‘Ready for the game,’ Christie said brightly. Taal took another look at her. Auburn hair, purple-blushered cheeks, and what a kissable little nose. But no. Such fond thoughts had no place on Zamper.
‘Carry on, dear.’
The door of the gaming room opened. Although fourteen years on Zamper, and not without travelling experience before his appointment as host, Taal felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of the two snarling, slavering reptilian creatures entering with Mr Jottipher. Chelonians. Once the masters of an empire that crossed seven star systems, fearsome destroyers of over a hundred and fifty colony worlds along the ninety-third galactic frontier. Christie squeaked. He patted her bare shoulder. ‘There there my dear.’
‘And here, in the lobby of the guest suites, is our game room,’ said Mr Jottipher in a voice that was pitched higher than usual. ‘Where entertainment is supplied to our guests.’
The smaller, less wrinkled Chelonian barged past Jottipher and stuck out its wrinkled neck. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Taal, your host, sir. This is Christie, our hostess.’ It was often best, he knew, to stick up to these types, let them know you weren’t afraid, or at least let them know you were trying not to look afraid. ‘And you are?’
Mr Jottipher answered. ‘This is General Hezzka,’ he indicted the older looking Chelonian, whose dyspeptic grunt of greeting reminded Taal of a long-ago parade ground, ‘and First Pilot Ivzid.’
Taal bowed, hoping that he wasn’t overdoing it, and hoping that the Chelonians would understand the gesture. ‘Honoured.’
Ivzid scrutinized the room. He pointed. ‘What is that device?’
Mr Jottipher leapt in before Taal had the chance to speak. ‘This is the Zamper gaming network, sir. For the edification of our guest buyers as well as those outsiders linked to the data-coil.’
‘Outsiders?’ queried the General. Christie shook at the rumble of his voice and the sight of his dripping black tongue and rows of serrated teeth. Taal went to pat her shoulder again, but decided against it at the last moment, wary that his paternal concern might be misinterpreted.
‘Yes, General.’ Mr Jottipher ran a hand along a smooth edge of the net. ‘Zamper is designated a neutral space, as you know. Thus it is exempt from the duty restrictions and revenue laws that govern all other sectors of East Galaxy. Neutral status allows us to run a profitable gaming system as a sideline to our main business.’
Hezzka shuffled up to the net. Taal stepped back to let him pass, alarmed at the speed with which the Chelonian shifted itself. ‘I see. You wager on this?’
Taal coughed. ‘Daily takings average at half one million livres. Gentlemen, there is also an option for your own amusement.’ He led them to the direct gaming consoles on the far side of the net. ‘From here you can take part yourselves, if you wish.’
‘We are officers,’ Ivzid said dangerously. ‘We have no personal wealth while we serve. It is reserved for our retirement. This network of yours is of no interest.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ said Taal, in truth much relieved. His knees stopped knocking as Mr Jottipher started to lead the Chelonians away.
The net bleeped.
Hezzka frowned, his leathery brows creasing at the sound. ‘What is that? An alarm?’
‘It’s a signal,’ said Mr Jottipher. He stood by the open door, anxious to get them away. ‘Just to confirm that the game is ready.’
‘Is it so?’ Hezzka turned to face Taal. ‘You. I wish to observe the game. The sport of parasites interests me. Begin.’
Ivzid looked puzzled. ‘But, General –’
‘It interests me to see the way the parasite mind works,’ Hezzka said curtly. ‘You will remain silent as I do.’
Taal noted this exchange with interest. Ferment in the ranks. From what he’d heard, that was the Chelonians’ big problem of late. He turned to Christie, ushering her to her position. ‘Ready, my dear?’
She nodded and managed a weak smile. The poor girl had turned completely white. One of her blanched fingers pressed the activator.
‘On its own, number three,’ said the game voice as the first ball was drawn. ‘Three and four, thirty-four.’
‘I see, a lottery,’ Hezzka murmured. ‘The numbers are matched with the player’s random selection.’
‘You have the basics, sir,’ called Taal.
‘Lotteries are for idiots,’ said Ivzid quietly.
‘Clickety-click, sixty-six. Eight and one, eighty-one. All the fives, fifty-five…’
Alone in her office, the Secunda flicked through available viewpoints on her Outscreen. For months the Management had restricted the interior of yard six while the new ship was constructed, and she had wondered occasionally if the rebellious Zamps had done any work on it at all. The test model had been completed last week and fired last night, some time ahead of schedule, an achievement she regarded sceptically. The Management had rushed the test in order to assure his staff that all was well. She wasn’t fooled.
She watched as half of the working herd of Zamps scaled the conical tail section of the ship, burbling and wiggling their feelers at a smaller group crossing their path on a downward-slanting walkway. The second group reached the end of the strut and without stopping secreted strings of slime that secured them to the metal beneath, enabling them to curl over the edge of the strut and descend to safety many feet below.
A servitor entered the office, carrying a thin sheet of silver paper attached to the tip of its probe. ‘There was an equipment failure earlier today,’ it reported. ‘In the gaming centre. The faulty component has been replaced and the incident recorded in the technical log.’
The Secunda was used to reports of this type. It was part of the servitors’ way to have her informed of almost everything that went on, no matter how trivial, as an insistent, irritating reminder of her duties. The Management used the servitors for matters he considered of lesser importance, not worthy of a personal appearance. Or, the Secunda reminded herself wryly, for matters he wanted her to think of as of little importance.
This was the sixth equipment failure in a week, the eleventh since Nula’s death. It was enormously significant.
She nodded, concealing her reaction.
‘There is also a report from the test site, madam.’
‘Proceed.’
‘Test flight terminated at 09.26 hours at map point 45, sector 14. A team of servitors has been dispatched to examine the wreckage. Available results are as expected, except that two of the ship’s six escape capsules were dropped ahead of program, including that containing the flight log.’
An unusual fault, and more proof of the Management’s erratic behaviour. ‘Is that all?’
‘There was also a slight deviation in the expected flight path of the test model. This may have been caused by atmospheric influence from the ship of the new buyers. Also, latecomers from the buyers’ party have now been escorted through the germwash.’ The servitor turned to go.
‘Latecomers?’ The Secunda’s voice halted her servant. ‘More Chelonians?’ Hell, the Management was supposed to check each ship as it came through. If he’d fouled this up they might all be endangered.
‘Two latecomers have been escorted through the germwash, madam.’
The Secunda flicked over her Outscreen. The germwash was empty. The lift, then. She selected the interior viewpoint.
Standing in the lift were two humans, a woman in her forties and a much younger man. For the first time in the history of Zamper intruders had come. Had they come in on the Chelonian ship, stowed away somehow? If they had, and the Management had overlooked them, his power was finally over.
And her time had come.
Smith’s ointment had worked a treat, and Bernice woke and stretched on the bed with renewed vigour. Time to find out what the Doctor was up to. It was their distance from the TARDIS that was now her primary worry, along with the fate of Cwej and Forrester. Even if they had got back to the TARDIS, the impact of the crash wouldn’t
have done them any good.
The lab area was empty. The voices of the Doctor and Smith came from the kitchen through the far door. Smith was asking, ‘Your ship transcends dimensions?’
‘In many ways,’ the Doctor replied chattily. ‘And I think that may have something to do with it stalling here. Travelling through that spatial barrier of yours may have confused the orientators.’
‘It’s still difficult to believe you came here by accident.’
‘I go everywhere by accident.’ Bernice raised an eyebrow at this statement, and was preparing to shout an eminently witty remark through the door to cap it when one of the two blank screens in the lab flashed up an image. The caller was a handsome, middle-aged man in the ages-old suit of the business community.
No use in hiding. ‘Hello,’ she told the caller brightly. ‘You don’t know me, my name’s Bernice Summerfield, a lot of people call me Benny, well I try to encourage them to – '
The caller’s reaction was immediate and strange. After glaring at her in what she took to be confusion, he pressed his fingers to either side of his head, opened his mouth wide, and screamed and screamed.
Chapter 5
‘Their security’s not good,’ said Cwej as the lift continued its slow descent. ‘We’ve walked in to this place.’
Forrester shrugged. ‘Doesn’t prove anything. And when we get down there, the odds are that somebody’ll be waiting. With a gun. A list of questions, at least.’ She moved closer to Cwej and hissed in his ear, ‘There’s a camera behind you, in the plant pot to your left. Don’t look now.’
‘I don’t think we’re in any danger,’ he whispered back. ‘The people here are only shipbuilders.’
‘And they’re most probably going to think we’re spies. We don’t know how protective they are.’ Her young partner’s crushed expression gave Forrester a warm feeling. For the first time that day she felt like she was back in control. It lasted only a moment, until the lights flickered and went out, and the whine of the lift’s descent mechanism spluttered and died.
Forrester swore, fearing that the lift would topple unsupported down its shaft. To her almost immediate shame, her reaction was to grab Cwej, as his was to grab her. But the lift steadied. A loud clunk came from the other side of the door; Forrester reasoned that it had settled at a floor intermediate to their destination.
‘We’re all right, we’re all right,’ she told Cwej as they disentangled.
‘Power failure,’ he said optimistically.
‘Or somebody’s seen us.’ She looked towards the camera, but the red light on top had gone out with all of the others.
The tension in the gaming centre increased as the third set of numbers was calculated. Taal observed several of the signatures signing off as the stakes got higher. ‘Can’t take the pace.’
Even the Chelonians seemed to have been caught in the spell of the game. Taal heard the General say, ‘These games of chance must increase the parasites’ adrenal level.’
‘Then they should reduce it,’ Ivzid replied peevishly.
Taal and Christie exchanged an amused glance. Taal’s heart went out even more to the girl and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Her nervousness in the presence of aliens was more evidence of her unsuitability for the job of hostess. Why had the Management chosen her as hostess? More to the point, who was she?
Mr Jottipher gave one of his nervous coughs. ‘Er, gentlemen,’ he said to the Chelonians, ‘shall we inspect your quarters?’
‘The General wishes to observe the game,’ Ivzid growled, ‘and so we shall remain, para– Mr Jottipher.’
‘Let’s get on, shall we?’ said Taal. The register for the third round had now stabilized, and he threw the lever to recommence the game.
‘Bingo game three commencing now,’ said the network, its voice reaching the signatures simultaneously, traversing half the galaxy along hyperspatial compu-link to address the data-coil competitors in their own tongues. It really was a most impressive system, thought Taal. ‘Eyes down for a full house.’
Taal checked the monies staked on the tabulator display and whistled. ‘Forty-five thou. This’ll sort the men from the boys, no mistake.’
‘Oh?’ The General said. ‘You are unsure of the maturity of the male competitors?’
Taal had barely begun to formulate a response to this enquiry when the list of signatures fragmented, the voice of the network issued a sharp, sudden intake of breath, and every light in the gaming centre went out.
‘What is happening?’ Ivzid shouted, with all the vigour of a cynic proved right.
A shudder ran through Taal’s portly frame at the thought of being so close to the Chelonians in this pitch blackness. Christie whimpered and caught his arm. Despite the desperate nature of their predicament, he couldn’t help feeling happy about that, but then he’d always been a mercenary swine.
‘A temporary equipment failure, I’m sure,’ Mr Jottipher said with transparent confidence.
‘Another total blackout.’ Taal scrabbled for the secondary system controls on his console. He flicked the row of switches to the ‘on’ position, and nothing happened. ‘On primary and secondary systems.’ He turned his head to where he guessed Mr Jottipher was standing, and said, ‘How many equipment failures would it take to cause this, eh?’
‘You mustn’t talk like this, Taal,’ hissed Mr Jottipher.
‘Why not? He can’t see or hear us now. Here, Jottipher, perhaps the end has come, d’you reckon?’
‘It’s merely an equipment failure!’ Mr Jottipher shouted back.
‘I take you to mean that your Management is failing.’ Taal realized, with a sudden shiver, that the Chelonian General was addressing him. ‘That is your belief?’
‘We have total faith in the Management,’ said Mr Jottipher hurriedly. ‘I assure you, gentlemen, that this is merely a temporary equipment failure.’
Taal slammed a pudgy fist on the console. What if this was the end? The Management controlled every system. If he was dead, then he, Jottipher and Christie were locked in the dark with two of the most vicious creatures encountered by humanity.
Ivzid roared, turning Taal’s stomach to a wobbling jelly. ‘This fault in your equipment must be rectified,’ he said. ‘I do not like this.’
When the screaming started, the Doctor saw the look of horror that flashed over Smith’s face. He followed her into the lab, where Bernice was backing away from the flickering Inscreen. She held up both hands. ‘I didn’t do anything, honest. I don’t think he likes my face.’
The Doctor examined the image. The man he took to be the Management was barely visible between flashes of interference, but the screams, hollow and drawn-out, were agonizing. The Doctor’s cluttered memory flashed up an image in response to the sound; a teenage solider in the Crimea, both legs blasted off, coughing up blood, quivering horrors on every side.
‘I feared this.’ Smith stepped back from the screen, her hands knitted together between long strands of hair. ‘The final breakdown.’
‘Brought on by our unexpected arrival,’ the Doctor surmised. ‘It didn’t recognize you,’ he told Bernice. ‘It’s learning an important lesson. It isn’t infallible.’
Bernice raised an eyebrow. ‘Cheesy computer/child analogies aren’t what I expect from you, Doctor.’
‘The Management isn’t a computer. In fact, I’m rather worried about its response to us. It may decide that as we don’t fit into the scheme of things here…’ He mimed a throat-cutting gesture.
‘Sir,’ Smith called to the Inscreen, illogically slapping her palm on the vision plate. ‘Sir, I can explain. These people are friends.’ There was no reply, but the screaming went on, losing its human sound and becoming a strangulated electronic wail. Smith told the Doctor, ‘Over the last couple of months, there have been more and more equipment failures, a power loss last week. We all knew this was coming, but of course we couldn’t discuss it.’ She kicked the wall, adding desperately, ‘It can’t fail. It controls every
thing.’
As if in response to her words, the Inscreen flashed and fizzled. For a moment it was blank. Then, as if nothing had happened, the screen brightened like an archaic TV set and the Management returned, immaculate and smiling broadly. ‘Smith, you have new friends. Would you care to introduce me?’
The Doctor studied the image intently. It was a simple holographic animation, convincing enough but commonplace for the sixtieth century. Merely an outlet, then, for the real Management, the mass of perfectly co-ordinated responses detailed and programmed hundreds of years ago by the consortium. A vast, intelligent network that could simultaneously interface with systems across the length of the galaxy, interact as a personality with its staff, and sustain a complex shipbuilding facility in a pocket universe of its own. It had the wealth and the wherewithal to reach out into space, grab people from their lives, and bring them here to fulfill new roles; it was orientated to create maximum profit for its shady shareholders; it, apparently, was falling apart.
‘This is the Doctor, and Bernice.’
‘Ah. Doctor who?’
‘I’m Professor Bernice Summerfield,’ Bernice said quickly.
The Management closed his eyes for a moment, as if thinking. Ah, yes, of course, the author of Similarities in Proto-Cultural Artifacts of the Second Dynasty of the Zyrs?’
Bernice gulped. ‘It was actually published? I only wrote it for a bet. There aren’t any similarities in proto-cultural artifacts of the second dynasty of the Zyrs.’
‘That’s what the critics said.’ He smiled at the Doctor, who couldn’t resist smiling back. The force of the thing’s personality was daunting. ‘The Professor’s displacement from her own era would seem to confirm my research into your background, Doctor.’
‘Really?’
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