Doctor Who: Festival of Death: 50th Anniversary Edition (13 page)

In an aside to the camera Harken raised his eyebrows incredulously. ‘And Hoopy. Could you describe the actual sensations of death, in your own words.’

Hoopy stooped to speak into the microphone, glancing left and right. ‘It’s way out. Sure-fire. You just close your peepers, surrender to the void and you’re there. Gentle into the goodnight. Groovy.’ He did a ‘peace’ sign with his fingers, realised he’d got it the wrong way round and corrected himself.

‘Relatively painless, then,’ said Harken. ‘That’ll be of some reassurance to our older viewers. And Xab, what is paradise actually like? What does the spirit world hold in store?’

The microphone hovered uncertainly beneath Xab, waiting for a reply. Eventually Xab responded, a dozy grin on his face.

‘It’s an awfully big adventure.’

*

The Doctor secured the door behind them. K-9 had led him to the same side entrance as before. The Doctor tapped K-9 on the nose to remain quiet, and crouched down behind a nearby coffin.

The Great Hall had been transformed into a centre of activity. Shadows flitted across the walls as cloaked orderlies prepared the metal caskets for the evening’s events, unsnagging the cabling and flicking circuits into life. Tourists made their way across the platforms and took their places in the coffins, placing their heads in the crowns of wiring. More attendants moved from tourist to tourist, checking the headpieces were secure and calibrating the monitors bolted into the side of each casket.

A steady drone of electricity came from the necroport. The machine was pristine, its smooth surface covered in images of skeletal angels holding their arms outstretched in rapture. It sat amidst a sprawling mass of cables like a spider in its web, the hum of its power gradually growing.

Above was a brightly lit gallery of observation windows; the control area, the Doctor presumed. White-coated figures could be seen scrutinising proceedings in the Great Hall, watching as the last tourists climbed into their coffins. A narrow metal staircase coiled up to the control-room door.

From his hiding place the Doctor examined the monitor on the adjacent casket. The oscilloscope’s glowing green screen displayed a line of repeating blip-blips. A heartbeat.

The Doctor wiped his lips. The necroport was about thirty metres away. There was a small stage erected on its far side where some sort of interview was taking place. If he ducked behind the various coffins lining the route, he guessed he would be able to reach the machine without being spotted. And then he could conceal himself in there during the ceremony.

All of a sudden, the hatch of the necroport opened and a figure emerged. The shape dived behind a nearby coffin, melting into the shadows. The attendants and tourists were so busy with their preparations that the figure managed to slip past unnoticed.

It was heading towards the Doctor and K-9. The Doctor dodged
behind
the casket, and clamped a hand over K-9’s mouth. The figure reached the side doorway. For a brief second it was silhouetted in a rectangular light, and then the door pulled shut.

The Doctor couldn’t believe his eyes. It was Evadne.

How very curious, he thought. What had she been doing inside the necroport? He considered following her, or instructing K-9 to, but decided against it. He was more determined to find out what was happening in the machine.

But he would have to wait. A familiar, rotund figure was approaching the stage.

Harken Batt cast his gaze over the Great Hall. He had chosen to stand on a podium near the central apparatus – the ‘necroport’ he believed it was called. From this position, Vinnie would get a shot of him with the tourists in the background. The final few stragglers were now having wire meshes plugged into their heads by people dressed as ghouls. It was macabre bordering on the ridiculous, and would make excellent holovision. No one would dare suggest he had faked it this time.

The manager of the G-Lock mounted the platform. A short, overweight man with piggy eyes and an ochre-and-brown suit. He clapped. ‘Gentlemen, I am most pleased to see you here. Now, where would you like me?’

Harken consulted his notes. ‘Executive Metcalf, if you will stand beside me.’ He directed the man to the other half of the two-shot.

‘Oh yes.’ Metcalf took his position. ‘And this documentary will be broadcast where?’

Harken switched on his microphone. ‘Throughout the sentient galaxy. I’m hoping to get one of the news franchises interested. Holo-V Twenty-Four, Sub-Etha One.’

‘And you’ll be asking me about the G-Lock and so forth?’

‘I wish to uncover some of the unsung heroes behind the scenes. Reveal the truth about the skill, dedication and leadership it takes to run a event of this nature.’ It would do no harm to flatter the pompous idiot.

‘That sounds most acceptable. But I must warn you, it will have to be brief. I am required back in my office in a few minutes on matters of overt importance.’

‘If you’re ready?’ Harken counted down to the camera. ‘I have with me now the man responsible for the G-Lock…’ He consulted his notes again, ‘… Executive Metcalf, who has very kindly taken time out of his demanding schedule to talk to us.’

‘Not at all,’ smiled Metcalf. As Harken suspected, the executive was impervious to sarcasm.

‘Tell me,’ said Harken, ‘the Beautiful Death is a hugely successful attraction, its fame fanning out throughout the final frontier like a ferociously flammable form of wild fire. Roughly how many visitors would you say participate, approximately speaking?’

Metcalf puffed himself up proudly. ‘Within recent weeks, we have been increasing the capacity to cater for an ever-greatening demand. On an average day, we may treat anything up to one hundred visitors. Tonight, however, is a rather unique occurrence. Tonight, a record 218 visitors will experience and enjoy the Beautiful Death.’

‘And this operation has been running for, what, six months now?’

‘Oh yes. We have built up a not inconsiderable business on the strength of both the Beautiful Death and the accompanying festivities. Though, I hasten to add, we do offer most competitive rates with discounts to party bookings,’ he added into the camera.

Harken moved in for the kill. ‘And may I ask you, what safety measures do you have in place?’

‘What?’ Metcalf’s eyes darted about uncomfortably.

‘For those taking part in the Beautiful Death. The procedure involves the temporary demise of all participants, so naturally you must have taken steps to prevent these becoming permanent fatalities?’

‘I can assure you that we have procedures,’ Metcalf stammered, massaging his sweat-soaked hands together.

‘And yet, according to reports, during the last six months over thirty tourists have not been revived after taking part in the Beautiful
Death
. Over thirty people have indulged in this recreational demise and then not returned. What do you say to that?’ Harken shoved an accusatory microphone in Metcalf’s face.

‘I would dispute the accuracy of your figures –’

‘Over thirty people. Over thirty families who have lost their loved ones. After they have submitted to your so-called amusement ride.’

‘This is immaterial –’

‘Children torn, screaming, from the bosom of their parents.’

‘I am not prepared –’

‘Whole families ripped apart, children whose parents have been lost for ever, who never had the chance to say “Goodbye”.’

‘You are making false allegations without the slightest –’

‘“Mummy, why won’t daddy be home for Christmas?”’

‘I will not tolerate this!’ bellowed Metcalf. ‘This is intolerable! I did not agree to this interview just so that I could be harangued in such a provocative and substantially ill-informed manner. This interview is terminated. Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters of overt importance to attend to.’ He drew himself up, and flounced down the platform steps.

Harken left a pause. Time to appear both surprised and appalled by Metcalf’s outburst. After five seconds, he turned back to Vinnie. ‘I would like to express my sincere thanks to Executive Metcalf for consenting to this interview. This is Harken Batt, reporting from the Great Hall, the G-Lock.’

A bell chimed out. Eleven thirty. The Doctor readied himself to creep forward. The interview on the platform had finished with Metcalf storming out of the main doors of the Great Hall, patting a handkerchief to his forehead. Now was his chance.

The chime dropped in pitch. The sound slurred back into itself like a rewinding tape. The chime sounded again, the pitch wobbling back to normal.

The Doctor halted in his tracks. During that one second, everyone in the Great Hall had frozen in mid-action, only to
continue
climbing into the coffins and readying the equipment as if nothing had happened.

Time was distorting.

Romana found herself caught in the crush outside the main entrance to the Great Hall. The Doctor and K-9 had disappeared whilst her back was turned, and her efforts to locate them had proved fruitless. Reluctantly she had allowed herself to be carried along in the tide of excited tourists.

The corridor was jammed solid, everyone trying to inch closer to the main doors and catch a view of the ceremony inside.

A gang of inebriated hippies bulldozed past Romana, propelling her into a tubby bystander. He strutted around, a camcorder gripped to one eye.

‘Jeremy –’ began Romana. And then everything slowed down.

The prattle of the crowd suddenly became deep and lethargic, then fell silent. The tourists around her stood perfectly still, their mouths wide with half-formed words.

It was as though time had been brought to a halt. And then, every member of the crowd seemed to move backwards, sucking in air. Jeremy turned away from Romana. A moment later, the rabble roared back into life jostling and shouting as before, and Jeremy pointed his camera at Romana.

A ripple in time, she thought. She sensed that it originated from within the Great Hall. Whatever was happening with the Beautiful Death was more than a mere sideshow.

‘Will you all please excuse me, I am on most important business,’ a familiar voice bleated. ‘Out of my way!’ Metcalf battled through the throng, his tie askew, his hair ruffled. ‘And don’t touch my suit!’

Hoopy snuggled into the quilted interior of the sarcophagus. Above him, the heavy stone ceiling of the Great Hall was like the ribcage of an alabast elephosaur. Shadows flitted in the corners of his vision as the attendants made their final adjustments.

‘Death number five!’ hollered Biscit from the adjacent coffin,
whilst
Xab snored in the one beyond that. ‘Back to join the choir invisible! Into the abyss! Dearly departed, here we come!’

A skull leaned over Hoopy. It flicked some switches, and a hemispherical cage of metal descended over Hoopy’s head. The headpiece locked into place, the attendant rattled it to check it was secure, and disappeared.

Hoopy closed his eyes. So this was it. Back to heaven, or wherever. Already the nerves were building in his stomach, and adrenalin was cocktailing through his blood. It was like reaching the summit of a roller coaster ride and watching the ground rise up as you dipped over the summit. Knowing that the hurtling descent into oblivion would come at any moment.

Hoopy couldn’t wait to die.

Harken walked Vinnie through the camera moves. ‘And then, as the clock strikes midnight, you pan across the dead people and then up to me. And I’ll talk about the process, go through some of the theological stuff, and so on. Understand?’

Vinnie looked dumbly back at Harken. ‘Say again?’

Harken sighed. This boy was useless. Barely out of media school, and with more pimples than brain cells. His mouth was fixed in a constant gawp, his lips soaked in spittle. His T-shirt was partially tucked into his jeans and sported a selection of stains.

‘Just follow me, with the camera. The holocamera? Your job, remember?’

‘Oh, that.’ Vinnie wound the lens cap back on the camera.

‘We have exclusive access to the Beautiful Death and it is paramount that you capture every moment. Our careers are riding on this, this is absolutely crucial. Understand?’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

‘Good. Because if you let me down now, you’ll never be burdened with work again. I guarantee it.’

The Doctor peered over the side of the coffin to check there was no one near. The necroport was obviously at the centre of the time
distortion
, and it was vital he reached it before the ceremony began.

The public address system sputtered into life.

‘G-Lock. This is Executive Metcalf speaking. I regret to announce that a saboteur is on the loose. He is tall, has an insubordinate manner, wears a grey coat and multicoloured scarf, and calls himself “the Doctor”. He is thought to be in or near the Great Hall. Will all skullguards in the area attend to his capture forthwith. Thank you.’

The Doctor boggled. How could Metcalf possibly have known he was here? It was impossible, unless…

Throughout the Great Hall, skullguards inspected each coffin and aisle. There were a dozen of them, searching in pairs. Most of the guards concentrated on the area close to the necroport, but two of them stalked unerringly towards the Doctor’s hiding place.

‘Oh dear,’ said the Doctor to K-9. He slumped back against the coffin. ‘You know that tight spot I was telling you about…’

The two guards approached the neighbouring coffin. The Doctor couldn’t help but notice that both were armed with unpleasant-looking laser rifles. Not that he’d ever seen a pleasant-looking one; when it came to guns, ‘ugly’ and ‘threatening’ tended to be the order of the day.

He considered attempting to run for the side doorway, but it was no good. He would have to break his cover, and they’d spot him instantly.

The guards rounded the casket, and immediately their eyes fell on to the Doctor and K-9. Safety catches clicked off. One of the guards raised a hand, and yelled out.

‘We’ve got him! Over here!’

C
HAPTER
S
IX

COMPUTERS BLEEPED AND
whirred, banks of lights flashed in sequence, tape spools chattered and rewound. Lab-coated technicians monitored paper print-outs, jotting down notes on clipboards. The control room was clinically lit, as flawless and orderly as the man directing events. Paddox clasped his gloved hands behind his back. ‘All the subjects are prepared?’