Santa’s Sweatshop
An adventure of the sixth Doctor, Peri and Frobisher
1. Bleak Midwinter
Three pairs of eyes watch the time rotor as it judders to a halt. The console room falls silent for a moment, save for the hum of a TARDIS at rest; then that, too, dies, and the lights go dim. The only human present looks up at the Doctor.
“So that’s it, then?”
“Yes, Peri. That’s it. The TARDIS is . . . beached. Washed up on the shores of the material universe, unable to navigate the manifold whorls and eddies of the time stream.”
“Dead in the water, you mean.”
“Hardly ‘in the water’, but essentially, yes.”
“There’s gotta be something you can do!”
The Doctor turns on her. “Do? DO?! My dear Miss Brown, if there was anything to be done, don’t you think I’d be doing it already? It took vast amounts of skill and more than a modicum of ingenuity just to bring us safely out of the Vortex! Without an immense source of power - something I can assure you we shall not be finding on an uninhabited snowball like Cryonaxus IV - she’s not going anywhere. And neither are we.”
Peri can tell from the slight quiver in the Doctor’s voice that much of his anger is down to frustration and despair. She has become used to his moods by now; her skin has grown thicker over the time she’s been travelling with him. She reflects that recently he seems to be mellowing a little, too.
The third member of the ensemble waves a flipper at the monitor. “Er, Doc? I think you’d better take a look at this.”
“What is it, Frobisher?”, asks the Doctor, striding over to stand beside the shapeshifter.
“You know what you said about this planet being uninhabited? You might like to reconsider that position.”
On the screen, about half a mile away, the roofs of a small village are visible nestling behind a ridge, smoke rising from the chimneys.
* * *
Gusts of wind blow flurries of snow into the faces of the travellers as two humanoids trudge slowly across the barren landscape, lifting their legs high with each step, while one penguin-shaped Whifferdill waddles confidently ahead over the tops of the drifts. Peri pulls her coat more tightly around her.
“At least Frobisher seems to be enjoying himself. Doctor, you know what would be really great? Landing somewhere warm for once. A tropical beach, maybe, with pina coladas and the sound of waves lapping on the shore. Not more blizzards and ice.”
“Nonsense! There’s nothing better for your circulation than a bracing stroll in the cold. Can’t you just feel the blood pumping through you?”
“Hardly; I can barely feel anything at all. I think my toes have gone numb.” She raises her feet, one at a time, and shakes them for emphasis.
“Purely psychosomatic, I assure you. That envirosuit is rated for much lower temperatures than we’ll find here. This can’t be more than oh, minus 35 degrees Celsius?”
“I guess. It sure feels cold to me, though. OW!”
The Doctor rushes forward, looking concerned, as Peri lifts her foot and rubs it. “What’s wrong?”
“Stubbed my toe on something. It feels like . . . oh.”
“Peri?”
“Doctor, it’s a body! Buried in the snow. Oh my God, I think it’s a child!”
“Let me see.”
The two of them dig with their hands, uncovering more of the frozen corpse.
“Not a child, Peri. A fully mature alien, about four feet high. Basically human in appearance, with pointed ears . . .”
“. . . Dressed in red and green with white fur trimming and a pointed hat with a bobble on the end? Is this some kind of joke?”
“A joke in very poor taste. Look at this.” He lifts a broken length of chain, attached to a manacle fastened around the corpse‘s ankle.
Frobisher’s voice drifts across the snow as he waddles back to see what’s happening. “Doc? Peri?”
The Doctor raises his head. “Look at this, Frobisher. We appear to have encountered trouble.”
“Nature of the business, Doc; let’s have a look-see. Jeez, what happened to the elf?”
“Hard to say - he appears to have been dead for some time before Peri stumbled across him.”
“Do you think it could have been elf-inflicted?” Frobisher sees the others’ expressions, and raises both flippers placatingly. “Sorry, sorry, bad taste. Anyways, I was just coming to tell ya. I’ve found a sign. Literally.”
* * *
A red and white candy-striped pole sticks out of the snow, canted slightly off-vertical and protruding almost five feet. At the top, four arrows point away at ninety-degree intervals; each reads, simply, ‘South’.
“Well, that’s useful,” mutters Peri, sarcastically.
“As a matter of fact, it could be,” contradicts the Doctor. “There is only one place on any world where such a sign could be placed: the North Pole. That is the only point where every direction is South.”
“Okay, clever clogs, and how close to the pole did we land?”
He looks flustered. “Well, I was concentrating on stopping us crashing at the time. And anyway, the readings weren’t entirely reliable after that. I admit it does seem like quite a coincidence, though.”
“Have you considered the possibility that it’s here for some other reason? Like, I dunno, decoration or something?”
The Doctor sighs, theatrically. “And why would they do that? It’s a sign, Peri. Signs are for providing guidance.”
“In which case wouldn’t it be better if it told you what was in each direction? You know, Lapland, 40 miles, that sort of thing?”
Frobisher coughs. “Much as I hate to interrupt your little tete-a-tete,” he whispers, “but we seem to have attracted an audience.”
The Doctor and Peri look around. Beyond Frobisher they see a reindeer-drawn sleigh carrying a huge sack; a fat, bearded man dressed in red (again with white fur trim) stands by the front, pointing an elaborate raygun at them.
“Well now,” says the Doctor, “this is just ridiculous!”
2. Little Helpers
6:43AM, two days later. Something tickles Peri’s nose, and she wakes. For just a moment she cannot remember where she is; then it comes back to her, and she merely wishes she could not. She opens one eye, then the other, focusing on the offending object twitching in front of her.
The furry bobble of her work hat.
“Alfrith, what are you doing?”
The little alien who has been her labouring partner for the last two days flinches, drops the hat, and looks worried. “I am sorry, friend Peri. It is late, and I thought it would be a gentle way to rouse you. I did not mean to cause you distress.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“But you would not have done so if I had not upset you.”
“Listen, don’t worry about it - I’m often grouchy in the morning anyway.” Peri sighs and sits up, putting on a forced cheerful expression. “So, what’s for breakfast today? Eggs over easy? Waffles?”
“I do not understand. It is what we are always given.”
“Forget it, I was just trying to lighten the mood. Pass me my share of the mince pies and a glass of brandy, will ya?”
They eat in silence for a while, but before they have finished the work bell rings, a gentle but insistent jingling. “Ah well,” says Peri, “this diet isn’t doing much for my figure anywho. Let’s get over to the factory.”
They join the back of the line leaving the quaint wooden chalet that acts as dormitory for a dozen workers, but as the partners in adversity step through the door a huge figure blocks their path. “Not so fast, you two,” says Santa, in his deep, warm voice. “You are not going on the production line today. You, Perpugilliam Brown, have been naughty. You are a disruptive influence, reducing the efficiency of my elves, so I am putting you on . . . other duties. Alfrith can explain - can’t you, Alfrith?”
The elf hangs her head. “The reindeer?”
“The reindeer.”
* * *
The Doctor has been up for quite some time already, bustling about the laboratory in which he has been put to work, when the creak of the wooden door alerts him to the arrival of company. He decides to act cheerful, summoning a broad smile before turning to greet his captor.
“Ah, Santa, come in, come in!”
“Good morning, Doctor. I trust the facilities are to your liking?”
“Oh indeed they are, sir, indeed they are. I have never seen a laboratory so impeccably equipped with all things . . . Christmassy. I particularly like what you’ve done with the tinsel.”
“You do, do you? Ho, well, I’m pleased to hear it. In that case you’ll be able to come up the new toy designs you promised me soon?”
“With all due alacrity, I assure you. There’s just one thing, though.” The Doctor pauses, dramatically.
“Yes?”
“I could do with an assistant. Perhaps I might requisition the services of my colleague, Miss Brown?”
Santa laughs, a huge, booming laugh that fills the room. “Ho ho ho, nice try. No, not her. But I will send you one of my more trustworthy elves.” He turns to go, then pauses. “Oh, and one last thing. We still haven’t found any trace of the black and white creature you were first seen with. What was that animal, Doctor?”
The Doctor blinks. “How the devil should I know? I’m not a native of this planet! It just wandered up while we were examining the signpost.”
“So you say. Well, good day to you, Doctor. I will expect a progress report this afternoon.”
“Of course.” The Doctor waits until Santa locks the door and his footsteps fade into the distance before letting his smile fade. “Frobisher,” he mutters, “where are you?”
* * *
Frobisher’s Journal, Day Three of the Case of the Polar Perfidy.
I’ve been in this business a long time. Too long, some might say, but I never do - or at least, only when I’m out of mazumas with the Bourbon running dry. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned on the mean streets of life, it’s that there’s always a Fat Man at the bottom of every story.
This was a nasty affair. I never did like slavery; I believe in an honest day’s pay. Heck, I’ll even do an honest day’s work for it if someone forces my hand. No poor slob should be made to work for nothing, and when the chips are down, when it’s time to stick it to the Fat Man, I’m willing to stand up and be counted.
Of course, being counted isn’t my first choice plan of action.
Aah, I hate cases that begin with the dame being kidnapped. I guess it’s time I told the Doc what my investigations have revealed about Santa . . .
* * *
Peri stares in astonishment at the huge trough in front of her. “Where are all these vegetables coming from? You’ve got carrots in all colours - even rutabagas! These are Earth species; they are winter crops, but even so I can’t believe they’d grow in this climate.”
Alfrith shrugs. “It is not important. All that matters is that we must feed the reindeer, or we will be punished. Here, help me fill the wheelbarrow, that we can carry the food for the whole team.”
“Okey-dokey, you know best.”
Together they fill the barrow and wheel it across to the stables. The chain connecting Peri’s left ankle to Alfrith’s right catches and jerks twice on the way.
“Darn it!” shouts the Earth girl on the second occasion, sitting to rub her foot. “Oh, if I get the chance I am so going to give Santa what for!”
“Please, you mustn’t talk like that. It will only earn us more punishment.”
Peri studies her companion for a moment. “You know, Santa’s got a cushy little number here. He’s got you all so frightened you don’t dare stand up to him, so he gets to stomp around acting pompous while you do all the work. You just can’t see that even if he does have a gun, he couldn’t take you all on if you stood together.”
“Shhh! They say the walls have ears.”
“What the walls have is knotholes! Seriously, everything seems to made out of wood here. Anyway, the Doctor has been fighting bullies and tyrants like your boss for hundreds of years - and I’ve helped out against a few myself. Just be ready when he makes his move: things are gonna change around here, don’t you worry.”
“I am only worried about completing my tasks. Please?”
“Oh, okay. But remember what I said, yeah?”
“If it will make you move again, I will!”
Peri accedes, and they finish bringing the vegetables to the stables. Alfrith shows Peri how to feed each reindeer - not such an unpleasant task - and then they take a mince pie break.
“So, Alfrith, what now?”
“Now we go around the back and clean out the stalls.”
“Oh, great.” Peri rolls her eyes. “And I thought the day couldn’t get any better.”
* * *
The Doctor is concentrating on toy design when the door creaks open again. He swivels on his stool as an elf enters.
“Hello,” says the Doctor in a welcoming, friendly voice, “you must be my new assistant, yes?”
The elf nods, warily, unsmiling. “I am Condell. Santa says I am to work with you.” He places a satchel on a table and pulls out a roll of woodworking equipment: chisels, lathes, awls, and tools even the Doctor doesn’t recognise. As he does so, two roll out of the bag and drop to the floor. Condell sighs, and starts bending to retrieve them; but the Doctor gets there first.
“Let me do that,” he says, and sweeps them up in one hand. He puts one back in its slot in the tool roll, then stares at the other.
“Tell me, Condell, you wouldn’t happen to have brought an alicanting plane, would you?”
The elf looks troubled. “I . . . I am not sure. What is an alcant - um, an, an . . .”
“An alicanting plane? You don’t know what an alicanting plane is? I’m shocked. Flabbergasted. You, a trusted lieutenant to your lord and master? So trusted, in fact, that you are not chained to a companion like your fellows, nor are you confined to one building like myself? You disappoint me, Condell. You disappoint me deeply. How can I be expected to construct prototypes without an alicanting plane?”
“Well, I, uh, . . .”
“That was a rhetorical question. No, there’s only one thing for it. You will have to go back to your master and get him to provide you with one.”
The elf looks worried. “You want me to go? Now?”
“Well, I can hardly do it myself, can I? I’m not allowed outside. Don’t worry, I’m sure he won’t be too cross with you. It’s not your fault you’ve received inadequate training, and he’s a reasonable being, yes?”
“Uh . . .”
“Hurry along, there’s a good chap. Meanwhile, I’ll make do with the tools you have brought me.”
Condell nods, and scurries out the door. The Doctor stares at the spare awl in his hand - the one with no matching slot in the tool roll.
“Well, Frobisher, may I compliment you on an excellent disguise?”
On the table beside him the satchel sprouts a familiar-looking beak. “Thanks, Doc. Now, quit messin’ about with that thing and pay attention: we’ve got big trouble.”
* * *
Peri enters the rear of the first stall. The floor is spotlessly clean, except for more root vegetables scattered about.
“Alfrith, we’re in luck! Looks like the stable’s been cleaned already.”
“No, look at all the reindeer food - we need to gather it up.”
“Well, sure; looks like he must have kicked his trough over. But I thought I was gonna spend the morning scooping poop. This is muuuch better.”
As if on queue, the reindeer - Dasher - lifts his tail. “Spoke too soon,” groans Peri; but out pop two turnips and a purple carrot, undigested and unbroken. Peri recognises the carrot as one she has just fed to the beast.
“What the-?”
“Come, Peri. We must get the fodder back to the store, ready for their evening meal. Help me put it all back in the barrow.”
For a moment the Earth girl just stares. “Somebody pinch me; now would be a really good time to wake up.”
* * *
“What do you mean, there’s more than one Santa?!”
Frobisher, now back in his preferred form, scratches his beak. “Just what I say, Doc. There’s around eight or nine of them, all identical. I reckon they could be robots.”
The Doctor shakes his head. “I don’t think so - one of them grabbed my arm when we were first captured, and he felt quite organic. Anyway, robot Santas? That would just be too ludicrous. No, there’s something more going on here, something I’m not quite seeing. What do they do with all the toys the elves make?”
“Bag ’em up and ship them out on sleighs, like the one that caught you guys. I tagged along, once; there’s a massive stockpile a coupla miles to the South. Three, mebbe four weeks’ worth. Oh, and the workers aren’t elves: they’re Tregladorians. I overheard some of them talking about the good old days, before they were captured.”
“Tregladorians; I should have realised that from their general morphology. Did you hear anything about the identity of their abductors?”
“Sorry, Doc - no joy. Seems they were a bunch of freelance slavers who sold the little guys to the fat men.”
“Something still doesn’t add up here. If I could just figure out the point of the exercise! Why all this, this theatre? What do the Santas gain from it all? Still, I know one thing: I’m not going to let it continue. And on that front, at least, I have a plan. Listen carefully . . .”
The Doctor is about to continue, but hears footsteps outside the door. “Quickly, Frobisher,” he whispers urgently, “hide yourself. I’ll explain-”
“-later, yeah, yeah, I know the drill.” And then the Whifferdill is just a satchel again.
A Santa enters, Condell at his heel. “Well, Doctor, what’s this I hear about you needing more equipment?”
The Doctor looks up, as if surprised. “Hm? Oh, sorry, I found the tool I needed. Can’t think how I could have missed it! Mea culpa.”
Condell looks daggers at him, but Santa remains red-cheeked and jovial. “Ho, ho, ho. Well, none of us are perfect, are we? So, do you have any progress to report?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Tell me, do all your toys need to be wooden?”
Santa looks surprised. “Of course! It’s traditional.”
“Ah yes, tradition. I see. And where did this tradition originate? Earth?”
“Oh, absolutely. It is all in the broadcasts.”
“The broadcasts? Tell me more . . .”
* * *
“Peri, you ask so many questions!” Alfrith is visibly upset. “Feeding the reindeer is just what we have to do.”
“Yeah, but they’re not real! I mean, look at this.” She waves a box she has found on a shelf. “Replacement bulbs for Rudolph’s nose! Can you think of anything more pointless than this charade?”
“But don’t you see, Peri? The point is to keep Santa happy. My children - my children are safe at home, but only so long as Santa is pleased with our work. If we do not do as we are told, we will be eliminated and the slavers will be sent to collect replacements. We cannot know who they will pick - strangers, friends, loved ones - So we work to protect them all.”
“I- I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It is fine.”
“No it isn’t! The only difference this makes is that when we fight back, we gotta be really sure we can win. So as we work, I want you to tell me everything you can about Santa, anything to help figure out what his game is, any times his routine changes. Because I’m on a mission. I’m gonna save us, and your children too.”
* * *
“Remarkable,” says the Doctor. “You’ve managed to recreate Earth’s television broadcasts from the weak signals that made it all the way out here, hundreds of light years from their point of origin. From your description I think you’ve decoded them as late as the 1970s. Maybe that’s for the best - everyone knows it all went downhill in the ’80s.” He coughs. “Anyway, it doesn’t explain this rigmarole. Why bother with this kitschy parody?”
“For marketing purposes, Doctor. Thanks to the broadcasts a traditional Earth Christmas is big in this part of the galaxy right now, and everyone wants to know that the goods they are buying were made traditionally.”
“With traditional slave labour?”
“Tut tut, Doctor. You convinced me that you have knowledge I might find useful - I am only sharing this information with you so that you won’t come up with anything . . . inappropriate.”
“Of course. My apologies. My principal point was that, with the broadcasts stopping when they did, you are missing out on a vast spectrum of toys that were just around the corner.”
Santa sighs. “I know what you are thinking, and nobody wants cheap plastic tat, Doctor. Wood it is.”
“But you incorporate some materials other than wood, such as metal axles on some of the vehicles?”
“Where needed.”
“So what about electronics?”
“We have seen electronic toys advertised. They are, without exception, noisy and tasteless.”
“Ah, but they were the early versions. With my knowledge of later times, I can design authentic toys that are far more appropriate for your discerning customers.”
Santa pauses for a moment, considering. “Very well, Doctor. But Condell, here, will be watching you closely; and if you attempt to build a weapon, you will regret it. Good day.”
* * *
11:23PM, that night. In the dormitory where Peri is sleeping, odd colours reflect off the tinsel and baubles from the swaying strings of lights outside, where they are hung between the buildings. A tiny figure makes his way across the floor: a mouse. It creeps up to Peri’s ear.
“Psst”, it whispers.
Peri stirs. “Wha’s up? Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Frobisher.”
“Frobisher!”
“Shh! Do you want everyone to know you talk to mice?”
“Sorry.” Peri lowers her voice again. They wait for a moment as Alfrith stirs, but she doesn’t wake.
“It’s good to see you, Frobisher. What’s going on? Is the Doctor okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, the Doc’s just dandy, kid.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Hey, when you’re on a case, you gotta speak the lingo, right? The clients expect it.”
She stifles a laugh. “You sound ridiculous!”
“So maybe it still needs a bit of work. Gimme a break, here! Anyway, I ain’t got long. The Doc’s got a plan, but it ain’t exactly watertight. Have you found out anything about the Santas?”
“The Santas? There’s more than one of him? Well, apparently he - they - head off out of the village once a month. I figure that’s gotta be when the sacks of toys get collected. While they’re away all the slaves are locked in their dormitories with the windows shuttered. And here’s the kicker: it’s due to happen again in just over a week.”
“Great sleuthing, sister! That’ll be the time to make our move, then.”
“That’s what I thought. Only, it’s gonna be real hard getting out of here.”
“Oh, I think the Doc can handle that one. Listen close; you’re gonna like this . . .”
3. The December Revolution
6:05AM, nine days later. The slaves wake to find that the door has been sealed and the shutters closed. “At last,” thinks Peri, and goes to the window, where a Santa climbing into the driving seat of a sleigh is visible through a tiny crack. “I wonder if they leave anyone on guard?”
Peri turns to Alfrith, standing patiently beside her. “Okay, let’s get everyone ready; then we wait for the Doctor.”
* * *
With a satisfied smile, Condell stands outside the Doctor’s bedroom. “Wake up, Doctor,” he shouts.
“Hm? Oh, it’s you. Have you brought me breakfast in bed and my morning paper?”
“No breakfast at all for you today, Doctor. You are to wait here until I let you out.”
“Ah, time for Santas’ monthly jaunt, is it? No matter, I’ll just head through into the lab and knock out a few new designs to keep my mind off the hunger pangs.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t trust you, Doctor; when I said stay here, I meant in that one room. No food, no paper, no tools or devices you might use to your advantage. You will not make a fool of me.”
Condell hears a voice from behind. “Oh yeah? You know what, buddy; I think he already has.”
The elf spins around, just in time for his chin to meet a boxing glove on a flexible arm that has just extruded itself from a wooden pillar. He falls to the ground, out cold. Frobisher reforms, takes Condell’s keys, and releases the Doctor.
“Frobisher, you know I don’t approve of violence . . .”
“Sure, Doc, but when you’re a down-at-heels gumshoe you don’t always have the luxury of playing nice.”
“Indeed. And as I was about to say: I don’t approve, but sometimes the sound of it is most satisfying.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, glad to be of service.”
“Right. We’d better scout for guards, then on with our appointed tasks. Ready?”
“As ever, Doc.”
* * *
6:33AM. In Peri’s dormitory, a shadow obscures the thin sliver of light between the shutter and the window’s edge. There is a moment’s silence, then an enormous cracking sound as the roof is ripped away. Blinking in the sudden daylight, Peri stares up at the Doctor, sitting in what appears to be a giant wooden robot. A very odd giant wooden robot.
“Hello, Peri! Miss me?”
“Doctor! You did it! Is . . . Is that thing made of toys?”
“Indeed it is! Well, to be fair it’s mostly wooden beams from the supply yard, but it’s held together and articulated by toys. Ones I designed myself, actually. You see, the Santas’ viewing of Earth television programming ended just a little too soon for a couple of the ’80s’ finest legacies. This, Peri, is my very own transformer!”
She grins. “Cool! I guess big boys deserve big toys. So what happens now?”
“Hm? Oh, I’ll pull a wall down so you can climb out more easily, then you can grab something from the production line to break those manacles. Meanwhile I’ll reconfigure this into some appropriate vehicular form, and then we can all be on our way.”
“Great! I’ve only got one more question: what was that other legacy you mentioned?”
“A splendid TV series where the heroes are always left surrounded by supplies they can use to build something impressively large with which to escape: The A-Team. The perfect match. You see,” and here he pauses, grinning, and mimes lifting a cigar to his mouth, “I love it when a transformer comes together!”
* * *
Frobisher’s Journal, Day Twelve of the Case of the Polar Perfidy.
This was no time for sentimentality. Another Fat Man had crossed the penguin, and there had always been only one way that could possibly end: with one of us a patch of red in the snow. I just made sure it wasn’t me. Now I had to be making tracks fast, and his sleigh was my ticket to ride - I slipped into the driving seat and made myself comfortable. Then I came to the realisation that I knew squat about this mode of transportation. I lifted the reins, shaking them experimentally; Prancer took off like a bullet from a .44. I only hoped I’d be able to make him stop again.
Several Santas are gathered around a massive pile of toy sacks. There is a rumble like thunder, and a spaceship descends from clear arctic skies. It hovers a few yards above the snow, and a ramp lowers with a whine. A furry-faced figure appears, driving a grav-sled. “Get moving, you lot,” he says, “there’s been a rush on at the depot. We’ve got to increase production, too.”
A groan goes up from the Santas; but they start loading the sacks anyway. “Why can’t we get the elves to do this?” complains one.
“For the last time, Grork,” says another, rolling his eyes, “we can’t risk it. If we keep them chained spy-eyes from some politically correct trendy lefty paper might see, if we don’t there’s a chance one might get aboard the ship; and then where would we be? It’s the same reason we have to store the toys so far away: we can’t risk an escapee hiding in a sack. You know that. Zolik must have explained it at least three times.”
“Yeah, yeah, I suppose you’re right. Where is Zolik anyway? I thought I saw him just a couple of minutes ago.”
The Santas look, but there is no sign of their missing colleague.
* * *
A giant wooden quadruped dashes through the snow, pulling four sleighs packed with terrified elves. Peri rides on its back, arms around the Doctor’s waist; the wind generated by their movement means she has to shout to make herself heard.
“Wheeee! This is much better, Doctor!”
“Not still hankering after sun, surf, sand, and sangria, then?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say no; but this ain’t so bad now.”
“It’s the thrill of adventure, Peri! That rush as you ride into danger!”
“Nope, I’m just happy to be moving again after all that time being chained to someone with a three-foot stride.” She spots a figure in the snow. A lone Santa, struggling to make his way on foot, pauses to shake his fist at them; then falls on his face. “Hah!” shouts Peri. “See how you like it, you fat jerk!”
“Peri!” says the Doctor, with mock severity. “That’s not the kind of speech I would expect from a well-brought-up young lady!”
“Yeah? Well, this young lady would happily kick those Santas in their Christmas baubles after what they’ve done to Alfrith and her friends!”
“Then I hope for their sake Frobisher has things under control at his end . . .”
* * *
In the main hold of the ship, the Santas finish offloading the first batch of sacks from the grav-sled and leave to collect the next load. One of the sacks wobbles for a moment, then morphs into a familiar form.
“Jeez, those guys should take some lessons in cargo handling - I feel more mauled than manhandled! It’d be a Christmas miracle if any of these toys reach the kids unbroken.” Frobisher shakes himself off, and looks around. “Now, what’s gonna be the best way to put a spike in their plans? First step’s gotta be making sure this crate can’t leave.”
He sidles carefully through the interior hatch and makes his way along the ship’s corridors. “This bucket is deserted,” he mutters. “Not that a hard-bitten sleuth like me would be bothered by an army of low-life like these Santas. I’d give ’em a right flipper to the jaw, biff! And a head-butt to the stomach, pow!”
As if on cue, a pair of hands behind the Whifferdill raises a large wrench high, and brings it down on his head, thunk!
“Ow!” says Frobisher, rubbing the deep dent in his skull. “That’s really gonna smart in the morning!”
Then he passes out.
* * *
“I can see their spaceship, Peri! We’re nearly there!”
“Good - ’cause it’s getting kinda uncomfortable back here.”
The Doctor frowns. “You know, you’re right. The ride shouldn’t be this rough.” He looks down at the mechanical creature beneath him; its parts seem to be vibrating, and the effect is growing by the second. “That’s not good,” he says.
“What?”
“The transformer’s being affected by some kind of energy field! I don’t think I can control it!”
“C-can’t you t-turn it off?”
“It’s n-not responding to the t-transmitter! I th-think we’re going to c-crash!”
The wooden animal continues running straight towards the ship at speed, but now the little toys that hold it together are starting to fall off. Santas scatter in all directions as it approaches, some rushing up the ramp, others diving behind toy sacks. One of the legs twists and falls away from the body; the crippled beast lurches, stumbles, and falls apart completely with a thunderous roar.
The Doctor, landing in a pile of sacks, rubs his head, and stares up into the muzzle of a raygun.
* * *
“What the heck was that?” In the control room of the ship, the pilot leaps from his chair and rushes to the hatch. Before he reaches it the engineer, Skade, opens it from the other side.
“Dunno, Voxt, but there’s a big talking bird back here,” says Skade.
“What are you on about?”
“It was just wandering along the corridor, talking to itself. So I whacked it with a wrench.”
“You did what? Here, let me see.” They head out and down the corridor, around the bend of the ship. When they reach the site of the conflict, there is nothing to be seen but a wrench lying on the floor.
“You idiot, Skade. You’ve been at the engine fluid again, haven’t you? And you can get in trouble for leaving company equipment lying around.”
“I haven’t! And I didn’t! I put my wrench right back in my belt - see, here it is.”
They look at each other. “Then where did that other one come from?”
“You know, guys,” quips the tool on the floor, “what I always say is: when it comes to wrenches, one good turn deserves another.”
* * *
“So, Doctor,” says the Santa in front of him, “it seems Condell underestimated you. He shall have to be punished for that.”
The Doctor sighs, impatiently. “It’s always somebody else’s fault with people like you, isn’t it? You can’t possibly be in error, oh no, because your unparallelled intellect and impeccable plans are entirely flawless. Why can’t you realise that sometimes you should shelve ‘my minions have let me down’ and consider ‘I made a boo-boo’? But I don’t know why I’m even bothering to speak, because the reality is that your microcephalic megalomania keeps you so short-sighted that you can’t see beyond the end of your own ruddy round nose!”
“Have you quite finished?”
“For now.”
“Oh no, Doctor, not for now. You are quite finished - forever. Prepare to die.” The Santa’s finger tightens on the trigger of his raygun - which is knocked aside by a flying wooden train.
“Take that!” shouts Peri. “And that!” Soon a multitude of toys are arcing through the air, raining down on the Santas, as the elves join in the assault. In the confusion the Doctor leaps up, grabs the nearest raygun, and fires it into the air, a bolt of lightning in a clear sky. All eyes turn towards him, as he aims the gun in the direction of the spaceship.
“Nobody move! Now, I would like to thank Peri and her friends for their timely intervention, but I do think that things have gone quite far enough. I see that a few of you Santas have managed to keep hold of your guns, and are currently pointing them in my direction. Well done. You might like to take note of where I am pointing my own, and consider what effect a short blast would have on the starboard gravity focusing lens. Now, it might be that you could kill me before I did enough damage to cripple your ship, though it seems unlikely; and it might be that you could then turn your guns fast enough to mow down every Tregladorian who is, in all probability, quite willing to die if they can take you with them, though fortune would have to be smiling very broadly for that to happen. It is not impossible. Alternatively, I can guarantee that if you surrender now, you will not be harmed and will instead be taken in safety to a place where you can receive a fair trial. So I believe the question you have to ask yourself is, ‘am I feeling lucky?’”
Peri rolls her eyes.
* * *
As the elves finish tying up the captured Santas, Peri walks across to her friends. “Well, I think that’s everything sorted. They’ve already sent a posse back to fetch Condell and the other quisling guards from the village, but the leaders all say they’ll stop any hotheads from shoving anyone out of an airlock before they get to stand trial. Apparently buying and keeping slaves is a serious crime in this part of the galaxy at the moment, and I doubt they’ll get a whole lot of sympathy from the jury having played the galactic citizens for fools with that ‘spirit of Christmas’ spiel.”
“That’s good to know,” says the Doctor. ”And the TARDIS?”
“Oh, Alfrith’s about to take another group to go fetch it. She says nobody’s gonna mind dropping us off somewhere we can recharge the batteries, since without us they wouldn’t be going home at all.”
“Excellent. Which reminds me - since they have no trustworthy pilots on hand, I’d better make sure I can set the navigational computer to take them all back to Tregladore. Coming?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll stick with Alfrith for now. It’s nice, you know, just to hang out now we’re not joined at the ankle.”
“Very well - take care, Peri. I’ll see you soon. Frobisher?”
“I’ll tag along with you, Doc.”
The Doctor nods, and they walk up the ramp. Frobisher folds his flippers behind his back. “So, I guess it’s time for my final report . . .”
* * *
“. . . and biff! Pow! Down he went, like a sack of potatos,” says Frobisher, as they walk onto the ship’s small bridge.
“Thank you, Frobisher, for that thorough - and colourful - account.”
“I’m not quite done yet, Doc.”
“Well, maybe later. I need to concentrate on the job at hand. Navcom, navcom . . . I don’t believe it!” The Doctor sounds delighted.
“What is it, Doc?”
“Look at these controls: the ship’s powered by a quantum flux drive! That explains what happened to my transformer - and it’s just what we need to get the TARDIS working again!”
“So, all we gotta do is attach some jump leads and we’re good to go?”
The Doctor chuckles. “Oh, better than that. The old girl is finely attuned to fluctuations in the quantum substrate; she’ll have been absorbing power from the drive’s rest state vibrations ever since it arrived on this world. Give it another, oh, twenty minutes, and she’ll be fully charged.”
“So we don’t need a ride from the little guys after all. I wonder what Peri’s gonna think about that?”
* * *
All preparations complete, Peri and Alfrith share one final hug and the elf enters the Santa spaceship. The ramp closes and it takes off almost immediately, the Doctor’s preprogrammed course carrying the former slaves back home to their loved ones. Peri looks around, eyes glistening slightly. “So. What’s gonna happen to all the toys we made? It seems a shame to just leave them here to rot.”
The Doctor looks embarrassed. “Well, I did have an idea about that. The Tregladorians didn’t want them - too many bad memories - and, well, I’m sure there are plenty of children on Earth who would appreciate them.”
Peri grins. “You don’t mean-? Well, I suppose if anything is gonna go all around the world in one night, it’s gotta be the TARDIS!”
“Yeah,” puts in Frobisher. “And I think you’ll make a swell Santa, Doc. You already look the part.”
The Doctor frowns. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
Peri laughs. “Well, you gotta admit neither of you are subtle dressers.”
“Yeah, Doc, and you ain’t exactly featherweight contenders, either.”
“‘Gotta?’ ‘Ain’t?’ You know, it’s difficult enough coping with the corrupt colonial colloquialisms of one companion, let alone two!” Wisely, the others say nothing. “Anyway, Frobisher, I was rather hoping that your shape-shifting abilities could be put to good use in this venture. It would certainly be easier that way.”
“Sure! I mean, you ain’t gonna be squeezing down too many chimneys . . . uh, sorry, that kinda slipped out.”
“Hmph. Alternatively, you could always take a break here - we could pick you up in, oh, a year or two?”
“Sorry. No more baiting the designated driver.”
“Indeed. And anyway, given recent events, I think it’s safe to say that you’ve got . . . form. Now, come along - we need to move everything into the TARDIS.”
* * *
Later, the travellers are gathered in the (now rather crowded) console room, sacks and boxes piled up all around them. Peri raises a last glass of brandy.
“Merry Christmas, Doctor!”
“Well, technically, the chances of it actually being Christmas Day are a little less than one in 365 . . .”
Peri wags her finger at him. “Ah-ah-aah . . .”
“Oh, very well,” says the Doctor, smiling. “Merry Christmas, Peri - and you, too, Frobisher.”
Frobisher turns his beak towards the reader. “And a merry Christmas to all of you at home,” he says; then he winks. Blackness creeps into the final panel from the corners, leaving a circle around the Whifferdill’s face. For just a second his features morph into those of a rabbit, then a duck, then back to penguin again, faster than copyright can fly. “That’s all, folks,” he adds.
FIN
Next Time:
One way or another, the Offspring Invasion really begins!
