‘Doctor, I’ll kill you for-‘
‘Do you understand? Because believe me, the shologgi will fully understand the signal I’ll be sending it if you don’t.’ He brandished the sonic screwdriver. ‘Beep-beep!’
Krelbin hardly dared glance at him. The shologgi leaned even closer, a low growl rumbling inside it. Drool hung in strands from its maw.
Swallowing hard, Krelbin did as he was asked - first drawing his pistol and lowering it to the floor. Then unslinging the Eradicator from his back.
‘Very slowly,’ the Doctor advised him. ‘I only have to press this button…’
Eyes locked on the predator leaning over him, Krelbin placed the Eradicator down. With a nudge of his boot, he kicked both guns across the floor, to where the Doctor collected them.
‘Good soldier,’ the Doctor said, retreating towards the circular hatch. ‘I’m off now. Oh, but once I’m through here I still intend to trigger this device. That means the shologgi will jump on you with everything it’s got. Unless, of course you’re a very fast runner.’
Krelbin now did glance at him, as baffled as he was angry.
‘That’s right,’ the Doctor said, grinning as he clambered backwards through the opening. ‘I’m going to give you what so many other poor wretches down here have never had - a chance. Shall we say ten seconds? One - two -
three…’
Krelbin braced his back against the wall as he slid towards the foot of the stair, though the shologgi eyed him with cold hatred every inch of the way. Once he reached the first step, he galloped upward as fast as he could, sprinting off along the high gantry.
The Doctor gave him more than ten seconds - closer to forty, as he was distracted by the two new weapons he’d acquired. Eventually he located a shaft that looked like a well, and dropped them down it. Almost as an afterthought, he triggered the sonic screwdriver, which this time emitted a whistle so high-pitched that even he couldn’t hear it. The shologgi responded with an ear-shattering roar, and, leaping to its feet, went charging up the stairway in pursuit of the fleeing Krelbin.
In the Observation Booth, one of Krauzzen’s henchmen stood up from his chair, regarding his monitor with astonishment.
‘No wonder this Doctor calls himself “the deadliest hunter”,’ he exclaimed. ‘Looks like he’s started eliminating the opposition!’
Krauzzen was at the other end of the chamber, relaxed in his command chair. He jumped up and came over.
‘What’s that?’
The gangster who’d spoken was called Zalizta. He it was who’d provided some of the captives after a recent trip to Earth with Zarbotan. He was small by Torodon standards and inclined to panic in a crisis. But Krauzzen held him to be loyal. Zalizta pointed with a shaking finger at the grainy screen, on which a vast, hairy shape lumbered at speed along a stone gantry, before vanishing from view.
‘What happened?’ Krauzzen demanded.
‘The Doctor deliberately put Krelbin out of the hunt.’
The other gangsters looked at each other, amazed -
not least because the thought of anyone getting the better of a one-man army like Krelbin was quite a shock.
‘Isn’t that outside our rules?’ someone asked.
‘How can it be?’ Krauzzen said, half to himself. ‘We don’t have any rules.
‘You keep putting off the inevitable, girl, but at some point we must play this game for real,’ Xaaael snapped.
‘Would you consider it fair if we played for a prize like this, and I was hindered because I didn’t know the rules properly?’ Amy asked indignantly.
Xaaael reorganised the counters on the black cloth. ‘A couple more rounds, and then we play for real. Madam Xagra will have noted your absence by now.’
‘I’m sure this isn’t the first time a girl has disappeared into your quarters.’
‘You’re sure of a lot of things for someone who has no status here.’
‘I don’t need status when I have the TARDIS.’
He eyed her again. ‘That’s what it’s called, this box -
the TARDIS?’
‘If you win, I’ll even tell you what “TARDIS” means.’
‘Just don’t disappoint me. You won’t like me when I’m disappointed.’
‘Have another drink,’ she suggested.
‘I will. But don’t think this will win you any favours.’
Amy had already spent enough time in Torodon male society to know they enjoyed two main alcoholic beverages. Disdamil was a fruit-based, low-percentage drink, which could be taken in relatively large quantities without it having a noticeable effect. But ballomol was a spirit, and much stronger - Torodon men only indulged in this towards the end of a working day, when they could sleep off its effects. The interesting thing about ballomol was that it was a clear fluid with no scent. It could be added to a jug of disdamil, and a drinker would not notice the difference. This was exactly what Amy had done -
dosed four jugs of disdamil with ballomol, before carrying them to Xaaael’s private apartment - a seedy-looking cabin filled with cushions and lurid orange light. She’d placed the jugs on his gaming table as a peace offering.
‘Careful,’ he’d growled. ‘Don’t spill anything on the black cloth. No gamer allows his cloth to be sullied.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she’d said, sitting at the opposite end of the table.
He had now drained two of the jugs and was starting on the third. She watched him carefully as he rather laboriously attempted to explain the rules of Knight & Sword yet again. The spiked drink was taking effect.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Of course. We have to get on with this game if I’m to acquire your TARDIS before Krauzzen returns.’ His gaze was foggy as he regarded her. ‘You understand now?’
‘I think so. Oh, but I’m not sure about the Royal.’ She pointed to a pink counter.
‘You stupid young fool!’ he slurred. ‘That isn’t the
Royal, that’s the Imp. These are the Royals.’ He indicated a pair of blue and green counters. ‘Now… these can only be played when… when…’ Xaaael’s eyes were suddenly rolling. He lifted the fourth jug and quaffed its contents in two great gulps, after which he smacked his lips. ‘That’s…
better. Needed to clear my… my…’
He fell sideways from the table.
Amy crouched alongside him, where he now lay snoring. He was wearing his usual kimono, but she’d been watching her captors carefully. Inside it, where a breast pocket would normally be, she found a pouch containing a plastic wallet. When she opened this, it was packed with slide-cards. She counted thirty in total. None of their insignia mean anything to her, but if necessary she would try them all. She pocketed them and moved to the cabin door, opening it slightly and peering into a deserted companionway.
‘Harry!’ Rory shouted, brushing the dust and ash from Harry’s lifeless face.
‘Go away,’ Harry groaned. ‘I’m unconscious.’
Rory laughed with relief.
‘What happened?’ Harry asked.
‘We made it.’
Harry sat up painfully, and glanced around. Alongside them, the mineral truck was half-buried in a great mound of cinders. About five metres overhead, the mineral line simply ended; the twisted, rusty stumps of its rails jutted into empty air. Glancing further afield, he saw that they were at the bottom of the gorge; on all sides lay the burnt skeletons of earth movers, the empty shells of buildings.
‘And where have we made it to?’ he said. ‘Hell’s car
park?’
‘At least we’re alive.’ Rory helped him to his feet.
Memories now rushed back to Harry. He focused on the cutting high in the opposite cliff face. ‘Dora’s still up there…’
‘Shell be safer where she is than with us.’
‘Yeah, but for how long?’
Rory put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Well go back for her. But first why don’t we check out the barrack b
lock, while we’re here?’
Harry glanced behind them. A footway snaked its way up a rugged slope, at the top of which towered the riveted steel fortress.
They trudged towards it, dusting themselves down.
‘You saved our bacon back there,’ Rory said.
‘First thing I’ve got right since we arrived,’ Harry muttered.
‘How’d you and your family end up in this mess? You obviously weren’t nabbed for being economic migrants.’
Harry recounted the events that had led to his family’s capture, paying particular attention to his own bungling efforts. When he’d finished they walked on in silence.
They were now tramping uphill, dirt adhering to their sweat.
‘Why’d you leave the police, anyway?’ Rory asked.
‘Early retirement?’
‘Hah, I wish.’ Harry said nothing else for a few moments, but then admitted: ‘I was fed up with uniform duties. Walking a beat, driving a panda car. I’d passed my sergeant’s exam, but there was no sign of promotion.
I’d applied to CID dozens of times. They didn’t want to know. I was good at my job, but I wasn’t an academic. A
“woodentop”, was the phrase. And I got bored with it.
Felt I’d accomplished nothing, was going nowhere - all that stuff you imagine has been invented just to torture you when you’ve got a job, and miss so much when you haven’t. Anyway, I’d just started a week of nights and I really wasn’t up for it. I parked a few times and had a kip.
Got caught by the inspector and rollocked. Later in the week, a motorist stopped me and asked for directions to a road called Ravenbrook Avenue, and I told him. What I didn’t realise, because my head wasn’t in the game, was that this fella was about three times over the drink-drive limit. Not only that, he was on his way to assault his sister’s ex. He crashed his car en route, caused a load of damage and still went and committed the crime. When he finally got nicked, it came out that I’d spoken to him beforehand and let him go. That was seen as a major abrogation of duty. One black mark too many.’
They’d now reached the top of the slope and the main barrack building. The mud in front of it was criss-crossed by caterpillar tracks. The remnant of a heavy steel gate lay to one side. It was covered in bums and dents, as if small arms had been discharged at it. At first, Rory was too distracted by all this to speak.
‘No comment?’ Harry asked.
‘What… oh, don’t beat yourself up. It’s not like any of us are perfect. I’m only here because I made one hell of a mistake too.’
Harry looked surprised.’ You did? I had you tagged as some kind of space ranger.’
‘You ever heard of a space ranger called Rory?’
They ventured through the gate, passing beneath an arch and along an entry tunnel, the end of which had
been blocked by a barricade assembled from beams, planks and sheets of metal welded clumsily together. A central portion of this had been driven back, and again the ground was deeply rutted. Rory sidled his way past, at which point he halted.
‘You brought us here to find something to fight back with, didn’t you?’ he said.
‘It was a chance,’ Harry replied, following. ‘Probably not much of one.’
‘You reckon?’
Beyond the barricade lay a courtyard littered with all kinds of improvised weapons: bats, cleavers, spears, shields. They were old and rusty of course, but many still looked serviceable.
‘We may be pair of losers, Harry,’ Rory said. ‘But at least we’re starting to even the odds.’
Amy beaded to the Engineering section without interference, which was one advantage a slave caste had here. As long as they looked like they were working, they tended to be fly specks beneath everyone else’s notice. She’d equipped herself with cleaning materials, and hurried down to the lower decks, stopping here and there to polish balustrades or sweep stretches of already immaculate carpet.
In Engineering itself, the occasional crewman sauntered by, but again she pretended to be working and they ignored her. When she reached the door to the Secure Hold, there was nobody around. She filched the pile of entry cards from under her tunic, hugging the door in an effort to keep them hidden. The infrastructure on this level was bare and utilitarian: not just catwalks and caged machinery, but lagged piping, vaulted archways formed from unpainted steel. No camera that she could see was filming her, but she didn’t know that for sure.
One card after another went through the slide-lock, to no
effect. It occurred to her that these failed attempts might be activating alarms elsewhere - maybe on the Bridge -
but it was too late to worry about that now. Speed was suddenly everything.
‘Amy Pond!’ a voice shrilled behind her.
Amy twirled around.
Madam Xagra’s travelling-eye was hovering there. Its cat-green viewing portal, which was about the size of a normal eye, seemed to blink as it regarded her.
‘Report to Housekeeping at once, where you will explain your behaviour!’
‘Can’t I explain now… ma’am?’ Amy said, shoving the entry-cards behind her back.
‘What exactly are you doing?’
Amy shrugged awkwardly. ‘You see, well… when I was cleaning down here earlier, I thought the door to the Secure Hold could do with a bit of spit and polish. So when the opportunity arose, I just, well, I sort of…’
The travelling-eye blinked again, as if waiting for a part of the excuse it could actually believe.
‘I’m only being diligent, ma’am,’ Amy said.
‘You are an insolent girl and will be punished regardless of this explanation! No menial may deviate from their daily patterns of duty unless at my express command. Return to Housekeeping at once!’
‘You know, ma’am, I don’t think I’ll bother.’
There was a long silence, and then: ‘Well, miss, I suspected this on our first day together. The instant I saw you, I thought, “Here is a wilful girl. She must broken; she must be tamed. This is one who will learn the value of humility—”’
Amy interrupted: ‘Sorry, ma’am, but I’ve only got
one more thing to say to you. And that is…’ She swung her dustpan. There was a deafening clang as impact was made. ‘She shoots, she scores!’
Amy watched, delighted, as the travelling-eye rocketed away into the far distance. That was when she heard gruff male voices and heavy feet approaching.
‘Oh heck!’ She spun back to the door and tried more entry-cards.
She’d gone through eight, and voices were echoing around her, when there came a bleeping from the mechanism, and the door slid open. She scurried through and it slammed behind her just as quickly.
The Secure Hold was not what she’d anticipated. She’d half-expected to find the place heaped with glittering treasure, like some futuristic dragon’s cave. Instead, she was at the top of a ramp, which rolled down into a warehouse-type environment arrayed with tall steel racks on which crates and boxes of every description were stacked. The place was dim - lit only by low-key, greenish light.
Amy sat down and took the TARDIS key from her left boot. She hurried to the bottom of the ramp and along several aisles - before hearing a muffled thumping from somewhere close by. Along one bulkhead, there was a row of slide-doors, all closed. The noise was coming from the second one along. Someone was on the other side of it, shouting and pounding.
On the basis that her enemy’s enemy was likely to be her friend, and therefore someone who might help - she tried more entry-cards. The tenth was accepted. The door hissed open, revealing a tiny, egg-shaped room.
A Torodon male all but fell out of it.
‘Thank… thank you,’ he gasped. ‘Thought… I was going to die in there…’
His white hair, unusually short for a Torodon, had been dyed blond, and now hung in a stringy, sweaty mop. The silvery pallor of his face was smeared with what looked like flesh-toned make-up. Stranger still were his clothes; they consi
sted of socks, a pair of undershorts and a rather grubby bathrobe.
‘Who are you?’ Amy asked, baffled.
‘They… they had no choice. They had to keep me locked up.’
‘Who are you?’
‘The name’s Kalik Xorax. You may know me by another name - Pangborne. Grant Pangborne.’
When Dora came round, she found herself in an upright metal box, which smelled of oil and dust, and admitted no light. Immediately she panicked, throwing her body from side to side, crying aloud.
This hullaballoo lasted several seconds before she heard the clunk of a turning handle, and the lid - or door, as it transpired - was opened. She staggered forward, grabbing what felt like the lapels of a tweed jacket, before sinking to her knees, panting.
‘Hello?’ the Doctor said. ‘You’re making an awful lot of noise.’
Dora gawked up at him. ‘Oh… I… Who are you?’
‘I’m the Doctor.’ He gently disentangled himself from the clutching hands.
‘You’re a doctor?’ At first she tittered, but then began to laugh hysterically. ‘Are you sure… are you sure you’re not an architect’ ?’
‘Architect? Why would I be an architect. “The Architect”
- no, doesn’t have the same ring to it, somehow.’
Dora nodded to a section of concrete wall, where, with a chunk of charcoal, he’d been in the process of sketching out what looked like the detailed anatomy of a massive industrial complex.
‘Oh, that.’ The Doctor tossed the charcoal and stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Just recollecting what I can about the floor-plan on this moon. Not a bad effort, if I say so myself.’
‘Moon?’ Dora stopped laughing and rose to her feet.
‘We’re on the Moon?’
‘Not your moon, of course.’
She looked at him askance, wondering if any of this could be real. He said he was a doctor. And he certainly looked like one, with his dickie-bow, patched tweed jacket and ridiculous, unmanageable hair. But a doctor? Here?
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