went down the shops he might b.u.mp into Suzie Price and they'd get talking and she'd hint that she thought he was a really great guy; which was much better than really going down the shops, because he might really b.u.mp into Suzie Price and none of the rest of it would happen, which would spoil the daydream completely.

And his mum, who did go down the shops, had won him this games thing, which only had one game with it but was really good anyway and he'd been playing it loads and was going to win the prize and he was quite happy to keep on doing that for the summer.

But then she'd won this holiday. And it didn't say anywhere on the card if it was for one person or the whole family, but Mum said that these things were always for families so she was sure it would be OK. And he prayed that it wouldn't be, that it'd be just for her, and she'd go off without him and miraculously decide he was old enough to be left on his own and he could be happy. But she'd asked, and said she wouldn't go if she couldn't take her Bobbles, and they'd said it was fine.

So he was packing his suitcase to go on holiday.