‘I’m not eating that slop,’ Harry replied.
‘Up to you, mate,’ Rory said, sticking a fingertip in to test the temperature, and, finding it lukewarm, raising a globule to his probing tongue. It didn’t just look like mulched paper, it tasted like it. Grimacing, he selected one of several plastic drinking-tubes which had been inserted into the porridge around the edges of the trough.
‘But think of it this way… if they were planning to kill us, they’d hardly be feeding us.’
This made sense to Andrei, who beckoned his friends forward. Even Sophie forgot her principled stand against non-organic sustenance when the strong, handsome stranger who’d become her latest rock indicated that it might be a good idea.
Soon only Harry stood away from the trough. ‘I said I’m not eating that slop.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harry!’ Dora snapped, cringing as she swallowed the vile muck. ‘Why should these people want to poison us? Come and have some - you don’t know when you’ll get a chance to eat again. If nothing else, we should play along. You know that’s always best in hostage/captor situations.’
‘If we’re hostages,’ Harry said, ‘and they think they’re going to get some kind of ransom for us, good luck to them.’
He eyed the sorry bunch Andrei had with him: there were five in total, ranging from the teenaged to the middle-aged. They looked tired, frightened and bedraggled. Their clothes were stained and dirty, their cheeks streaked with tears.
‘Even all of us together, I don’t think we’re worth very much,’ he added.
‘That depends on who’s paying,’ Rory replied. ‘They didn’t go to this trouble for nothing. I reckon we’re worth a tidy sum to somebody.’
Amy was surprised to find most of the interior of the Ellipsis plush and comfortable, more like an ocean liner than a battle-scarred spacecraft manned by desperadoes. Its galleries, companionways and stairwells were richly carpeted and wood-panelled, and decorated at regular intervals by large, exotic plants, which sprouted from loam-filled stone pots, the vines of which were allowed to grow all across the walls and ceilings; at the end of these, curled flowers gave off changing patterns of luminous colour. For this reason no artificial light was needed, at least not in the communal areas.
Every so often she encountered gangs of Torodon ruffians lounging on its balconies, or draped across the divans in its lounges. Some were wearing maintenance clothing, but the majority were in that voluminous silken comfort-garb - the Japanese style apparel that she’d seen Xaaael sporting on LP9. It appeared to be the fashion among these mobsters to fasten their white hair tightly - either in a ponytail or topknot, but here, on their home base, they let it loose. Many manes were extremely long and lustrous. Shimmering white locks hung almost to the smalls of their backs. Amy was reminded of the samurai culture on Earth.
There were plenty of Torodon females on board too, but virtually all were in a servant capacity, either cleaning or scurrying about as waitresses.
This was to be Amy’s future, Xaaael said, as he led her into what he called ‘the Salon’, a spacious lounge, filled with sofas and divans, and hanging screens onto which popular entertainments from Torodon - everything from bizarre sports to what looked like movies - were being beamed. At one side, there was a raised area, possibly for live entertainment, while the other was occupied by an extensive bar counter, which curved around one edge of the Salon for maybe a hundred metres, and was operated exclusively by female barkeeps. Close beside this was a panoramic viewing port, though it didn’t show the vastness of space; rather, it was filled by the curved outline of a planet whose surface appeared to be hidden beneath streamers of drifting cloud - most of them yellow or greenish grey; they looked more like scummy suds on the surface of a pond polluted with filth. To complete the illusion, occasional dollops of blackness were submerged below the outer layers of atmosphere like nightmare life forms lurking in a poisoned sea. Amy couldn’t imagine what these were, but from the Ellipsis’s proximity to the planet, she suspected it was in low orbit, and so wondered if they might be colossal storms - tornados or hurricanes, which had sucked up vast quantities of rubble and debris from the planet surface.
More Torodon males littered the room. However, one.
smaller group were slightly different. Firstly, they wore very distinctive clothing - a kind of paramilitary battle garb, but in newish, near-pristine condition, rather than worn and patched like the armour worn by the gangsters.
Secondly, they were keeping themselves to themselves.
There were five of them, and they were holding court in one corner of the Salon, where they drank and laughed together, and moved pointers around a chequerboard marble surface, which Amy suspected was another Torodon way of placing bets. One of them happened to glance in her direction, and she was surprised to recognise him. He was tall and lean, and his outfit was patterned with black and grey tiger stripes, but his face was definitely familiar. It was the Torodon entertainer, Zubedai, who she’d seen down on LP9, though his outrageous afro was absent. Presumably that was a wig, because now he sported a cranium shaved bare except for a small Mohawk strip.
‘Those guests are no interest to you,’ Xaaael said, tightening his grip on Amy’s wrist and hauling her across the room. ‘Time to meet to Madam Xagra.’
Another of the guests now saw her, however, and crossed the Salon to intercept them. ‘What’s this?’ he said with interest.
He had a squat, muscular frame and wore a suit of jet-black vinyl. His head was large and squarish, and perched on a powerful neck. His white Torodon locks were sheared down to bristles, and his face covered in scars.
‘A new domestic, Colonel,’ Xaaael replied. ‘Nothing to get excited about.’
The ‘Colonel’ regarded Amy the way he would a hearty meal. ‘Seems a shame to waste an Earthling on domestic chores. We’d get great sport chasing a handsome specimen like this across the surface of Gorgoror.’
‘Perhaps,’ Xaaael said, leading Amy on. ‘But not yet.’
‘I’ll pay extra for the opportunity.’
‘That’s the idea,’ Xaaael said over his shoulder, to roars of laughter.
Amy was taken behind the bar counter and along a narrow passage into a small room cluttered with computer terminals. In here, her hands bouncing from one keyboard to the next, her eyes flicking from screen to screen, was the aforementioned Madam Xagra. When they entered, she stood up - and was without doubt the largest female Amy had ever seen. She was almost two metres tall, with broad shoulders and a stocky, manlike physique. She wore a long, shapeless garment cinched at the waist, with its sleeves rolled back to the elbows, revealing fat forearms covered with bangles, and podgy, silver fingers decked with jewel-encrusted rings. Her voluminous white hair was piled on top of her head like a Restoration-era wig, and fixed in place with steel pins. She wore as much vivid make-up as any of the other Torodon women, but she was neither handsome nor attractive. She had a broad, flat nose, eyes that were too far apart, an apelike mouth and a protruding lower jaw.
‘Well,’ she said, after Xaaael had explained things. Her tone implied deep dissatisfaction, as she appraised Amy.
‘You’ ‘re pretty enough in an ordinary, unappealing sort of way. But the first thing well have to do is get you dressed appropriately, and have your hair coiffed so that it’s the way our men like it.’
Amy was stung, but sufficiently intimidated to keep.
a lid on it.
‘My name is Xagra,’ Xagra said, once Xaaael had left them. ‘I’m head housekeeper here on the Ellipsis. I have two rules. One, my female staff will serve this ship to the fullest extent possible, with both their minds and their bodies. Two, they will obey my every single command as though their life depended on it, which it probably will.
Now, my dear… I’m guessing you’re here because your family either owes money or some kind of service to Lord Krauzzen?’
‘I’m—’ Amy began, but Xagra interrupted her.
‘I
’m not interested. We all have sad pasts here. Yours won’t make a jot of difference to me. Until such time as your debts are paid, you are Lord Krauzzen’s property and he may do with you as he wishes. Don’t be taken in by the polite face he showed you when you arrived. And don’t be taken in by mine either.’
If these were their polite faces, Amy wondered how they would respond if she gave them something to complain about.
‘Remember, we have life and death control over you,’
Xagra added. ‘And if the situation requires, we will have no hesitation in imposing the ultimate penalty. Do you understand me, girl?’
Amy nodded, doing her best to maintain the frightened rabbit act - though it wasn’t too difficult.
‘Good,’ Xagra said. She leaned across the room, and hit a button. ‘I shall summon one of the other girls, to show you the basics. However, I expect all my staff to be fully conversant with their role here within half a day of their recruitment—’
‘May I ask one question?’ Amy said.
Xagra looked at her askance. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Ma’am!’ Amy hastily added. ‘May I ask one question, ma’am.’
Xagra still looked dazed by such unexpected impudence. ‘If you must.’
‘What is that dreadful-looking planet we’re orbiting?’
Amy nodded through the room’s single porthole.
‘Ah,’ Xagra’s brutish features formed a rictus grin beneath her garish, pancaked make-up. ‘That is the moon of the planet Zigriz. We call it Gorgoror. It is worth you knowing about that place, actually, if for no other reason than to inform you that there are far worse fates than a lifetime’s servitude on the Ellipsis.’
The descent was terrifying.
With plasma rockets blazing behind them, they were moving faster than freefall, arrowing downward in a near-vertical trajectory. Each of the prisoners was manacled hand and foot to his or her own upright pillar in the rear section of the drop-ship. Rory was positioned so as to be facing through the hatchway connecting with the pilot’s compartment, inside of which Zarbotan and two other Torodon gangsters lazed on benches, checking and priming pistols and rifles. A fourth sat at the controls.
‘You’ll feel a little gravity sickness when we first touch down,’ Zarbotan had said while they were being chained.
‘It will pass shortly.’
Harry had tugged futilely at his shackles. ‘Damn it, where are you taking us?’
Zarbotan had looked him in the eye long and hard before replying: ‘Gorgoror.’
Gorgoror.
That was the name of the moon they were now hurtling towards. Even before they punched through its atmosphere, it had a hellish aspect: layer upon layer of cloud and toxic vapour, which spattered the craft’s outside lenses with greasy, grainy fluid - as though filled with char or ash. But once this smog rolled back, a true Stygian realm was revealed. Rory craned his neck, to see past the pilot’s head. A barren wasteland met his eyes: a ruined, blighted landscape, striated with ridges of crags so sharp were they like rows of serrated teeth - and all lashed by rain and howling wind. In fact, the winds were of phenomenal strength; even at high altitude, the drop-ship was buffeted as it descended, setting the prisoners gasping and groaning in their chains.
Without warning, they pulled straight out of their headlong dive and hit the horizontal. Suddenly Rory had a better view of what awaited them. A series of transparent domes passed by below. They were similar in shape and size to the dome that covered LP9, yet these were stained and filthy, and in many places broken. The craft skimmed closely over the top of them - so close that he could see cluttered buildings underneath, begrimed with smoke or soot. Many were shattered, just gutted shells, the wastelands between them strewn with rubble and wreckage.
Harry was chained with his back to the pilot’s compartment, so he saw none of this, but he had a dear view of Rory’s face, which had paled.
‘What is it?’ Harry shouted.
Rory shook his head. He couldn’t give voice to the fear gnawing at his guts.
A split second later, those guts almost spilled when
the craft flipped itself over and made another precipitous downward plunge. The rest of the prisoners shrieked.
Rory screwed his eyes shut as they descended in a tailspin. Then - again with no warning - the craft inverted itself. The next thing Rory knew, they were hovering.
There was an ear-punishing throb from the retro-rockets.
He glanced again into the pilot’s compartment. The view-screen had turned itself off, and the pilot was no longer at the controls. Clearly, they were being guided in by a computer. When they landed, it was almost gentle.
Zarbotan and his associates barged through into the rear section. They were all wearing similar clothing: allin-one hooded coveralls, harnessed tightly and made from some rubbery, two-tone material. They pulled on gauntlet gloves stained with oil and other dark substances, before unfastening the prisoners’ manacles. There was a ghastly prolonged squeal - the sound of hydraulics so arthritic that they surely needed replacing - as the drop-ship’s rear ramp swung downward. A numbing cold seeped in, and there was a stomach-churning stench: sulphur, chlorine and other foul chemicals. Just breathing it made the nose and throat raw.
‘Outside!’ Zarbotan bellowed. ‘All of you!’
They complied wearily, too nauseated to argue - and too aware of the rifles trained on them. At the foot of the ramp, they saw that they were enclosed in a vast but empty building. Black brick walls, running with moisture, rose into infinite darkness. A shockingly bright arc-light sprang to life on their left, but it only illuminated the area where they were standing: a circular steel landing-pad, its surface badly charred. They blinked and shivered, huddled together amid plumes of their own smoky breath.
Zarbotan strode to a vertical ladder, which dropped into darkness. ‘Follow me.’
They complied, his men bringing up the rear. Halfway down, they could have stepped off onto a separate catwalk, which led away into shadow, but Zarbotan ignored this and proceeded to the very bottom, where he switched on a flashlight embedded in his harness. The glow revealed a floor of impacted mud.
‘This way,’ he said, striding off.
Nervously, struggling to keep their footing, the prisoners followed. Sophie cried out as she tripped, landing in a pool of liquid muck, which plastered the front of her dress, and coated her hands and face. Dora tried to help, but Sophie shrugged her off, leaving the honour to Andrei.
‘What is this place, do you think?’ Harry wondered quietly.
Rory shook his head. All around them were junked industrial relics: ancient machinery, fallen girders. ‘I don’t think it’s anything any more,’ he said.
‘Hurry up!’ Zarbotan shouted back. ‘We’re not here at your convenience.’
‘Let’s take them?’ Harry suggested.
Rory shook his head. ‘I think we should play along.’
‘It’s dark in here. They probably can’t see any better than us.’
‘They’re armed.’
‘Yes, but there are more of us than them. We’d have the advantage.’
Rory grabbed him by the collar. ‘You’re going to get us all killed. Why don’t you stop playing the big man, and
let’s see how this pans out!’
Harry pulled free, muttering something hostile, but he continued forward, and made no attempt to do anything else.
Zarbotan led them through a pair of large, folding metal doors now jammed on their corroded tracks, beyond which lay open ground. At least here they had better vision, thanks to weak daylight filtering through the roof of the dome. Several metres to their right, fluid trickled downward in a glinting shaft. The pool into which it was falling bubbled and steamed. The ground was covered by a crust of ash and cinders, which crunched and gave when they trod on it. The colossal heap of brick and rotted steel from which they had just emerged looked like the exhaust tower to some gigantic and now abandoned underground facility.
In every other direction the gaunt ruins of similar buildings lowered.
‘Go ahead!’ Zarbotan said.
Sophie was halfway towards the pool of water.
‘Go ahead,’ he said again, but something in the way he said it stopped her in her tracks. Filthy and humiliated though she was, she regarded him uncertainly. ‘Wash yourself in that,’ he added, ‘and see what happens.’
With his half-dead face and semi-mechanical voice, it was impossible to tell whether or not he was being serious.
The other captors looked amused. Sophie retreated towards Andrei, who put a protective arm around her.
Zarbotan scooped up a discarded tool, a combination of spade and pickaxe, walked towards the pool and threw it in. The prisoners watched agog as the steel implement dissolved like butter, melting away in thick twists of pungent smoke.
He turned to face them. ‘You’re advised, during your stay here, not to go outside these domes. There are seven in total - they cover a petrochemical plant, a nuclear power station, a munitions factory, a sulphur mine with an attached labour camp, a toxic waste refinery and a spaceport. All are derelict and lie miles apart from each other across the exposed surface of this moon. But it’s possible to move between them underground, where there are connecting tunnels and galleries—’
‘Wait!’ Harry interrupted. ‘What do you mean “during our stay here”?’
Zarbotan regarded him blankly. ‘What do you think?
We’ve brought you here for a vacation.’
The other criminals sniggered.
‘You can’t just maroon us here!’
‘It won’t be for long,’ Zarbotan replied.
‘How long? Tell us, please.’
‘In most cases no more than a couple of days.’
Harry almost looked relieved. ‘I… don’t suppose that’s too bad.’
The other criminals openly laughed. Even Zarbotan cracked a half-smile.
‘At least tell us how we can get food and water,’ Andrei said.
Dr. Who - BBC New Series 45 Page 7