Dr. Who - BBC New Series 45

by Hunter's Moon # Paul Finch

  ‘My lord, only a quarter of the money is here.’

  Krauzzen turned to the Doctor, who merely shrugged.

  ‘The rest is on my spacecraft, and only I have the combination code to reach it.’

  Xaaael approached, looking angry. ‘Your lack of trust insults us!’

  ‘No insult is intended, honest,’ the Doctor told Krauzzen calmly. ‘Trust is great, but it must be earned.

  I’m sure you understand that better than anyone?’

  ‘You’re telling us our own business?’ Xaaael said, enraged. He drew a weapon from his hip - the Doctor noticed that, like Xalva’s, it was a photon-pistol. Others of Krauzzen’s crew carried photon-rifles, which must have been obtained originally from the Torodon military.

  There were few more powerful small arms in this galaxy, and suddenly several were aimed in his direction.

  ‘I hate to say this, Lord Krauzzen,’ the Doctor said,

  ‘but if anything happens to me, you’ll never be able to force entry to my spacecraft. Its access port has a titanium lock primed with a black-light micro-circuitor.’

  There were intakes of breath all around the Salon.

  Krauzzen held his tongue, but his eyes glinted eerily.

  ‘Black-light?’ Xaaael said, sounding stunned.

  ‘That’s right,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Attempt to enter my craft, attempt to destroy it, even attempt to detach it, and you’ll blow a hole in your fuselage the size of eighty city blocks. Which, from your docking bays, would doubtless envelop the lower bows where your fuel cells are located.

  And they contain, at a conservative estimate, a hundred million gallons of liquid hydrogen? I doubt even a ship the size of the Ellipsis could repair itself before everyone on board was sucked to oblivion.’

  ‘And if we don’t believe you?’ Xaaael whispered.

  ‘Why take that chance when all you have to do is play the game?’

  ‘This is how you seek to make friends with us? By blackmail?’

  The Doctor turned back to Krauzzen. His tone became harder, bleaker. ‘I’m not in the business of making friends, my lord. And neither are you. I mean no disrespect with these precautions. We are all gamblers. Risk is part of our profession. But we can’t be blamed for attempting to stack the odds in our favour.’

  Krauzzen regarded the Doctor for silent, ice-cold moments. His face was inscrutable, but his body rigid.

  Only slowly did it relax again.

  ‘Bravo, Doctor,’ he finally said. ‘It seems you are a man after my own heart. Your impertinence knows no bounds, but I feel we have more to gain from making your acquaintance than we have to lose. Come, meet your competitors.’

  With more than a little relief, the Doctor was led across the Salon. However, the first of the other hunters he was introduced to came as a surprise.

  ‘Xalagon Zubedai,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you an entertainer by trade?’

  ‘That’s my public face,’ the entertainer replied.

  ‘Privately, I’m a different person.’

  ‘So I see.’

  There were four other members of the hunting party, and they were exactly the sort he’d expected to find here: middle-aged Torodon males, rich men jaded by the expensive pleasures they’d lavished on themselves.

  But for all that, they weren’t laggardly or unfit; they looked hungry for action. On their home world, they’d be powerbrokers: tycoons, politicians, captains of industry; men whose day-to-day activities required them to be alpha-dogs, yet who in their leisure time took this quest for dominance to an even higher level. They carried an assortment of weapons: everything from pulse destroyers to pneumatic crossbows loaded with exploding arrows.

  The most fearsome weapon of all looked, at first glance, like a pump-action shotgun - it was short and blocky, though closer inspection would reveal a high-voltage power pack built into the underside of its gleaming black barrel. Its owner, whose name was Xon Krelbin, though the others referred to him as the Colonel, explained that its function was to strike a target with an ion stream so intensely hot that ‘blood will boil, bones shatter and internal organs rupture’.

  ‘I call it “the Eradicator”,’ he said, his toothy grin

  giving his scarred face a demonic countenance.

  The Doctor eyed Krelbin carefully. Of them all, he looked by far the most virile. He had a squat, compact physique, a bull-neck and wore his white hair shaved to flat bristles. Everything about him indicated combat experience.

  ‘What do you call your own weapon?’ Krelbin asked, eyeing the transmat-rifle with a strange mixture of contempt and jealousy.

  ‘Erm… “the Obliterator”,’ the Doctor said, unable to think of anything more original.

  ‘The problem with it, of course, is that you can’t keep trophies if you disintegrate every target.’

  ‘Oh… I don’t bother with trophies.’

  Krelbin looked scornful. He rummaged in a kitbag and brought out a garment which looked to be made entirely from ratty, greasy hair. ‘This is my hunting cape,’ he said proudly. ‘It brings me luck. That’s why I add to it each time. It’s comprised entirely of scalps.’

  The Doctor tried to feign indifference to this vile revelation.

  ‘I’m just good with the knowledge of my kills,’ Zubedai put in. ‘I work a tedious schedule, touring the platforms.

  There are times when I simply have to get away and service my own needs. I don’t take trophies either, Doctor, but when I’m too old to do this, I’ll have a packet of memories that no-one can ever steal from me.’

  ‘I’m in eminent company,’ the Doctor replied.

  ‘It’s good you feel that way,’ Krauzzen said. ‘But remember, these are your rivals and will crush your dreams, if you allow them. You evidently understand our purpose, Doctor, so I won’t waste time elaborating, except to say this: there are eight targets in total.’

  On the nearest screen, eight head-shots appeared. All portrayed ordinary Earth people, though Rory was among them. Evidently, the pictures had been taken while their subjects were in pain.

  ‘You tortured them?’ the Doctor asked, teeth gritted.

  ‘Indirectly,’ Krauzzen said. ‘These pictures were taken during their descent to Gorgoror. It wasn’t comfortable for them. The drop-ship we use for product is an old prison-transporter. There are one or two gravity issues, which is what you’re seeing here. Would it bother you if I had tortured them?’

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘It won’t be much sport if they’re in no fit state to run.’

  “The stronger ones will be. But we can’t be too picky about our subjects. Earth is a good source for this kind of material, but we can’t always get top-of-the-range product.’

  ‘And this product is on Gorgoror now?’

  ‘We give them a day before we pursue.’

  ‘So they can acclimatise?’

  There were chuckles from the other hunters.

  ‘You might call it that,’ Krauzzen said, ‘but it’s actually more a battle to survive. We’ve captured predatory beasts from various planets and released them down there.’

  ‘Predatory beasts?’

  ‘Inconsequential species,’ Zubedai explained. ‘Mere obstacles as far as we’re concerned, but a problem for the targets.’

  ‘And if, as a result of these inconsequential species, the targets are dead by the time we get there?’ the Doctor wondered.

  ‘It’s amazing how often that doesn’t happen,’ Krauzzen said.

  ‘But Lord Krauzzen, if I’ve paid to hunt, and there’s nothing left alive…’

  ‘That’s a risk you take,’ Krauzzen interrupted. ‘But to put your mind at rest… Bridge, anything happening on Gorgoror?’

  ‘Pursuit in progress, my lord,’ the robotic intercom replied.

  ‘A pursuit!’ Krauzzen eyed his group with interest.

  ‘And we have ringside seats.’

  On Gorgoror, the fleeing fugitives had found reserves of strength they hadn’t previously known.
Unfortunately, the raging, bloodthirsty beast in pursuit wasn’t tiring either. It was about fifty metres behind them, bounding on all fours to increase its speed, when they reached the next cluster of gutted buildings. They scrambled, gasping, through the first entrance they came to, only to find themselves in a chaotic mesh of fallen girders and blackened timbers.

  Desperate and breathless, they fought their way through.

  When the creature entered behind them, it gave a mighty roar and, with Herculean strength, began smashing the impediments aside.

  Harry took one glance over his shoulder and he knew they weren’t going to make it if they just kept running.

  Close by, a narrow ramp led upward. ‘Dora!’ He grabbed her wrist. ‘This way!’

  She peered up in disbelief. Whatever this ramp was, it looked rickety, unsupported by scaffolding of any sort,

  and was terrifyingly steep.

  ‘We know this thing can outrun us,’ Harry stammered.

  ‘But can it out-climb us?’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘I’m perfectly serious.’ He spun around. ‘Sophie, where are you?’

  There were too many bodies trying to scramble through and over the beams and rubble, for him to get an immediate fix on his daughter. When she suddenly appeared in front of him: she was white-faced, her hair in disarray, her cheeks still smeared with mud.

  ‘We’re going up,’ he said, trying to grab her.

  ‘What?’

  With another howl, the pursuing beast hurled a girder out of its way. It was so close they could feel the heat from it, could smell its rancid breath.

  ‘I’m not going up there,’ Sophie said, yanking her hand free.

  ‘Sophie, you’ll do as I tell you!’

  She shook her head dumbly. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Sophie!’ he pleaded.

  ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘You’re wrong! You’re always wrong!’

  She turned and fled with the others, tripping over a cable protruding from the concrete floor. Harry wanted to lurch after her, to help her. But Andrei did that for him, hauling the girl to her feet and running, both of them vanishing through the fallen wreckage. Fleetingly, Harry wondered if maybe he had made another mistake. But it was too late to change his strategy now. The others had gone and only he and Dora were left.

  He pushed her towards the foot of the ramp - she objected wildly, struggling with him, crying out her daughter’s name. He knew there was no time to argue, and propelled her upward. The ramp was of trellised steel, and rusty and greasy with moisture. They fell constantly, barking their elbows, knees and shins. Dora was still shouting and weeping, even when they were about nine metres up. But now the monster had halted at the foot of the ramp, breathing hoarsely. Clearly it was torn between targets. In the end it opted for the one it felt would be easier - Harry and Dora.

  When they realised this, they climbed desperately, Dora as eager as her husband. But the ascent was steepening, and they were already exhausted. When the monster started up, there was a clattering and groaning as metal joints warped and tore.

  ‘We’re going to die!’ Dora wailed.

  ‘No we’re not!’

  At twenty-four metres up, they reached a platform with a catwalk leading away, bridging the cavernous interior. Harry tried to drag his wife forward, but again she resisted.

  ‘No!’ she squawked. ‘That thing will collapse. Well fall to our deaths!’

  The monster clambered up behind them, grunting and groaning from its own efforts. The entire structure now shook.

  ‘This whole thing is going to collapse!’ Harry said.

  ‘Look what you’ve brought us to!’ his wife wept.

  And then another voice intruded. ‘Harry, over here!’

  On the far side of the catwalk, Harry saw another ramp ascending and connecting with an aperture in the

  building’s wall. A figure was standing in that aperture, waving frantically. It was Rory.

  ‘Over here!’ Rory shouted. ‘That bridge will hold! I’ve just crossed it.’

  Harry took Dora by the hand, and they proceeded across. Behind them, the monster reached the platform, and bounded in pursuit.

  The flickering screen showed two people struggling up the steep metal ramp, and a third, Rory, scrambling down it to try and assist them. The ramp was so flimsy that it swayed beneath their weight.

  ‘The entertainment in this place never ends,’ the Doctor said, biting his lip.

  ‘We have audio and visual censors installed in most sections of the Chase,’ Krauzzen replied. ‘For the protection of our clients, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  On screen, a fourth figure appeared, a hulking brute covered in coarse black hair, lumbering up the ramp.

  Briefly, a jutting snout and curved horn were visible. The Doctor recognised it immediately.

  ‘Things aren’t looking good for these three,’ Krelbin said dispassionately. ‘That’s a moon-buck from the planet Peladon. They’re placid if treated properly, but this one is probably starving.’

  ‘Save yourself,’ came a panting voice from the screen.

  It was the older man, addressing Rory. ‘You didn’t need to come back for us… Go, run!’

  ‘And this is what we do?’ the Doctor said. ‘Watch them die? Even though we’ve paid for the privilege of hunting them ourselves.’

  ‘Sometimes, Doctor, yes.’ Krauzzen took a drink from a tray; thankfully, this waitress was not Amy. ‘Hopefully their colleagues watch them die as well, and it serves as a salutary lesson that, if nothing else, on Gorgoror they must keep running. Always running. Never stopping.’

  Rory had now detached himself from the other two, and climbed back up the last couple of metres of ramp on his own. He vanished into a tunnel mouth, only to reappear pushing a huge wooden crate. The other two humans slid past it, and he pushed it down the ramp.

  It hadn’t gained much speed before it crashed into the moon-buck.

  The monster was big enough to ride out the blow, though it had to rear up on two legs and almost overbalanced. As the crate spun down into the dimness, it continued up, only for Rory to send a second crate down towards it, and the bearded man to send a third. The monster reared again, but the second crate was turning end-over-end, and struck it full in the chest. It tottered backwards, its clawed hind-feet struggling to grip the slippery metal. The third crate slammed into its legs and swept them from beneath it. The moon-buck fell heavily down the ramp, before sliding over the side and dropping into the wreckage far below, where a spear of jagged metal pierced its torso, leaving it hanging like a fish on a skewer. Rory and his friends stared down wearily, before hurrying out of sight into the tunnel.

  ‘Poor Aggedor,’ the Doctor said under his breath.

  ‘What’s that?’ Krelbin wondered.

  ‘Just thinking aloud.’

  ‘I take it you’re impressed?’ Krauzzen said. ‘You should be. These scrag-ends of human society, these

  nobodies who their own civilisation has forgotten, can fight for their lives if they’re frightened enough. It won’t be easy when you get down there.’

  Amy now appeared at the Doctor’s shoulder. She ignored him when he glanced at her, and collected the latest round of empties. He handed the last one to her purposely. She didn’t acknowledge this. Nor did she acknowledge the tiny fold of paper he’d slipped into the palm of her hand. Only when she was back in the kitchen area, and able to steal away from her fellow waitresses for a second, did she open it up. Inside it was the TARDIS

  key. There was also a message written in scruffy pencil.

  It read:

  Off to Gorgoror. Find TARDIS. Hugs.

  Amy’s quarters could have been worse. She shared a bare metal cabin with four other girls, but all had separate bunks and lockers, and the room was air-conditioned. To her surprise, the other girls were friendly and welcoming, adopting the attitude that they were all in this together and
had to make the best of things. By the same token, Madam Xagra’s bark turned out to be worse than her bite.

  She had a fondness for making speeches, but most of the rest of the time she was content to delegate duties while she slouched in the swivel chair in her control capsule, though she maintained a presence in other sections of the ship by use of a ‘travelling-eye’ - a small golden globe, the size of a tennis ball, which whipped through the air at great speed, and through which she could deliver instructions and reprimands.

  The work itself was arduous in that it was repetitive.

  When they weren’t serving in the Salon, they were cleaning. They would move in groups around the endless

  galleries and companionways, going over the same ground again and again. Amy was teamed with a young Torodon called Xendra, who was as extravagantly made up as all the other girls, but carried it off well. Her hair was an immense spray of green and purple, her lips bright pink, and she wore vivid slashes of vermillion eye-shadow. Her clingy dress was an off-the-shoulder number which ended at mid-thigh, but suited her petite figure. It seemed ludicrous that they were both dressed as if going nightclubbing, and yet spent their time mopping and polishing until their joints ached. But that was the way of life on board the Ellipsis.

  ‘Why has an Earthling like you been favoured?’ Xendra asked, as they worked.

  ‘Favoured?’ Amy replied.

  ‘Normally you’d be on Gorgoror by now.’

  ‘I suspect I will be at some point.’

  ‘How do you come to be on the Outer Rim?’

  ‘A gambling debt, would you believe.’

  ‘There’s a familiar story,’ Xendra said. ‘My father’s a gambling man too. He’s a rigger on one of the refineries, but anything he earns he gambles. He was on LP6. We all were - it was a family holiday. But father couldn’t resist the gaming tables. When he’d lost everything, he borrowed money from one of Lord Krauzzen’s loan sharks. Needless to say, there was massive interest attached. I’m now working off what he owes. I think I’ll be here for a long time yet.’

  ‘You don’t sound very upset,’ Amy said.