Doctor Who_ The Deviant Strain Part 4

'Course you do.'

So they sat in the back of the large car as Sofia drove the short, b.u.mpy way back to the stones on the cliff top.

'Why do I want to see the village?' Rose asked.

'Have a look round, ask a few questions. I dunno, see what you can find out?'

'What about?'

'You need to find that out too.'

'Dead people?'

'I don't think this is the first time it's happened. I don't think it's a coincidence it's happened now, all right?'

'All right.' She wasn't convinced.

'Anyway, it'll be fun.'

'Oh yeah?

'Yeah. Rose Tyler Special Investigator.'

'What sort of t.i.tle is that?' she said with a laugh. Then another thought occurred to her. 'Hey, why don't they think I've got a strange name? I mean, it's not very Russian, is it?'

'It's like you hearing what they say but not how they say it. What the TARDIS does for you,' the Doctor explained, keeping his voice low. They were almost at the stones now and Barinska was swinging the car in a wide arc, slowing down. 'You hear English from them, they hear Russian from you, including your name. It just sort of fits.'

'You mean, I'm like Rosetska Tylerov or something?'

'Don't look at me. I'm probably Doctorsky.'

She thought about this and laughed again.

But the Doctor was already climbing out of the car. 'See you, then.'

'Where?'

He shrugged. 'Around.' He closed the door.

'Hey, wait.' She was talking to Sofia. 'I'll join you.' Rose climbed through into the front of the car and sat down in the pa.s.senger seat. 'Thanks for the ride.'

Sofia barely glanced at her. But for the first time there was the trace of a friendly smile on her face.

He was right, it was good to be rid of the poor girl. Jack was glad it was over. He tried to joke with Sergeyev, but the Russian soldier refused to be drawn.

'Hey, look, sorry I bawled you out. I've had a bad day. I know you have too. But it's all sorted now, right?'

Sergeyev nodded without looking at him.

'Good man.' Jack grinned. 'Let's get this show on the road, then, eh?'

But as they drove off to join the rest of the squad, Jack couldn't help but remember the face of the man who'd opened the door to them. The man who had led the silent, expressionless, aged girl inside. The man who was himself aged long past his real years, but by the climate and the life he was scratching out for them both. The face of a man whose whole purpose in life had just been taken from him and replaced by a very different commitment.

A man with no hope left. And no daughter.

THREE.

The whole submarine smelled of rust and oil and salt and diesel fuel. Nikolai Stresnev adjusted the regulator and listened to the tone of the old generator change slightly. None of the gauges worked any more, so he had to do it all from the sound the thing made.

Long ago, he used to play the violin. But the last of his strings had broken many years before and there was no chance of getting replacements. Sitting on the cold, wet metal floor beside the generator, he often thought he could hear the music echoing through the damp corridors of the old sub. But not today. Today all he could hear was the faint cry of the wind from outside. When it was from the east, it caught the conning tower, funnelled down through the open hatchway and into the structure. When there was a fierce storm, the whole sub shook and rolled, and Nikolai could feel the wind in his hair even in the generator room.

But he couldn't close the hatch behind him. For one thing, it was rusted open the hinges welded solid by the action of salt water over time. For another, the main cables had been run from the control systems back through the hatch and linked up to the village power supply. Since the docks had closed and the troops left, the original generating equipment had failed and decayed. It wouldn't be long before this last diesel generator failed too. What then, Nikolai wondered? Some of the villagers had suggested they could fire up a generator on one of the other subs. But this was the last diesel boat the others were all nuclear. It might work, it might even work safely. But Nikolai had made it very clear that they could find someone else to do it.

There were only two places in the village that were truly warm. This was one of them snuggled down next to the running generator. The other was the inn on the quayside. It used to be the harbourmaster's office back in the old days. Now it was inn, community centre and town hall all rolled into one.

So when he picked up his flask and found that the last scalding drops of vodka were gone, it wasn't much of a decision where to go for the rest of the afternoon. He scratched at his ear a rapid, jerky movement like a dog angered by fleas. The generator was running smoothly: it had a full tank and wouldn't need attention until the evening. He pulled himself to his feet and made his way along the narrow corridor, careful to duck under the exposed pipework. Rust was flaking from the walls and water dripped constantly from the ceiling. It was touch and go which gave out first the generator or the whole infrastructure of the submarine.

The breeze hit at Nikolai's face as he reached the top of the ladder and emerged from the hatch. There were flakes of snow in the air, twisting and turning lazily on their way to the ground. He could hear the faint whistle of the breeze round the other submarines. Like mermaids singing, he used to think. Now he barely noticed it.

Except now it was different. There was something else. He paused, listening, trying to make out what the difference was a slithering, sc.r.a.ping sound. Like something heavy but wet being dragged across the ice on the other side of the sub. But when he crossed the tower and leaned out to take a look, there was nothing. Just the thin, broken ice and the near*frozen water lapping gently at the rusty hulk of dark metal. Large chunks of broken ice clunked against the sides of the sub, as if the inlet was a huge gla.s.s of iced vodka.

With that thought in the front of his mind, Nikolai climbed down to the deck, jumped across to the quay and made his way past the abandoned submarines and forgotten derricks and cranes towards the inn.

It was a pleasant walk back from the stone circle to the scientific base. The inst.i.tute was squat and ugly and concrete just the sort of place you'd expect people in starched white coats to be cultivating extremely nasty biological weapons or irradiating poor guinea pigs in the name of science, the Doctor thought.

The two soldiers at the gates into the compound snapped to attention as the Doctor sauntered past. He resisted the temptation to salute and grinned happily at them instead.

Same story with the two guards at the door. It was an impressive door, riveted metal. 'That'd keep a nuclear blast out, that would,' the Doctor lied jovially. But it occurred to him that its purpose might be not to keep unpleasant things out but rather to keep them inside.

Klebanov was in what seemed to be the main laboratory. He was working alone and made a point of standing in front of the array of test tubes and flasks organised across the workbench when the Doctor came in.

'Thought you were a physicist,' the Doctor said. 'And shouldn't you have a white coat?'

'We are informal here,' Klebanov told him warily. He obviously thought the Doctor was a threat. Probably a political one.

'I'm not here to close you down, you know. You've nothing to worry about. And I'm not going to steal your research either, whatever it is.'

'I am multi*disciplinary,' Klebanov replied.

'Typical scientist,' the Doctor joked. 'Always ready with his retort.'

Klebanov didn't laugh. Maybe it lost something in translation.

The Doctor went on, 'I'm after a microscope. Ideally scanning electron. Possibly pseudo*quantum*enabled.' No response. 'With flashing lights and stuff.'

'Talk to Minin,' Klebanov told him. 'He handles the supplies.'

'And the admin,' the Doctor remarked.

'And the monkeys.'

'What?' The Doctor turned to see who had spoken.

It was Boris Brodsky, standing in the doorway behind them. He gave a short laugh. 'Just joking. He'll be in his office.'

'Ta.'

Brodsky gave the Doctor directions, while Klebanov went back to his flasks and test tubes.

The Doctor had his own test tube. Inside was lodged a tiny sliver of material he'd managed, after considerable effort, to dislodge from one of the standing stones. It looked just like rock with veins of quartz through it. Maybe that's all it was, but a microscope would tell him. He rattled the test tube to announce his presence to Minin as he walked into his office.

Alex Minin was standing at his desk, looking intently at an open folder of papers. He turned a page, looked up and, after a moment's hesitation, closed the folder. 'Can I help you, Doctor?'

'You ever heard of a pseudo*quantum microscope?'

Minin shook his head. 'I'm not a scientist. But, no, I haven't.'

'Neither have I,' the Doctor confessed. 'And I am a scientist. So if someone asked me for one I'd tell them they were talking rubbish, not send them to the stores.'

After a pause, Minin said, 'I'm sorry, was that it? Only I'm a bit...'

'Busy?' the Doctor nodded. He stepped up to the desk and examined some of the papers beside the closed folder requisitions and purchase orders. 'Must take a lot of time running a place like this. Three staff and you, no urgency for supplies, no one interested in sending any anyway. It's the cleaning roster that takes the time, is it?'

Minin's eyes narrowed. 'It's because no one cares that it takes the time. We have to eat, we need clothes and fuel and, yes, even brushes and mops. You'd be surprised how much we need to keep us going.'

'Yeah. I guess the difficult thing is getting the balance. Ordering enough to help the villagers while not drawing attention. Does Klebanov know?'

Minin's surprise turned into a snort of derision. 'He knows nothing.'

'You could be right about that. But tell me why are you so unpopular?'

Minin slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair before sitting down behind the desk. The Doctor cleared a pile of books off the only other chair and sat down too. The books seemed to be logbooks and they were quite old, which was interesting.

'I was the political officer here, in the old days. It was my job to make sure everyone toed the party line. It was my job to report anyone who spoke carelessly about their work, or was seen with someone they had no business to be with, or who sneezed during the national anthem. They all quietly resented it, of course. But they couldn't complain because I reported them for that too.'

'And now they openly resent it.'

'Wouldn't you?'

He opened a drawer and took out two small gla.s.ses and a half*empty bottle of vodka. As he reached in, his sleeve pulled back and the Doctor could see a dark mark on his arm the edge of a tattoo.

'So why stay here?'

'No one wanted me back in Moscow. Easier to leave me here and forget about me. I have no skills apart from betraying the trust of my fellows.'

'Oh, don't belittle yourself.' The Doctor accepted the gla.s.s of clear liquid and examined it. 'What about despondency, regret, depression?'

'I can do those too,' Minin admitted. He knocked back his vodka and grimaced at the taste and the burn in his throat. 'I wanted to be a teacher,' he said quietly.

'We're all teachers,' the Doctor told him. 'I'd like to learn about this.' He held up the test tube. 'So I need a microscope. The bigger and flashier the better.'

'Shouldn't be a problem.' Minin picked up the bottle. He hesitated a moment, then shoved it back into the drawer. 'Why are you here, Doctor?'

'Microscope.'

'That's not what I meant.'

'I know.'

'And?'

The Doctor shrugged. 'I dunno. Like you, I'm interested in history. I want to help.'

'History? How did you...' Minin's face cleared. 'Ah the logbooks.'

'And the maps and the notebooks and the file you don't want me to see.'

'It's what I do to pa.s.s the time,' Minin admitted. 'I've researched the history of Novrosk ever since I came here. Needed something to hide in, an escape.'

'Interesting?'

'Yes, actually.' Minin's face seemed to come to life with enthusiasm as he leaned across the desk. 'Before the navy came, this was an old whaling station, you know. Some of the villagers still here can trace their ancestry back to those original whalers. Or rather, they could if they bothered.'

'Lots of colour, lots of local background,' the Doctor suggested.

Minin was nodding in agreement.

'Lots of local legends?'

Minin froze. 'Ah. You know.'

'I do now. Lucky guess. Something Barinska said. Tell me about the Vourdulak.'

Minin stood up, his hand at his mouth as if ready to catch any unconsidered words. 'It's just a story,' he said at last. 'The sort of legend that springs up in any community like this isolated and old. Probably there's some truth, some event, at the root of it. An unfortunate accident, an unexplained death that they tried to rationalise.'

'Go on.'

'The locals believe that somewhere on the peninsula is a Vourdulak, a sort of vampire. Actually more like a siren a seemingly beautiful young girl who entraps the unwary and then drains their energy to keep herself young and beautiful, whereas in fact she is old and ugly...'