by Mark Speed
“The helium-3 mining plant, yes.”
“Oh, okay. If you’d put it like that I wouldn’t have had a problem with it. You’re rubbish at selling ideas, innit?”
“So you’re ‘ready to roll’, are you?”
“Doc, you know I is always ready to roll. Like, is Trini coming with us?”
“Where is she?”
“Last time I saw her she was in her room, asleep. There was the remains of something quite big. And it was all very bloody. The house-bots daren’t go in.”
“Binge-eating again. I let her out in a forest world last night, a bit like her old home world. When she wakes up she’ll morph back to her feline form and take great pleasure in licking the place clean. I see no need to disturb her peaceful repose. All we have to do is have a quick look around and then trigger the autodestruct. Should be quite a show, because there’s a special force-field to scatter it into an actual ring, rather than have it sending pieces into neighbouring moons, or Uranus itself. Don’t often get to see one of those. We might wake her up for that. I’ve checked the integrity of the atmosphere in the mining ship and it’s fine, so let’s go.”
The Doctor walked out of the Spectrel. Kevin stepped confidently through the door and stopped, just in case he bumped into the Doctor.
The Spectrel’s glass and red iron telephone box door closed behind him and he found himself in something that looked very much like the bridge of an ocean-going ship from Earth, but without the windows. Indeed, it reminded him exactly of the bridge of the starship Enterprise, from the original Sixties series of Star Trek. He had a nagging realisation that all cultures throughout the universe must go through the same cycles of discovery and then ultimate disappointment. It wasn’t that the creators of science fiction were capable only of mimicking what they saw from the world around them; it was that engineering inevitably did what engineering does – which was to be wholly practical, and normally on a tight budget.
“You’re looking disappointed, Kevin,” said the Doctor, who was already fiddling with the controls.
“To be honest, yes.”
“Nothing new there. Your continued disappointment and underwhelm is a continuous disappointment to me. Ah, for the days when my assistants would marvel at something as simple as a nail.”
“I mean, the view sucks. Like, there isn’t one. Well, unless you count the little screen on that desk over there.”
“Please, Kevin. You know I’m somewhat of a connoisseur of views myself. I’ve not seen this one in God knows how long. You see,” said the Doctor, concentrating on the control panel, “when you mothball something you don’t just leave it out in the wet, so to speak. Like a car, you put a cover over it. Ah, here we are.”
The Doctor flipped a switch and the entire ceiling disappeared. Kevin grabbed a chair that was bolted to the floor and clung onto it for dear life, waiting for the air to whoosh past him on the way to oblivion.
“Fooled you, eh?” The Doctor swept his hand at the hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the entire Uranus system from a point between the rings.
Kevin felt his jaw drop. The phrase ‘panoramic view’ didn’t do it justice. The ship was in the middle of Uranus’s ring system. The pale blue planet was half in light and half in darkness, and was on the horizon of their view from the bridge. There were pastel-shaded rings between them and the planet, with a few fainter ones further out. His eyes hadn’t been deceiving him earlier – he could definitely see some larger and brighter specs within them. A couple of the larger moons were in different phases – one crescent, another full. Beyond Uranus’s system an insanity-inducing number of stars burned. He recognised the Pleiades cluster, looking like a puff of steam lit from within by bright blue neon lights. The purplish red of the Horsehead Nebula touched something deep within him. He felt small, insignificant, and utterly lost.
“That bright light over there. Is that –”
“The sun. Yes. About a quarter of a percent of the brightness you get from Earth, so forget sunbathing. Erm, not that you’d want to with your skin colour. Sorry, insensitive of me. You can’t really see the Earth, in case you were wondering. Which, of course, you were. It’s closer in and it’s just presenting a crescent to us at the moment. Yet more disappointments, eh?”
“No, man. This was worth the trip. I mean, thanks for letting me see it.”
“Imagine how much better it’ll look with a nice red ring, eh? D’you know, I wish I’d brought dear old Vincent van Gough here. He’d have appreciated the colours.” The Doctor thought a moment. “On second thoughts, he’d have been more a Jupiter or Saturn man – big, bold, brash, with plenty of yellow and orange. Perhaps J.M.W. Turner would be a better choice. There’s an idea…”
“Can I have a look around?”
“Be my guest. Ship’s regulations state that I have to make sure nothing’s left stirring on here before I blow it. We’ve got a couple of days before Herschel has to see the red ring, and Voyager 2 doesn’t swing past for a couple of centuries yet.”
“And, last but not least, this is the distillery,” said the Doctor. A door slid open and they stepped into a viewing gallery overlooking an impossibly large and complex series of gigantic pipes, which stretched from one end of the horizon to the other.
“Distillery?”
“Yes. Distillery. That’s effectively what an oil refinery is. Except that it isn’t, because you use catalytic cracking to produce smaller molecules from larger ones. Okay, let’s say it’s more like a whisky distillery. We’re distilling off helium-3 and helium-4 at different temperatures.”
“How much? I mean, how low?”
“About four degrees Kelvin, give or take.”
“So that’s like four degrees above absolute zero?”
“Yes. You need a lot of cooling power for that. Hence the massive size of the vessel. Oh, and hence it being remote from the fusion plant.”
“Where’s that?”
“Towed away years ago. Can’t leave stuff like that kicking around. Not that size, anyway. So, back to the bridge and let’s blow this baby and get out of here.”
Kevin was glad the Doctor was navigating. He couldn’t have found his way back to the bridge through the endless series of identical corridors and lifts if his life had depended on it.
“Here we are,” said the Doctor. “Take one last look at this view. An hour from now the ship will be nothing more than dust, and will be spreading out to form a new, artificial ring.”
“It’s gonna be amazing to watch.”
“Now, since you’ve been a good chap, I shall let you do the honours. Come this way.”
The Doctor led Kevin to a corner of the bridge where there was lettering and symbols in a dozen different languages. He recognised Squill and did his best to translate.
“Termination. Death assured. Warning.”
“Yep, that’s about right. See that symbol there?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the Squill equivalent of a skull and crossbones. Not everyone has a skull, you see. Or bones, for that matter, if they have exoskeletons. So you just have this round thing obviously breaking, with fluid coming out of it. Nature tends to like making spheres,” he nodded to Uranus. “And everybody has some kind of life-fluid which they tend to die without. Well, everyone you’d want to meet in the Pleasant universe.”
“Gotcha. Let me try the other instructions. Uh. Red button under… Oh, remove cover and press red button… Repeat order speak. Name and job. Must be above… Don’t know this bit.”
“Rank must be above… Rear Admiral is the equivalent in human terms. Expensive bit of kit, you see. Only someone that rank or above can set the detonation process. That would explain everything. This bit of kit was made redundant, then mothballed. A simple bit of straight-line depreciation and even an asset this size disappears from the balance sheet in a couple of millennia. Crew rotates, then they’re laid off and not replaced. Janitor doesn’t have the rank to clean it up, then he’s made redundant. No o
ne thinks about it any longer. A few millennia later there’s a perfectly good helium-3 mining ship kicking around where it shouldn’t be. You can see how it happens.”
“Makes sense.”
“I’m a little disturbed that you think it does. It’s bureaucracy at its worst. Somewhere at the heart of this there’s a Dolt with something waiting to be signed in triplicate.”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “Man, you’re just so prejudiced. Get over it.”
“Oh, give me another few thousand years and a brain bypass and I just about might.” He cleared his throat. “If Sir would care to press the red button?”
With a flourish of his hand, Kevin lifted up the flap covering the red button. “It will be my pleasure, Doctor. Three. Two. One. Go.” He pressed the red button and it lit in red.
“Admiral How, Time Keeper of Gaelfrey. I am ordering this ship destroyed under the chronological technology hygiene rules covering primitive species.”
“Affirmative,” said a metallic-sounding female voice. It spoke smoothly until it came to variable words, which it uttered in a stilted manner, putting Kevin in mind of an automated checkout. “Admiral. How. Voice recognised. Welcome. Admiral. How. Please repeat action and order. Place finger in analyser to confirm biological identity.”
The Doctor nodded at Kevin, who pressed the red button again. A hole opened up and the Doctor put his finger in. “Admiral How,” he said. “Time Keeper of Gaelfrey. Ship to be destroyed under chronological hygiene rules covering primitive species. Annular debris field requested, as pre-programmed. Red in visible spectrum. Order irrevocable.”
“Nuclear peptide structure confirmed as. Admiral. How. Order understood and accepted. Admiral. How.” The red button now began to flash steadily. “Admiral. How. You have. Thirty. Sidereal. Minutes. Before termination is initiated. Warning. This ship will be destroyed in. Thirty. Sidereal. Minutes. Destruction will result in an. Annular. Debris field. It will be. Red. In the. Visible. Spectrum. Order. Irrevocable.”
“Excellent,” said the Doctor. “Thank you very much.”
“My pleasure. Admiral. How. Enjoy the show.”
“I rather fancy a spot of luncheon with the fireworks. How about you, Kevin?”
“I think it’s a handsome reward for an honest morning’s work of chronological hygiene, Doctor.” He held open the Spectrel’s door for the Doctor. “After you, Admiral How.”
“Thank you,” said the Doctor, and disappeared as he hit the back of the telephone box.
Kevin followed him into the Spectrel. “A couple of Jamaican patties, please house-bot,” he said, entering the cabin. “You never told me you were an Admiral, Doctor.”
“Just one of those things. An honorarium, really. Part of the package that comes with being a Time Keeper. An equivalent rank. Allows me to have a bit of say-so when needs be.”
The Spectrel had a new projection up, showing the mining ship in glowing red in its part of the planetary system. “Enhanced live feed,” said the Doctor. Another projection opened, this time of the inner moon and ring system. Again, the mining ship glowed red.
“I’m still a bit insulted by the reference to ‘primitive species’,” said Kevin. “Can you not have said something like – I dunno – ‘low-tech civilisation’?”
“Lord above. You and your political correctness. I fear for any civilisation that spends more time worrying about offending individuals and interest groups than it does getting on with the job of developing. Now, why don’t you go and wake Trinity so she can watch the show? I’d better file a report on the demolition job just in case a Dolt gets difficult with me at a later date.”
“Sure.”
The Doctor returned to his console and filed his video report. “Visual addendum of destruction sequence to follow,” he said finally. “Report ends.”
Kevin entered the cabin. “Doc, I can’t find Trini. The Spectrel says she disembarked onto the mining ship.”
“Oh, blast. We’ve got… Twenty-seven minutes. Plenty of time.” He flicked the dials and then walked towards the door. “Just stay if you want. Your patties will be here in a sec.”
“Um, Doc –”
But the Doctor was gone. He ran back in seconds later. “Order irrevocable! We have to find Trini. Don’t just stand there!” He ran out again. Kevin ran after him.
The bridge of the mining ship now seemed terrifying to Kevin. The infinite nothingness of space stared back and rammed home the message that Trini’s life was insignificant; that entire galaxies would continue to form, mature and collapse without her.
“Admiral How. Time Keeper of Gaelfrey. Countermanding irrevocable order to destroy ship.”
“Admiral. How. Voice recognised. Welcome. Admiral. How. Last order status was. Irrevocable. Order to countermand. Denied. Detonation sequence will begin in. Twenty-Five. Sidereal. Minutes. And. Thirty. Seconds.”
“Look, you have to countermand my order. A crew member is still on board.”
“Not possible. Admiral. How. Chronological hygiene must take precedent.”
“You stupid, dumb, idiot computer. Will you please just listen to me? I need just a temporary suspension.”
“Admiral. How. Suspension denied.”
“I think I know where she’s gone,” said Kevin.
“How can you possibly know?” asked the Doctor. “She’s always pretty groggy after she’s been bingeing.”
“Like, that’s my point, Doc. She would have got up, been a bit woozy, seen the projection, left the Spectral, come in here, then gone off to find us.”
“So where is she then?”
“Somewhere you and I have been. She’ll be following our scent, won’t she?”
“You’d better go and find her. I’ll stay here and try to deactivate this nincompoop computer.”
“Admiral. How. I will not be talked to like that.”
Kevin and the Doctor froze.
“Admiral. How. I have been here for over. Eight. Thousand. Sidereal. Years. In my last Twenty. Six. Sidereal. Minutes. I would like to be treated with a little more respect.”
“I thought you said ships didn’t have feelings?” whispered Kevin.
“Well, I say they don’t have feelings. I mean, it’s all just artificial intelligence. Understand me?”
“Oh, a bit like ‘primitive life’, rather than ‘low-tech civilisation’?”
“This is no time for semantic arguments, laddie,” hissed the Doctor. “For God’s sake, go and find Trin. We’ve only got–”
“Twenty. Five. Sidereal. Minutes. And. Forty. Seconds.”
“Oh, thank you, ship,” spat the Doctor. “Run, Kevin!”
Kevin glanced around and then sprinted to the door he’d first exited the bridge a couple of hours before. There was a lift in the corridor. He remembered they’d got into it first. He tapped the button and looked up at the floor number indicator, which was in Squill. His heart sank: he hadn’t thought to look at the initial floor number. They’d gone down, so he was looking at a number lower than the Squill number he’d just seen – that was all he could tell. The lift opened with a ping that sounded remarkably terrestrial in origin, and reflected again for a fraction of a second about the universality of engineering solutions.
Just before the lift doors closed behind him, he remembered to memorise the Squill number of the floor the bridge was located on. The lift sank into the depths of the ship. The door pinged open at the floor he’d selected. He poked his head out and looked around. It looked vaguely familiar, but then he’d been disappointed at the sameness of all of the corridors. He decided to go down one more floor. He stuck his head out. It was as if he’d not changed floors at all. He felt like crying. Maybe the ship was playing tricks on him? How could he know how many floors he’d travelled? The ship could just as easily distorted local gravity for a second to make him feel like he’d just come down a floor.
Then he saw a tiny mark on the otherwise pristine grey floor of the corridor. He’d remembered it because it had stoo
d out against the blandness. They’d turned left out of the lift. He knew that much. He picked himself up and jogged for a couple of hundred feet, looking for a door on his right, and found it. He’d not bothered to read the Squill on his first visit, but he remembered they’d looked in on the crew’s social area, and the plate on the door said something he translated as being similar.
He opened the door, and there it was: a shimmering mirage of delights. A crew member of any species could enter the room and escape into a synthesised social environment appropriate to their origin and their psychological need at that time. Nebulous images of nightclubs and women swarmed as he looked. Then the mirage stopped shimmering, and coalesced into a convincing replicant of his mother. “Aw, Kevin,” she said. “Have you lost your friend? Never mind, come to Mama and it’ll be alright.” He felt himself drawn powerfully to the image, and had to physically shake himself. “Kevin?” it said sternly. “Come here. You know I’m worried about you.”
“Sorry, Mum. Gotta go.”
“Kevin? Come here, boy!”
He slammed the door and leaned back against it, panting. Deep down, he wanted to open the door and bawl like a child on his mother’s bosom.
He pushed off the door and jogged to the next lift. This one he was pretty sure about once he got in. It was his first sideways lift. The Doctor had ruined the experience for him by pointing that a sideways lift was called a train or a shuttle on Earth. He took it to what he thought of as its extreme left. It seemed to take its time trundling along, and he fidgeted with irritation, and banged the control panel.
“Attention. All personnel. Fifteen. Sidereal. Minutes. Remaining. Precisely.” The ship’s female voice sounded smooth, calm, hypnotic.
“You’re kidding!” yelled Kevin.
The lift – train? shuttle?– door opened and he ran off to his left down another corridor. Panting heavily, he reached a four-way intersection. He dithered and then went right. Then he ran back and went right, which would have been straight on in his original orientation. He came back and then wasn’t quite sure where he was as he glanced down the gaping endlessness of the corridors in every direction. He turned to his right, which he was sure would have been his left if he’d not gone right then headed back and taken a right to continue straight on from his original course.