Doctor Who: The Blood Cell

by James Goss

  They always look at me in an odd way when I say that. But it’s what Bentley has told me, and I have to trust her.

  They’ll then ask if they can pass me letters for their loved ones. I will apologise and explain that communication over TransNet is all that is allowed for. I’ll tell them I’m trapped by Protocols. They’ll look at me in a funny way again. And then ask to pass me a petition full of hope and indecipherable signatures.

  I’ve never understood petitions. People you’ve never heard of want you to do something. There’s nothing I can do about it. I look after the prisoners, in accordance with my own conscience and the Protocols. By all means, send your petitions to the Homeworld Government. Perhaps they’ll surprise us all by releasing someone, or just order me to accord someone extra privileges. But they never do.

  I explain to the visitors patiently, and, I hope, kindly, that if you hand me a petition, I will simply scan it and send it by appallingly slow TransNet relay back to the Government. The uplink they have on their shuttle is undoubtedly much faster. But they insist I take it. Perhaps it makes them feel better, as though the long, expensive journey has been worthwhile. If so, then it’s the least I can do to take it, and to look at them seriously and gravely. They never quite look back at me.

  That’s how a good interaction goes. Sometimes they even thank me for my time before they go away. I’ve had training to deal with the less ideal scenarios. Sometimes they scream at me. ‘How could you? How can you live with yourself?’ they shout. But then, those are questions no one can answer. We do what we do and we can live with ourselves. Somehow. That’s the only answer anyone can ever give.

  Anyway, that’s a broad summary of how a typical first visit goes. The one where I have the courtesy to greet them.

  The other times they come I generally leave them out there. Procedures say I only have to meet them once.

  They stand there. They wave their placards. They peer hopefully through the fence. No one comes out to them. And, eventually, they go away.

  They rarely visit a third time.

  The girl, though. The girl would be different.

  She arrives without any fanfare, she’s just standing there on the launch pad. Curiously, the Defence Array hasn’t picked up any approaching shuttle. We’ve not even properly had time to turn on the landing lights. But that’s all right, because she doesn’t appear to need help landing her shuttle. She’s just arrived, like a spell was cast.

  She’s also not properly dressed. Not a spacesuit, not even a flightsuit. Just an old-fashioned jumper and a neat, quaint skirt on her small, determined frame. She’s even wearing a band in her hair. I remember people like her. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a Vintager. I thought they’d died out with Old New Earth. She reminds me curiously of Prisoner 428. The same sense that she’s here, but that she doesn’t belong.

  Of course, I can guess she’s come to see 428.

  In accordance with Protocol, I went out dutifully onto the landing pad. She was waiting for me. She wasn’t holding up a placard or a lot of tiresome pieces of earnest petition. She was just sat on a lump of rock, reading an actual paper book. When I reached the fence, she affected not to notice for a bit, just carried on reading, her nose wrinkled slightly as she turned a page. Then she folded down the page (on a priceless artefact! I hated her just a little), slid it into a pocket, and looked up at me with a smile. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just got to a good bit. So … Hello.’ She smiled, politely. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m the Governor here,’ I said, already a little discomposed. ‘It’s more how I can help you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, if you say so,’ she shrugged. Her patient smile made her face even prettier.

  ‘You are with 428, aren’t you? The Doctor?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Would you like to see him?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible.’

  ‘Ah,’ she looked serious, her hand thumbing the book in her pocket. ‘I have come such a long way. And it would really be a good idea if you could let me see him.’ And there we were. Back on familiar ground.

  ‘Are you a relative. His daughter, perhaps?’

  She laughed at that, a full-on, throaty, horrified laugh. ‘Never tell him you just said that. He’d kill you.’

  I frowned. She mentioned 428 killing, but almost casually. As though she was unaware of the full horror of what he had done. Or was wilfully ignoring it. I tried not to let it get to me. ‘Are you, then, perhaps his … wife?’

  She frowned then, her face clearly doing ‘Oh, come on’. Sadly, I knew the type. ‘My dear, I am sorry for you. You’re unfortunately not the first to turn up here in your predicament. Perhaps you saw the Doctor’s face on the TransCasts, or read about his trial, and you fell in love with him.’ I ignored the squeaking protesting noises she made. ‘You’re here because you’re infatuated with him, and you believe that, if you only met him, you could reform him. I know what you’re here to do.’ I shook my head sadly. ‘You’re here to save him from himself.’

  The girl considered this. ‘Well, right now, I do think he’s a bit of an idiot. Does that count?’

  Once more I was puzzled. She wasn’t behaving like a lovelorn fan. She stuck out a hand, the fingertips not quite brushing against the fence, just crackling against Protection System #3, the electric field. She didn’t snatch them back. She didn’t flinch.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ she said. ‘Hello, I’m Clara. I’m a friend of the Doctor’s. What brings you out here?’

  ‘I’m the Governor,’ I said, bowing in formal greeting. ‘I am mandated to greet any person on their first visit to the prison in accordance with Protocol.’

  ‘Just their first visit?’ Clara raised an eyebrow.

  I nodded. There had been some talk about my having to come out to all visits, but after a while it just seemed to emphasise the futility of the exercise. Bentley had assured me I didn’t have to. I was grateful for this unusual kindness to me. ‘I’m obliged to come out and talk with you once. After that, well, you’re welcome to return as many times as you wish. But this is your one chance to talk directly to the Governor.’

  Clara’s frown deepened. ‘Right then. So, for shorthand purposes, you’re not going to release the Doctor, even though I’ve worn my smartest skirt?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘And there’s absolutely no chance of a quick chat with him?’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘Fine, then,’ Clara shrugged. ‘So it’s just you and me?’ She didn’t seem that annoyed. ‘Fair enough, although I do feel like the girl who found the lamp that granted her three wishes. Or something. You know how it is. For my next wish I would like infinite wishes.’ She smiled.

  I smiled back, despite myself. ‘I am afraid I don’t know the fables of your tribe.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you?’ Clara’s smile widened. There was something about this girl that was rather winning. She wasn’t exactly treating this as a joke; more she was treating me as a human being. It had been, I suddenly realised, a long time since anyone had. Normally visitors just shouted at me. They never seemed to realise that I am as bound by the law as my charges, those I consider my friends.

  She paced backwards and forwards across the landing pad for a little and then put up her hand. I guessed she was used to talking to people. Something in her manner – an educator. That was it. They did tend to be cranks and fanatics, although to describe this Clara as one seemed a little unfair.

  ‘To summarise, the only thing you can do is listen to me, and you only have to do that the first time I visit?’

  ‘That is correct,’

  ‘But you do have to listen,’ she grinned, as though struck by a thought.

  ‘Of course.’ It did seem the least I could do for the friends of my friends.

  ‘Fine. Then I’ve got a fable for you,’ she said, wagging a little finger at me. ‘It’s about a woman who was, ah, let’
s say a kind of Queen of Jordan. And this Jordan was determined to get exactly what she wanted in life. And so she married lots of kings. And no matter how many kings she married, no one gave her exactly what she wanted. One was an, um, singer. Of sorts. One was a warrior. One ran away back home in confusion. And one looked very nice in a thong. I think there were other temporary kings, but those were the main ones. Anyway, the point is that none of these kings gave the Queen of Jordan exactly what she wanted, but she kept on marrying them as she was determined to get what she wanted. She wasn’t going to settle for anything less than perfection, and she was going to keep going, even if she ran out of kings. Which seemed likely.’

  I considered this parable closely. ‘And you’re saying that you’re like Jordan, Queen of Jordan?’

  Clara nodded, biting her upper lip with determination. ‘In so many ways you can’t even imagine,’ she vowed. She leaned close to the fence, the electricity sparking around her face. It flashed and flared in her eyes, and she looked grimly serious. ‘Listen to me, Governor. I’m going to keep on coming back until you do what I say. Release the Doctor. Or a lot of people will die.’ And then she smiled that sweet little smile, and just walked away.

  Fanatics.

  4

  After the girl’s visit, I stepped up security. I ordered a DoubleR watch on the cell of 428. I also asked Bentley to check and see if there could be any outside influence causing the power fluctuations. As the Defence Array showed no signs of Clara’s arrival, perhaps she was somehow in hiding on the surface of the asteroid. The scanner sweep was negative.

  The only thing that happened was that we had two more systems failures. Neither went up as far as five minutes and forty-two seconds, but still, they were serious enough that I ordered Bentley to send an error report back to HomeWorld. In case there was anything they could advise. Apparently the only immediate response from HomeWorld was a flurry of accusations and counter-accusations among the various contractors and subcontractors responsible for the building of The Prison. And the outages continued, although they were not as severe.

  ‘Well, I suppose it keeps us on our toes,’ I said to Bentley. If I was hoping to get a smile out her, I was mistaken. No matter what I said, I could never get on the right side of her.

  The Oracle blipped up from Level 7. He was peering through his fingers at me. He looked drunk. He often was.

  ‘Oh, Governor, there you are,’ his voice oozed delight.

  ‘What can I do for you, Oracle?’ I never enjoyed talking to him.

  ‘It’s more what I can do for you. The girl interests me.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘The one who came to visit. I could see it all through my mind’s eye.’ More likely through your tap into the camera relay. ‘She seems delightful. I see a …’ He took a deep sniff of the air. ‘… a vermillion path for her.’

  A stubby finger prodded the camera, fingerprints squidging against the screen, ‘I tell you now, she and I are going to meet quite soon.’ He nodded at the wisdom of his own remark and then threw his hands up to mime fireworks in the air. ‘And we shall light up the sky! So many vibrancies! See if we don’t.’

  I shook my head a little. ‘I’m not sure you’re her type.’

  ‘No matter.’ The Oracle, a shade disappointed, winked at me. ‘I predict interesting colours for her and for … ah yes, Prisoner 428. That one casts a long, puce shadow over the future.’

  I next encountered Prisoner 428 on the viewing deck. Unless you stand on the landing pad, it’s the only bit of The Prison that offers a view of the stars.

  It was late at night, and I was out there alone. I often came to the viewing deck on my own, to remember the past. I always came there without a Custodian, and I felt a momentary panic when I saw 428 standing there. I clicked my fingers and a Custodian emerged from the walls, gliding up to me, hovering and ticking as it awaited instructions.

  ‘Prisoner 428!’ I called. ‘Explain yourself. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking at the stars.’ 428 didn’t turn.

  ‘For a start, prisoners are not allowed to look at the stars.’

  ‘Seems rather cruel,’ said 428. He still hadn’t turned.

  ‘It is done for your own benefit. Psychocriminologists adjudged that the sight would merely decrease prisoner morale.’

  ‘That so?’ 428 turned to me. His face was framed by the stars spinning slowly behind us, and for a moment I thought how oddly right that looked. ‘Your psychocriminologists sound a pretty idiotic bunch.’

  I couldn’t disagree with him, so I moved on to point 2. ‘Point 2. Prisoners are not allowed in this area of The Prison.’

  ‘Ah,’ 428 clucked. ‘Well, I’ll make a note of that and avoid it in future.’

  ‘Point 3. Prisoners are asleep at this time.’

  ‘Tsk. I don’t really sleep.’

  ‘Point 4. Prisoners are locked in their cells at this time.’

  ‘Oopsie.’ 428 made a comical face of regret. ‘What can I say other than that my cell door just kind of fell open? They do that around me. It’s magic.’ Was he laughing at me? ‘I’m like the man who bends spoons. Only you’d choose to sit next to me on a bus.’

  ‘You have broken four rules—’ I stopped, and realised I didn’t sound at all angry. It was as though I had forgotten all about who Prisoner 428 really was, and what he’d done. I started again, shouting this time. ‘Listen to me, 428. You have broken five different rules of The Prison – if you include not addressing me by my proper title.’

  ‘Well, yes, so you’ve said, sir.’ 428 nodded, a little bored. ‘Tell you what, I’ll just wander back to my cell, shall I, and try and get some shut-eye?’ He turned on his heel and started to walk away, then stopped. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I think you could do with some rest too. You’re looking a little pasty.’

  ‘428! You will address me as Sir!’ I thundered.

  428 just turned and walked steadily away, waving a hand at me distractedly. ‘Get some sleep, sir. You’re going to need it,’ he said, and was gone.

  I stood there for a moment, shaking with rage.

  The Custodian beeped, wanting to know if I wished it to follow 428 and restrain him. I shook my head. Well, let him have his little victory.

  Everyone liked Guardian Donaldson. She was everything Bentley wasn’t. Donaldson was a small, slightly plump woman and she was always bustling and smiling.

  Her cheeriness masked a shrewdness. People assumed that Donaldson was a soft touch, but she was, if anything, more of a stickler for the rules than Bentley. The thing was, when Donaldson caught people out, they’d be more likely to hold up their hands and chuckle ruefully, ‘You got me.’ Bentley’s sheer correctness meant that she was feared. Donaldson was treated a little like a favourite teacher.

  The only person who Donaldson was reserved around was Prisoner 428. I’m not sure if Bentley had had a word with her (the two were very close), or if she was just a shrewd judge of character.

  I saw Donaldson and 428 talking one day on a monitor. I didn’t hear what 428 was saying but I heard Donaldson’s withering response: ‘If you stopped trying so hard not to fit in, you’d get along here just fine.’

  *

  Prisoner 428 made a friend. Bentley informed me of this fact. I pretended not to really be bothered, but I was already crackling with excitement. She leaned over my tablet to activate the cameras, and I noticed again that Bentley didn’t really smell of anything. Just soap. This wasn’t really remarkable, it was just that there should be a smell. I remembered my wife leaning over me to show me some gossip on a TransNet blog, and there would always be a smell. Funnily, I couldn’t remember what my wife’s perfume smelt like. It had been so long.

  Bentley stepped back, and I hastily dismissed the idea, the very notion, of her perfume. I was the Governor, after all. Governors do not sniff the air like poets in spring. Instead I looked sternly at the screen. The feed was from one of the cameras on board a Custodian, stationed a
t the edge of the canteen. 428 was standing eating from a bowl with a spoon. Next to him was the weary figure of 317, a tiny old man. Poor Lafcardio.

  428: You’d think they’d give us chairs.

  317: You get used to it, Doctor.

  428: But if they gave us chairs we wouldn’t need to get used to it.

  317: And a table.

  428: Yes, a table. A table and chairs.

  317: I’ve always thought standing up to eat harms the digestion.

  428: Food should be enjoyed. Not wolfed down like we’re in a hurry for a meeting.

  317: Quite. We don’t have meetings. Not here.

  428: Did you used to?

  317: Oh, dear me, Doctor. In my old life? So many. My day was full of them. Looking back, I think I would have preferred longer lunches.

  428: Paris. Always good for a lunch. It’s not lunch unless you’re in Paris and it’s gone on for so long that they’re tapping the ‘We’re Closed’ sign meaningfully against the door. And coughing discreetly. Ah, no one does a discreet cough like your Parisian waiter. Ever been?

  317: No. Paris sounds like a lovely world. You’ve spoken of it before.

  428: When all this is over, I’ll take you, Lafcardio. How about that?

  317: You have a rare sense of humour. I like that.

  428: Not as much as you’d like a rare steak. Or even steak tartare. That’s something worth getting indigestion for.

  317: Have you, ah, finished your porridge?

  428: Oh … this? Porridge, eh? No, I’ve not even started it.

  317: Are you going to?

  428: No. Have it. I’ll keep the spoon.

  317: Are you sure? I’m so embarrassed to ask, but the portions …

  428: Be my guest. Have the bowl. I’ll keep the spoon. I’ve never been one for food. [an absurd lie] Now then, the question is whether we’d eat somewhere in the Marais or the Flea Market for lunch, do the second-hand bookstalls along the Seine and then on to the Terminus Nord for a late dinner. The waiters there dress like penguins and they do things with eggs that would make a chicken blush …