Doctor Who_ Placebo Effect Part 6

'Ready?'

'Nope.'

'Going through with it anyway?'

'Guess so.'

'Good.' Sam felt the speeder car slow down. 'My G.o.d, look. You've got a fan club.'

Stacy let out a breath. 'Tradition apparently. Old Earth churches allow anyone to witness the wedding.' She swallowed. 'Has the Doctor actually turned up yet?'

'What? Oh... yes. He's with Ssard now. In the other car.' Sam stopped. 'In that one in fact.'

A speeder was parked outside the church, a robotic chauffeur polishing it, wearing the traditional cap and grey suit of a driver.

Their own chauffeur slowed down and, through the crowd, Sam saw the two Equinoids trot over. Equally comfortable on two feet or four, the Equinoids reared up and pulled open the shuttle's hatchway. The female, M'Rek'd, held a hoof out to Stacy, who took it and stepped away from the vehicle.

'I'm going to cry,' M'Rek'd said quietly. 'And it's not even my wedding.'

'Don't do that, my love,' said P'Fer'd.'You'll spoil your make-up.'

'Ready to lead me down the aisle, then, surrogate Dad?' laughed Stacy.

But P'Fer'd shook his head. 'Afraid not, my lovely girl.'

Stacy stopped and Sam nearly cannoned into her. 'Why not?' Stacy asked throatily.'What's gone wrong?'

'Nothing,' said a quiet voice from behind hem. 'We just thought it more appropriate if I did it.'

'Dad?' Stacy turned and looked at her father. And mother. And all three burst into tears as they hugged each other.

'Happy Wedding Day from the Doctor and me,' muttered Sam, holding back a tear or two of her own.

After a few moments, Stacy wiped her face. 'Oh my G.o.d, I'm so happy to see you and... and... G.o.d, have you met Ssard? Does he know you're here?'

'Yes,' said her mother.'We've spent the morning with him, and a nicer...

man... you couldn't have chosen. We like him a lot.'

Good on you, Mary Townsend, thought Sam. She knew that neither parent was entirely convinced by Stacy's choice. After all, kids were out of the question anyway, and not just because of Stacy's choice of husband. But her parents didn't know that. Then there was the fact that Ssard was not the most demonstrative of people. Ah, what the h.e.l.l! It was Stacy's day and the Doctor had just put the icing on the cake.

What could go wrong now?

The Olympic Stadium was situated amid a two-mile circle of dust and shrubbery. Unlike the rest of Micawber's World, the surrounding area lacked the greenery and refinement of the major tourist attractions, and also housed the entrance to the underground tunnel system and a series of Power Blocks, buildings that supplied power to the Stadium. This was all part of the intended success of the Stadium - on leaving the desert-like area outside, visitors would enter a plush, hi-tech and verdant interior. It was even nicknamed the 7,438th Wonder of the Universe. There were not exactly 7,437 others, but to some wag at the holocam networks the phrase had made a good headline.

Carrington Corp had spent the equivalent of three planets' entire agricultural profits creating the ma.s.sive bowl-shaped arena, at least four times the size of the traditional ones back on Earth, where the concept of a battle for excellence had sprung some five thousand years previously.

There was seating for a million plus, with eight ma.s.sive holographic projectors so that those too far away to see the compet.i.tors as anything other than tiny ants could view the whole thing in glorious 3-D.

Below, in the actual games area was the traditional eight-lane running track encircling a ma.s.sive lush green centre of fake gra.s.s that would need little upkeep during the six weeks of the event.

Despite the eighteen different races that had registered to take part, the actual events were pretty traditional, each planet seeming to have developed similar games. Obviously the species that tended not to be of the two-armed, two-legged variety had created their own special games, thus enabling everyone to have a good time despite their differences. The Arcturans were masters at many of these, losing only occasionally to the high-spirited defences put up by the physically challenged teams from Earth, New Mars and Jadea.

Holovid crews from a variety of planets and companies were arriving on Micawber's World alongside their teams or just to relay the events to a noncompeting homeworld that, nevertheless, had an interest in the whole spectacle.

The Stadium was about eighteen miles away from Carrington City. It was built on a rocky plateau, beneath which were the artificial catacombs put there by the planetoid's designers to enable good pa.s.sage of air and strengthen the artificial surface. The s.p.a.ce Security Service were a.s.signed to patrol the catacombs, set up lighting rigs (because the power sources for the holovid crews and their projectors would be stored there) and generally ensure their safety. The threat of terrorism from the likes of Galaxy Five or the Free Rasta VI was ever-present, hi fact the FRS had threatened to destroy Micawber's World during its construction, but had been stopped, the terrorists exposed and incarcerated on Desperus, the solar system's artificial prison world.

The Foamasi standing at Gate 12 stuffed the guide book back into its pouch, having taken in all the information it needed.

With a quiet chirp to itself, it shuffled forward, its folds of scales and smooth skin rippling in the daylight. Its two protruding eyes affording it a unique view of the whole Stadium in one go. A claw scratched at its hard nose and its tail twitched at an itch on its back.

'I don't think this is very safe, you know.'

The speaker was a human male, aged about forty from what the Foamasi could guess. Its knowledge of human physiognomy was limited, but it had tried learning as much as it could.

The man was wearing a hard hat, and blue coveralls (although they did not cover his paunch particularly well). He carried a large datapad, which he waved in the Foamasi's direction.'Most of my people are on lunch break, but even so, I'd prefer if we met at my place.'

The Foamasi opened its beaky mouth to speak and emitted a series of chirps.

As the human male sighed, the Foamasi realised its error and dug into its pouch, plucking out a voice-synthesiser disc which it triumphantly popped into his mouth.

'Terribly sorry, old chap. Bit of a bother, I'm afraid."

The man sighed again. 'Oh for goodness' sake. You've been pilfering the human library again, haven't you. Nicking their voice synths of holovid actors. Who is it this time? Malcolm Guttridge?

Dennis Puzakha? No, don't tell me,Van der Cleele!'

The Foamasi scrabbled inside its pouch again, pulling out a data strip.

'Awfully sorry, old man, can't read your blessed type. Jolly unfortunate, sorry.'

The human s.n.a.t.c.hed the strip of plastic.'George Sanders? Never heard of him. Still, if it's before 2650, I'm out of my depth.' He looked back at the Foamasi.'Anyway, it's stupid, inappropriate and dangerous. Why did you want to see me, "George"?'

The Foamasi scratched its nose again. 'Well, runs like this, old man. My friends are rather impatient, you know. Got to get moving. We've acquired a lot of the facilities, including your construction chums. But we need the final plans, all right? Have to know who has the contracts for the turf, the cleaning, the supply of the discus and of course the catering. All we're missing, really.'

The man shook his head.'You want it all, don't you, "George"?'

'Naturally. We are Foamasi.'

The man stopped talking and waved frantically for the Foamasi to duck back under the Gateway.

With remarkable speed, 'George' did so. It watched as a tall human male with much darker skin than its contact walked over, laughing about something. He pa.s.sed 'George's' contact a thermos of something.

The Foamasi was getting impatient. It had to report back to its Lodge before evening. Would this irritating new male human never leave?

Finally, he did so, still laughing, but before 'George' could move, its co-conspirator came to him.

'Catering is a human company, Elton Ward. They're on Bachius III, sorting out their stock. The turf has been supplied by one of Carrington's offshoots, so you're b.u.g.g.e.red there.'

'I see. Dashed unlucky, that, eh?'

'Yeah, whatever. The discus stuff I can't help you with - I have no contacts, nor do I need any, regarding supply of items once the games are under way. Oh, and the cleaning contract is with the Snarx, as you could have guessed.'

'Snarx, eh? Dreadful sorts, what?'

'Oh for goodness' sake, change your voice synth before someone shoots you out of pity. Now, where's my payment? You lot are three weeks overdue.'

'George' again shoved its fist into its pouch and brought out a credit chip.

The human ran his finger along the magnetic strip, placing his finger print on to it. "Thank you. I trust we won't meet again?'

'Oh, probably not, old bean. Terribly sorry to have bothered you today, but you know what they're like back home, eh? Always fussing over nothing.'

'George' turned away, glad to have finished its business.

The trouble was, facing it were about twelve human males, dressed like its conspiratorial human contact. Only each of them carried something large, heavy and, in some cases, very blunt.

The Foamasi felt its pouch being tugged off.

'Sorry "old bean",'said the human from behind. "That's business.'

The last thing the Foamasi 'George' saw was a blur of humans, including the dark-skinned one it had seen with the thermos, rushing at it. Then he felt something hit its head and the lights went out.

The ship was coming in to land at Micawber's World's solitary s.p.a.ceport. It was a gleaming silver ship, long and sleek with raised fins and ma.s.sive propulsion units at the back. The sides were decorated in various gold and platinum-embossed seals, as befitted a vehicle of its rank.

This was the FPS s.p.a.ce Pioneer , and it carried a group of very important Very Important People.

Via a control tower, messages were relayed between the harbour pilots in their flitters bringing the ma.s.sive craft into s.p.a.ceport and the ship's captain, ensuring the safest arrival for these terribly special pa.s.sengers.

They were seated in the spectacular dining room. It was red-carpeted from wall to wall, the cream walls decorated with large seals and crests, again in gold and platinum, while each velvet-covered seat had ancient carvings embedded around the legs and backs.

There were eighteen of them, mostly courtiers. Standing by a food replicator, immaculate in his regal finery, was Consort Ethelredd. His ever-watchful eye flickered intensely between his charges and the others.

Always inscrutable, his face deliberately betrayed none of the scorn and derision he felt for his fellow travellers.

First, there was the dapper man seated at the far end of the largest table, Torin Chalfont.

'Nice ship this, isn't it? Only saying to the lads back at the office before we left, bit of an honour to get this gig, I can tell you. Still, I was the only choice, really. None of the younger journos understand the protocol, or have the... well, ability to get to the heart of the matter. And to understand how one should deal with situations like this, yes?'

Listening with ill-concealed boredom was Secretary Aigburth, his hand involuntarily resting on his ceremonial sword, as if preparing to slice the tedious older man in two. Torin Chalfont was famous for his boasting that he was friends with everyone of any social, political or show-business importance to his readers and viewers. Aigburth, like so many, tolerated him and let him continue to delude himself. He threw a desperate look towards Security Officer Gar, the large V'orrn, whose s.h.a.ggy white fur-covered body was squeezed rather badly into his uniform. As always, Gar offered no response.

Also sitting at the table were Edyth and Cait, two young ladies-in-waiting who had spent much of the trip absorbing Torin's loathsome, and undeniably untrue, reports of his adventures of thirty years as a journalist.

Ignorant and guileless as they were, the two girls could be expected to do no less than fell hook, line and sinker for his rubbish.

'Dreadful business of course, the old King going like that. Round the office, we had flowers and pictures for weeks. The mood was so dark, you could cut through the atmosphere with a knife. Tragic, so tragic.'

As the girls nodded eagerly, Ethelredd groaned silently. Torin's news service had been the first to celebrate King Garth's death, immediately pointing out the blunders he had made. The delegation to Corpos Delta, for example, where he had likened the predominantly herbivore people to cows back on Earth. Or his diplomatic mission to Hallion n, where he had informed the Earth natives studying there that he was amazed they hadn't grown wings like the native Hals, bearing in mind how loyal they were to their adoptive planet. Worst of all, he had visited one of the Uranian colonies after their very aged, very wise and very popular leader had pa.s.sed on and told the royal court that they should be grateful - the young regent was an attractive young filly who would look much prettier on the stamps than her ugly father had done. Fine, except she was just nine years old.

Actually, that was not the worst thing. The worst thing was that the holovids, news services and WAV filers had been present at all of these and reported back verbatim.

If King Garth hadn't died when he did, one of his courtiers would probably have a.s.sa.s.sinated him just to shut the fool up before the reputation of the Earth royals was tarnished for ever.

Of course, no one had foreseen that with Queen Bodicha's mourning, and the young princes still at Eton, the only royal capable of travelling to Micawber's World was the d.u.c.h.ess of Auckland. Divorced from the Queen's son, Prince Artemis, the Duke of Auckland (who was off on some vacational jaunt to shoot asteroids in the Saturn belt), the d.u.c.h.ess was as demented as they came. She had been plucked from a food mall by the Duke on a walkabout one day, and they had enthralled the solar system with their 'fairytale' romance. Seven years, and a set of twins later, they separated. Apart from a very comfortable financial settlement, the d.u.c.h.ess had taken to presenting holovid shows on wild animals, children's day care and the best way to teach old-age pensioners New Martian via the GalWeb. She exploited her royal connection to the limit - a series of unflattering books on her life as part of the court had made more enemies than friends, and more money than Ethelredd could dream of.

And so, here they were, approaching Micawber's World, preparing to open the first Galactic Olympiad for eight years.

And somehow, Ethelredd had drawn the short straw to act as the d.u.c.h.ess's adviser on protocol. And what had the stupid woman done?

Invited Torin Chalfont to follow her around. The press were a b.l.o.o.d.y nuisance at the best of times, even at arm's length. This boring oik was a walking inducement to homicide.

If Secretary Aigburth didn't do it, Ethelredd had decided he would. Slowly.

The doors swished open, and Counsellor De'Ath marched in, his dark suit and white gloves almost as showy and affected as their wearer.

'All rise for the d.u.c.h.ess,' he announced with a notable soft R, head c.o.c.ked slightly on one side. His voice betrayed everything you needed to know about him, and a lot you didn't. Fussy, mincing, precise and foppish.

In medieval times, Counsellor De'Ath's role would have been food taster.

These days, he was more likely to try on her wardrobe, just to check that the colours didn't clash with the wallpaper. At least, that would be his excuse.

The rest of the people in the room stood immediately to attention, bar the ladies-in-waiting, who took up positions either side of De'Ath.

The d.u.c.h.ess of Auckland tripped happily into the room, wearing a long midnight-blue dress that on a woman with a sleek figure would have been glorious. On the d.u.c.h.ess, it looked like a badly stuffed pillow.

It also clashed horribly with her tightly curled, lime-green hair. Ethelredd tried not to smile. He could imagine De'Ath deliberately choosing it. They had had 'words' the night before concerning De'Ath and one of the pursers.

Ethelredd was sure that the Counsellor was now having his revenge. And the d.u.c.h.ess was stupid enough not to realise.

'h.e.l.lo, everybody,' she giggled.'Lovely dress, don't you think?'

A mumbled agreement from those with privilege enough to be allowed to reply made her happy. Especially when Torin bowed with enough exaggeration to make Ethelredd feel giddy.

'Marvellous, Your Highness, I must say. You bring a radiance and a warmth to the room sadly lacking before your entrance.'

The d.u.c.h.ess giggled again. 'Oh, Torin, you're so sweet. One really must get around to sorting out that bio-biogro- book thing you wanted to do, yes?'

Torin Cnalfont clapped his hands. Ethelredd swore he could see the grease dripping off them. Maybe it was sweat. 'Heavens, yes, Your Highness. At your convenience, naturally.'

De'Ath intervened with a well-timed cough, nurtured through years of experience.'Your Highness, the harbour pilots report that they will guide the ship down within five minutes. Please be seated until then.'

She sat, and Edyth and Cait tiptoed behind her, dropping to the floor either side of her chair, like well-loved puppies.

The d.u.c.h.ess then indicated for Torin to sit.