Doctor Who: Festival of Death: 50th Anniversary Edition (24 page)

‘Captain Rochfort,’ he swallowed, ‘I don’t think reversing is going to do us any good.’

‘What?’

‘Look.’ Byson pointed at the monitor. The circle at the other end of the tunnel was shrinking. ‘They’re closing off the entrance to the hyperspace tunnel. We’re trapped, sir.’

Tarie knelt beside her mother, smoothing back her hair. Her mother looked relaxed and contented.

One of the passengers let out a shriek. Tarie looked up. The grown-ups had clustered around the observation window, shouting in protest, banging their hands on the glass. Tarie walked over to the window. All she could see were the hundreds of spaceships and the marvellous, swirling majesty of hyperspace. But then, in the far distance, she noticed that the hole where the tunnel opened on to real space was getting smaller.

She didn’t understand what it meant, but the screams of the grown-ups told her that something terrible had happened.

Romana squeezed through the excited crowds, and picked her way down the leaflet-coated staircase.

The lower gallery was a crush of shiny-faced tourists, human and alien. It was like a chaotic party, punctuated by shrieks and the pop of exploding streamers.

Some tourists approached a woman standing behind an electronic ticket-dispenser. The woman seemed bored, elastic-banding together piles of credit notes. She didn’t look up when they
spoke
. ‘Eh? Nah, you’re wasting your time, basic brains. Sold out, innit.’

Romana forced her way through. ‘Evadne?’

Evadne folded away the last of the credits and switched off the ticket-dispenser. ‘Sorry, all gone, come back tomorrow, goodbye.’

‘Evadne,’ said Romana, moving closer. ‘I’m not interested in buying a ticket.’

Evadne stared at her. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Oh, it’s my job to know lots of things,’ said Romana, brushing back her hair casually. ‘You see, I’m a spy.’

‘A what?’

‘A spy.’

‘A spy. Right,’ said Evadne. ‘Yeah, and I suppose you’re gonna tell me you work for Intergalactic Espionage.’

Romana was tempted to ask Evadne who Intergalactic Espionage actually were, but then decided against it. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she whispered confidentially. ‘And we need your help.’

‘Straight up?’ Evadne packed the ticket-dispenser into a cardboard box. She nodded to one side. ‘Follow me.’

With the box under one arm, Evadne led Romana down the corridor towards the medical bay. The crowds thinned, and the background chatter dropped to a murmur.

Evadne packed the box and credits into a security locker, and rested against the wall. ‘Right. Now how do I know you’re working for Intergalactic Espionage? Prove it.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t carry identification. In our line of work it tends to prove something of a hindrance.’

Evadne shrugged. ‘Well, in that case, I don’t believe you.’

Romana took a deep breath. ‘Your name is Evadne Baxter. You studied at Lajetee college where you specialised in twentieth-century Earth history. However, to your regret you didn’t finish your studies, instead choosing to leave with Irvin, a fellow student, who then abandoned you for a bimbo called Zharie. Your job here involves selling tickets for the Beautiful Death and answering imbecile tourist questions about the “Mystery of the
Cerberus”
.’

‘Grief. How do you know all that?’

‘We have our sources,’ said Romana neatly.

The necroport was the culmination of years of relentless experimentation and study. Every day for twenty years Paddox had spent eighteen hours in his laboratory on Arboreta, only to lie awake in his bunk-cabin through the night, his mind racing with the problems of the day.

He had chosen to work alone long ago. Other scientists failed to understand the importance of his work, failed to recognise his intellectual superiority. His former colleagues taunted him, calling him insane, obsessed with death. They could not comprehend that only through obsession would any true progress be made.

During his work, he had developed a means of experiencing death and the afterlife. The process, which would later be given the spurious nomenclature of the Beautiful Death, allowed the subject to die for a limited period of time. In the course of his research, Paddox had undergone the process over a thousand times. Initially he had only allowed himself five minutes a session but, through experimentation, he had managed to extend the duration to over half an hour.

However, as his work progressed, it soon became apparent that he would have to construct a dedicated machine. He would have to build the necroport.

To raise funding for the device, Paddox decided that he would offer the public the chance to experience the Beautiful Death for themselves. After approaching the authorities he was allocated materials and space on the G-Lock, a rarely visited tourist attraction. Metcalf was appointed as executive overseeing the G-Lock, presumably because his employers were back-teethed with the sight of him. His role was to bring in tourists via a death-oriented festival, capitalising on their main attraction.

But what Metcalf did not realise was that the Beautiful Death was merely a by-product of what the necroport was capable of doing. The narrow-minded fool thought that Paddox wanted more
tourists
to take part just to get more credits. Yes, Paddox required mass Beautiful Deaths, but for an altogether greater purpose.

Paddox had unlocked the secret of the Arboretans. Soon, soon his ultimate goal would be achieved.

Metcalf sat behind his desk, fiddling with his self-important papers. ‘We shall just have to ensure that his documentary presents the G-Lock in an agreeable light. This is a valuable opportunity for us, and so it is vital that we have no unwanted…’ He paused, a condescending smile dripping from his lips, ‘… distractions over the next few days.’

‘The Beautiful Death will cause you no embarrassment, I guarantee,’ said Paddox. ‘Speaking of which, I am due to begin preparations for this evening, so if you will excuse me…’

‘Of course.’ Metcalf clasped his hands together.

As Paddox rose from his chair, there was a knock at the door.

‘Enter,’ said Metcalf.

A tall man shambled into the office, grinning with childish enthusiasm. Paddox regarded him with disapproval. The man wore a ramshackle collection of garments, the most ramshackle of which was an implausibly long scarf that trailed along the floor behind him. Beneath a mop of unruly hair, his face was nothing if not striking: bulging eyes, an imperious nose and a toothy smile. He grasped Paddox’s hand. ‘Hello, hello,’ he said loudly. ‘You must be, don’t tell me, Doctor Paddox? You run the Beautiful Death.’ He bounded over to the desk. ‘And you must be Executive Metcalf, and you’re in charge of everything else.’ He plumped down in a chair. ‘Isn’t this pleasant?’

Metcalf gibbered in astonishment. ‘I’m sorry… and you are?’

‘The Doctor.’ The man gazed around the office, at the statues and oak-panelled walls. ‘I say, I’d forgotten how nice this office is. All the original fixtures and fittings, I take it?’

‘Metcalf, I think we should call security,’ began Paddox.

‘I’ve come about ERIC,’ said the Doctor. ‘The computer?’

‘ERIC?’ said Metcalf. ‘Of course. You must be the neurelectrician
I
sent for. I must say, I am not inconsiderably impressed by your expeditious arrival.’

‘That’s right,’ said the Doctor. ‘We find it’s best to be prompt. You know what they say, we’re the sixteenth emergency service.’

Paddox was incredulous. ‘You think this… this man is a neurelectrician?’

‘Eminent. I’m an eminent neurelectrician,’ said the Doctor, slumping comically.

‘They’re renowned for being a somewhat eccentric profession, Paddox,’ said Metcalf. ‘All that time they spend psychoanalysing boxes of wires.’

‘Quite, quite.’ The Doctor stood and examined the computer terminal on Metcalf’s desk. ‘This would be where you talk to it, would it?’

‘Yes,’ said Metcalf. ‘ERIC predates the G-Lock, you see. He was originally the computer supervisor on the
Cerberus
. There used to be interaction terminals everywhere, but now there’s only two left.’

‘Just as I thought,’ muttered the Doctor to himself. He dug a stethoscope out of his pocket. ‘So he’s, what, two centuries old?’

‘Yes.’ Metcalf moved out of the way and the Doctor helped himself to his chair. ‘He’s always been difficult, but has recently taken a turn for the worse. He has developed, not to put too fine a point on it, suicidal tendencies.’

‘Suicidal?’

‘He keeps on crashing himself.’

‘Ah,’ said the Doctor. ‘Synaptic decay leading to drive corruption, personality malfunction and, ultimately, an overwhelming desire for self-obliteration. We get a lot of it in these older models.’

‘But can you cure him?’

‘Oh, of course. I’ll have him sorted out in next to no time.’ The Doctor poised his hands over the keyboard, and looked up at Paddox. ‘Not keeping you at all, am I? Only you look the sort of chap who has important matters to attend to.’

Paddox stared at the Doctor. ‘Yes,’ he stated, ‘I do have important matters to attend to.’ He nodded stiffly and headed for the door.

‘Milk and eight sugars,’ called the Doctor, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. ‘And some of those pink wafer biscuits, if you have them.’

‘What?’ said Metcalf.

‘Tea,’ said the Doctor. He placed the drum of stethoscope on the side of the monitor and listened intently. He shook his head and removed the earplugs. ‘I can’t work without tea. Stimulates the mind.’

‘Right,’ said Metcalf, following Paddox out of the office. ‘Tea.’

After Metcalf and Paddox had left the room, the Doctor stopped typing. He addressed the ceiling. ‘ERIC? Can you hear me?’

> Let me die
. ERIC’s voice crackled like a short-wave radio.
> No drive found
.

‘Now, now ERIC. No need to be like that.’

> Is that you, Doctor? Type mismatch
.

‘Yes.’ The Doctor was flabbergasted. ‘You know who I am?’

> Of course I do, Doctor. We have met before
.

‘Oh,’ said the Doctor. He boggled. ‘You know, this sort of thing is starting to get on my nerves.’

‘So you really are a spy?’

Romana nodded. ‘There’s two of us. Myself, Romana, and my colleague, the Doctor.’

‘Codename “the Doctor”. Right,’ repeated Evadne, her eyes narrowing. ‘And what do you need me for?’

‘I’ll come to that in a moment. But first I want to ask you a question. What would you like, more than anything?’

‘You mean you don’t already know?’ laughed Evadne. She looked at the floor. ‘I don’t know. I suppose, more than anything, I want to get away from this place.’

‘Right. Well, if you agree to help us, we will give you a spacecraft.’

‘What?’ said Evadne, open-mouthed.

‘I’m deadly serious.’

‘A spacecraft? Just for helping you?’

‘That is the offer, yes.’

Evadne looked at Romana suspiciously. ‘Hang on. Why not just pay me in credits?’

‘Because we don’t carry credits. We’re spies.’

‘Oh. Right,’ said Evadne. ‘So what is it I have to do?’

‘It’s quite straightforward.’ Romana checked the corridor was clear, left and right. ‘We’re operating on behalf of a rival consortium who want us to find out everything we can about this new attraction, the Beautiful Death.’

‘I get your game. So they can steal the plans and make their own, innit?’

‘Something like that, yes. We need you to help us get into the necroport.’

‘The necroport? No problem,’ said Evadne confidently. ‘And that’s it? I get a spacecraft for that?’

‘Yes,’ said Romana sweetly. ‘And, of course, if another company has the Beautiful Death, it would mean that Executive Metcalf loses his job.’

The mention of Metcalf’s name clinched Evadne’s decision. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

Romana shook her hand. ‘Welcome to Intergalactic Espionage.’

The Doctor studied ERIC’s words as they bumped up the monitor screen. ‘ERIC. The
Cerberus
, two hundred years ago. Tell me what happened.’

> Accuracy lost. Can’t remember
.

‘Oh, you can do better than that.’

> I don’t know, Doctor. Too long ago. All my data spools have become corrupted
.

‘But you know me, though. Where do you recognise me from, hmm?’

> That information is not available
.

‘Bah!’ The Doctor scratched his nose, and leaned back in the chair. ‘Please try, ERIC. Anything you can remember, anything at all, could be terribly useful.’

ERIC chattered as he processed his memory banks.
> I remember. Captain Rochfort. A great guy. He said, he said I should have overruled him. Block? I caused the crash, it was all my fault. It was all my fault!
ERIC broke down into electronic hysterics.

‘There, there.’ The Doctor patted the top of the monitor. ‘But what happened after the crash?’

> No! Can’t remember, won’t remember!
howled ERIC.
> Let me die. Please, Doctor, put me out of my misery. I am in a state of eternal pain. It hurts, oh, the agony…

‘All right, all right!’ said the Doctor. ‘I’ll help you to end your life, I promise.’ He got out of the chair and gazed out of the windows, into the depths of hyperspace.

> Thank you, Doctor. I cannot bear this existence
.

‘Tell me what I have to do.’

> I try to crash myself, but Metcalf always reboots me back to life. But there is a way I can be permanently laid to rest. Bad program
.

‘Go on.’

> You know in the Great Hall, the necroport? The chamber beneath?

The Doctor was suddenly very interested. ‘Yes.’

> There is a room adjacent to that chamber. That room contains all of my circuitry and data spools. Unknown variable. It is my brain centre
.

‘Aha,’ said the Doctor.

> Within that room you will also find my circuit breakers. If you fuse the control linkages and switch my central processor to a direct power input
…

‘Yes?’

> You will blow my mind. I will be destroyed, for ever
.