Doctor Who

by David Solomons

  ‘Infraction detected.’ The tone was even. ‘Student number 357, prepare for punishment.’

  Lalitha looked at Aaron in horror. ‘Oh, no.’

  Aaron stiffened, bracing himself. As the others watched, his blue-and-white tie moved like a snake coiling in the grass. It tightened round his neck, the knot pressing against his throat and choking him, but he made no attempt to pull it off.

  The Doctor leaped forward, sonic outstretched.

  ‘No!’ yelled Lalitha. ‘If you interfere, it will kill him.’

  After a few more seconds, the tie slackened and Aaron sank to his knees, gasping for air.

  There was another series of musical chimes. ‘Punishment concluded. Thank you for your co-operation. The Faculty – making your child’s world better.’

  While Yaz and Graham made sure Aaron was okay, the Doctor turned to Lalitha, her normally bright eyes blazing with anger. ‘I’d like a word with your Faculty.’

  Graham glanced at the Doctor. Their mission had been simple enough: collect the first key to the paralock. But, as with most things the Doctor dipped a toe into, the situation had already become complicated. Graham knew that, even if the key was presented to her now in a velvet-lined box, she wouldn’t contemplate leaving – not after seeing that poor kid half strangled by his weird tie. Whatever the truth was behind this starship school, it was clearly a bad place, and these kids were in danger from the Spectres outside. Graham knew they weren’t leaving this planet until the Doctor ensured that every last child was safe.

  Lalitha glanced at a monitor which showed a handful of young men and women marching along a corridor. ‘Perfects.’

  Ryan looked puzzled. ‘You mean prefects, right?’

  The control-room door slid open, and the group trooped inside, their backs as rigid as their formation. The Perfects were dressed like Aaron and Lalitha, but their survival suits boasted shield-shaped badges decorated with a curling letter P set against an insignia of a sunburst and a chariot. Their leader, in his late teens with a thin face and a faint fuzz of moustache, brandished a device: a small box with two electrodes between which an electrical spark sizzled. It looked like some kind of taser.

  ‘Porter,’ Aaron said to the leader. ‘You don’t need that. They’re here to help.’

  Porter studied the Doctor and her companions in silence, at once fascinated by and fearful of the new arrivals. Finally, he stepped forward and raised the taser.

  ‘Take them to detention.’

  The hatch in the cell door banged shut, and the click of the Perfects’ footsteps receded along the corridor.

  ‘Seventeen minutes,’ announced the Doctor. ‘Between landing and being arrested. A new record.’ She grinned.

  Graham shook his head. The Doctor had some funny ideas.

  The Perfects had led them from the control room along the crumbling passageways of the crashed starship to their present location. They’d had to pick their way across fallen beams, navigate tangles of bent and twisted metal, and skirt around open wall panels from which spilled nests of fused wires. The place was a wreck. From what Graham could establish of the layout, the vast ship formed the central structure of what the inhabitants called the city of Dorm. At some point since their crash landing, a dome shield had been added, like a protective umbrella, enclosing the ship from nose to tail. Everyone they’d passed had walked by in perfect silence, and they all wore one of those strangling ties. Pacifying technology, the Doctor had called it, to keep them in line.

  When they reached the detention level, Graham and the Doctor had been separated from Yaz and Ryan. The Doctor also had her sonic confiscated, so there’d be no easy escape this time. They were then led through a cold and cavernous room filled with ranks of what at first looked to Graham like coffins. When they passed the first one, he was shocked to find the upper half of the lid was transparent, revealing the occupant. He paused next to it. Inside was a child no more than eight years old. Alongside was a humming monitor, which displayed information like heart rate and oxygen levels.

  ‘Hibernation pods,’ explained the Doctor, as they walked. ‘The passengers sleep away long journeys between the stars.’

  They passed many more pods like the first, and each one contained a young man or woman. Graham stopped counting at fifty.

  ‘Why aren’t they awake like everyone else?’ he asked Porter, the Head Boy.

  ‘This is the new intake.’ He threw a fearful glance over his shoulder, as if worried he’d get into trouble for talking to them. ‘There are hundreds more pods throughout the ship. When we graduate, the Faculty will wake the next lot.’ He stroked his tie nervously.

  ‘And how does that work, the old school tie?’ asked the Doctor.

  Porter lowered his voice. ‘The Faculty has a keypad implanted in one palm. Every student has a number, so all it has to do is input the relevant number. Classes have numbers too, so it can punish individual students or the entire school.’

  Taking great care, the Doctor grasped one edge of Porter’s tie and flipped it over. There was a label underneath with space for his name, which was handwritten in red ink, and a flashy logo featuring what looked like a robotic fist against a star field.

  ‘Paragon Teletronics of Sirius,’ she said, recognising the logo, then fell silent.

  Graham could tell that she was figuring something out. He hoped it was a way out of this nightmare.

  Leaving the hibernation chamber, they passed into a hallway lined with hulking metal-framed doors complete with food hatches and magnetic locking mechanisms. Prison doors. Here, he and the Doctor were deposited in a cell that looked like a converted classroom. A shaft of afternoon light shone down through a sliver of window, picking out a young woman about eighteen years old who was sitting at a school desk, writing in a notebook. Like the other students, she wore a battered survival suit and tie.

  Looking up from her work, she stared at the Doctor and Graham through the milk-bottle lenses of a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m the Doctor, and this is Graham. What’s your name?’

  ‘Peyton, but everyone calls me Moley.’ She peered at Graham. ‘You’re so…lined.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Graham. ‘No wonder she’s in jail.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Peyton’s voice dropped. ‘It’s been a long time since I saw anyone like you. Not since my father sent me away…’

  Graham felt bad for poking fun at the girl. ‘So, what you in for?’ he asked. ‘Last time I was in detention it was for blowing spitballs at Nancy Green in Mr Tanner’s maths class.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ said the Doctor, curling her lip. She turned to Peyton. ‘Mol– no. Can’t do it, sorry. Peyton, you said your father sent you away?’

  She nodded. ‘I was part of the first intake.’

  The Doctor looked up, her eyes bright with understanding. ‘I think I know what this place is. The Phaeton was carrying a boarding colony.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Graham.

  ‘On earth in your time, some parents send their children away to boarding school, right? Well, that tradition continued into the forty-first century, but with population growth at an all-time high only the extremely rich were able to send their children to earth schools. Off-world boarding colonies were established for everyone else. From what Peyton here is saying, it appears that the SS Phaeton was travelling to one of them. When it crashed, the surviving students built a society based on the only thing they knew.’

  ‘Boarding school,’ said Graham, understanding.

  ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have to think.’ The Doctor sat down on the floor, crossed her legs and closed her eyes in meditative silence.

  Peyton’s expression curled in confusion. ‘What did she mean “in your time”? It was like she was giving you a history lesson.’

  ‘She was. The Doc is a time traveller,’ explained Graham.
‘Been flying around the universe solving problems and saving lives for thirteen generations.’

  Peyton’s mouth gaped. ‘A time traveller?’ She looked at Graham. ‘And you?’

  ‘Yup. Well, time hitch-hiker might be more accurate. Though, if we’re taking in the whole career path, I average out to bus driver.’

  ‘A time-bus driver,’ said Peyton in wonder.

  ‘No, I – never mind.’ He glanced at the Doctor, still sitting there in a bubble of calm contemplation. Who knew where her mind had drifted off to? To kill the time, he decided to tell Peyton about their mission, the Gardeners and the key to Vault Thirteen.

  When he’d finished, the girl thought for a moment before speaking. ‘Would this key open the door to a garden?’

  ‘That would make sense,’ said Graham. ‘I mean, about as much sense as stashing three magical keys throughout time and space.’

  ‘The Faculty carries a set of keys,’ she said. ‘One opens the door to Plainfield. It’s the only place in Dorm where there are trees and flowers. It’s not for ordinary students. Only Perfects like Porter are allowed in, and even then on just one day a year. I’ve seen pictures. It’s beautiful. The Faculty spends most of its time there.’

  ‘Typical,’ said Graham. ‘The teachers at my school had a staffroom like that. Rumour had it there was a tropical aquarium in there and unlimited Wagon Wheels.’

  Graham felt as certain as he could that the key to Plainfield must also be one of the keys to Vault Thirteen. Not that the information was much use to him in here.

  ‘So, where is this Plainfield then?’ he asked.

  ‘The only access is through the Head’s study,’ said Peyton. ‘But you can’t get in. The Faculty won’t let you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, the Doc will find a way. It’s kind of her thing. We just need to get out of here.’

  ‘Well, it had better happen before tomorrow,’ said Peyton dismally. ‘It’s graduation. The first in the school’s history. That’s why I’m in here. I tried to escape the ceremony.’

  Graham looked confused. ‘When I was your age, I was desperate to leave school and get out into the world.’

  ‘Then our worlds must be very different.’

  ‘She’s right,’ the Doctor piped up, opening one eye.

  ‘Finished your Time Lord yoga, then?’ said Graham.

  ‘I’ll have you know that I have been meditating on a plan to save the school. One that doesn’t involve organising a dance.’ She paused. ‘And Time Lord yoga’s on Thursdays.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Notice that smell in the air?’

  Graham sniffed. ‘Damp PE kit?’

  The Doctor sighed. ‘Atmosphere scrubbers struggling to recycle what little air they’ve got in here. Beyond the protective habitat of the dome, this planet can’t support human life. And, even if it could, the only things out there are the Spectres. Peyton’s not in here because she has an aversion to wearing a gown and mortarboard.’

  A horrified expression slid across Graham’s face, as the fate of the graduates struck him a moment before the Doctor uttered the words aloud.

  ‘She’s in here because graduation means death.’

  Just then, the hatch on the door opened and Porter’s beady eyes and fuzzy moustache appeared in the gap. ‘The Faculty will see you now.’

  * * *

  —

  Ryan moved closer to the cell door and let out a loud, hacking cough.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Yaz.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he whispered. ‘I’m trying to get us out of here. See, I pretend to be sick, they open up to investigate, and we seize the chance to escape. It’s a classic move, trust me.’ With that, he coughed again, this time clutching his stomach and throwing in a cry of pain for good measure.

  Yaz shook her head. ‘That’s never going to work.’

  The hatch in the cell door banged open. One of the Perfects studied Ryan.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ he moaned, writhing about.

  The Perfect touched his shield badge, which apparently doubled as a communicator, and spoke into it. ‘Possible biohazard in detention.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Ryan, playing up to the diagnosis. ‘I’m hazardous. You’d better get me out of here. Sharpish.’

  The Perfect ignored him. ‘Female prisoner has also been exposed.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ protested Yaz.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ insisted Ryan.

  The Perfect listened for a moment. ‘Acknowledged. Bringing them to the San right away.’

  Ryan shot Yaz a smile of victory. ‘Told ya,’ he whispered.

  ‘Engaging infection protocol,’ said the Perfect. He reached for the neck of his survival suit and released an integrated hood, which he pulled up to cover his head.

  ‘Seems a bit extreme,’ said Ryan, as a handful of hood-wearing Perfects arrived to escort them away.

  They were led deeper into the ship, passing through ten deck levels of the enormous vessel, until they came to a brightly lit section with antiseptically white walls and floors. The Perfects suddenly dropped back, leaving a gap between them and their prisoners.

  Ryan had been biding his time, hoping for an opportunity to make an escape. Now was the moment. He cast a knowing glance at Yaz, and they broke into a run. Risking a look over his shoulder, Ryan was puzzled to see that the Perfects were making no attempt to pursue them. If anything, they seemed unwilling to follow. Though it struck him as a bit strange, it made getting away a lot easier.

  He and Yaz skidded round a corner and found themselves face to face with a door marked SANATORIUM. With no other option, they went through it.

  Inside was a long, thin room that stretched so far into the distance the other end lay in shadow. The walls glowed with tiles whiter than a film star’s teeth, and the floor had been polished to the sheen of a skating rink. There was so much bleach in the air it stung Ryan’s eyes and throat.

  Along one wall was a line of beds, crisp sheets stretched drum-skin tight over the mattresses. Next to each bed was a table, on which sat a bowl of grapes and a vase of flowers. Both the fruit and flowers had been there so long they had rotted away, and the sweet whiff of decay mixed in with the pervasive smell of cleaning products.

  One of the beds was occupied.

  ‘Hello,’ Ryan called, his voice bouncing off the room’s hard surfaces.

  There was no answer, so he moved closer and, as he did, he saw that the bed’s occupant had pulled the sheet up over their head. Gingerly, Ryan gripped the sheet’s edge and drew it down.

  As soon as he saw what was beneath the sheet, he hurriedly stepped away, tripping over his own feet. It wasn’t a person in the bed. At least, not a living person. Staring back at him were the empty sockets of a human skull, a skeleton with bones as white as the polished tiles.

  From the shadows at the far end of the room came a noise: the squeak of a wheel in need of oil. Ryan looked round. Out of the darkness trundled a robot, vaguely triangular in shape, its wheels hidden beneath the lower flared section. Its body was almost entirely white, but painted across its midsection was a red cross. Six spindly metal arms projected from the upper body, each ending in multi-segmented fingers clearly designed for delicate work. At the top of the triangle perched a smooth white oval that resembled a human head, but was featureless save for a pair of empty eye sockets. A surgical mask covered the lower half. Even though the eye sockets were empty, Ryan had the strong suspicion that the machine was watching him and Yaz.

  It rolled to a stop in front of them. ‘I am Automated Medical System Version Eight, but you may call me M8-Tron,’ said a brusque female voice. ‘You both require pink medicine.’

  Two of its arms shot out, pinning both Ryan and Yaz by their throats.

  Ryan attempted to break free, but M8-Tron’s grip was too strong. He tried a different approach, attempting to protest that he felt fine actually, but
all that came out was a gurgle. He could only watch as a drawer slid out of the robot’s middle, and two more arms dipped into it then reappeared. One held a large brown bottle, the other a silver spoon. The robot carefully measured out a dose of gloopy pink liquid, then raised the spoon. There was the whir of actuators, and Ryan felt metal fingers prise his lips apart.

  ‘Open wide.’

  The Faculty occupied a section of the ship that looked like the interior of an old country house on earth. The walls were swathed in dark wood panelling, a dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a creaking staircase curved up to the floor above.

  The Doctor and Graham were waiting in a hall outside a door marked HEAD. On one side of the door was a glass cabinet filled with trophies and pennants, and on the other side a softly ticking grandfather clock. As Graham listened to it, he noticed a board with a list of names picked out in gold lettering on the wall opposite. Against each name was engraved the same date, and with a pang he realised it must be the date of the crash. The board was a memorial to those who had died. He barely had time to dwell on the sad history of this strange school when the Doctor snatched his attention away.

  She was prowling around the grandfather clock, eyeing it suspiciously. When she had examined it from every angle, she pounced, wrenching the cabinet open like a magician whipping a handkerchief away at the climax of a grand illusion.

  ‘Aha!’

  Inside, the pendulum swung steadily.

  The Doctor uttered a disappointed, ‘Oh.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’ asked Graham.

  She rapped the outside of the clock’s case. ‘Knew someone once who had a TARDIS that looked just like one of these.’ She glanced around the hall. ‘This is just his or her sort of twisted idea of fun.’

  Graham was curious to learn more, but before he could enquire further a voice boomed from the other side of the door.

  ‘Enter!’

  He clenched his hands. His palms felt sweaty. Even after all these years, there was nothing like a teacher’s command to instil fear and trepidation.