Doctor Who_ The Fall Of Yquatine Part 18

In Yendip Internment Centre, as with all things Yquatine, species mixed in bewildering variety. The Centre was roughly separated into human, reptilian, insectoid zones and so on, with appropriate gender segregation. Throughout the System's penal inst.i.tutions, prisoners were often seen as a captive labour force, and in some cases were exploited in the manufacture of various small items repet.i.tive, tedious work only a few stages above rock-breaking. In the best cases, training courses and avenues of study were thrown open to prison populations. Yendip Internment Centre fell in the latter category manual work was on offer for those who wanted it, but the main occupation of the Centre was translation. Translation of texts from Adamantean to Kukutsi, from Kukutsi to Eldrig, from human to Draconian and so on. With a huge pool of captive aliens and humans who weren't going anywhere for the foreseeable future, the Internment Centre was ideal for such a laborious, labour-intensive task. At the heart of the Centre was the Translation Room, a great big oblong s.p.a.ce of dusty air, dirty skylights, rows and rows of shelves, and desks arranged like a schoolroom, with inmates tapping away at terminals.

Fitz had volunteered for a translation job. but they soon realised he was bluffing, and transferred him instead to the library, where he stacked shelves, stamped books, disks and datachips, and largely read. He couldn't read anything other than Yquatine English, which was weird enough. Every sentence contained a word that was new to him and the grammar seemed overelaborate. There was a common System language, Minervan, which the various races of the System used to converse, and Fitz put himself to learning that, but it was slow going.

As for the evenings, Fitz lounged in his cell, using his portable entertainment centre, reading, or just lying on his bed doing nothing. He'd sampled Yquatine cinema, a very stylised, interactive experience which had left him more confused than entertained. He'd also tried the literature of the System and developed a taste for Adamantean poetry. It reminded him of the old Norse sagas he sometimes used to read on bleak winter days in Archway. He'd tried some contemporary Yquatine novels but they left him completely lost he didn't have the cultural capital to understand them, and felt adrift in their thin pages and closely packed text. And he couldn't find any p.o.r.nography. Was it outlawed, in these enlightened times? In the end, he'd decided that he was glad that books real, paper books you could read in bed and use to prop up wobbly tables still existed a thousand years in the future, even if he couldn't understand them.

He never socialised with the other prisoners except at mealtimes when contact was inevitable not wanting to make another friend he was going to lose in the attack. He withdrew into himself, becoming absorbed in his work to the point of brain death. He knew he was going to die, but it was as though it was going to happen to somebody else. He felt oddly relaxed about things. It scared him, and sometimes he'd wake in the night, screaming: Where are you, Fitz? Where's the old you? The you who would be scheming and skiving and trying to escape and being best muckers with Mr Big and smuggling in tobacco and p.o.r.nography from the outside? Where are you? Where have you gone?

It was this death, the death of his old self, the snuffing out of the spark of his personality, that would have him crying into his pillow in the small hours. Not his impending, inevitable actual death and the deaths of countless others. The death of Fitz Kreiner, Intergalactic Man of Mystery.

In this way Fitz wallowed in near-catatonic self-pity for almost a month. It wasn't entirely his fault like any internment centre worth its salt this one kept its inmates' water supply laced with personality suppressant drugs, just to be on the safe side.

And then, one day, it all changed.

Fitz had been sitting opposite Sorswo, a thin, sour-looking man of indeterminate age, and the closest Fitz had to a friend in the whole place. At meals, Fitz rarely looked up, keeping his eyes focused on the book splayed open in his lap, mechanically spooning the tasteless, rubbery food into his mouth. He was reading a book about the life of Julian de Yquatine, and he was quite getting into it. He'd frowned in irritation when Sorswo had started speaking to him, his sonorous voice a semitone higher than usual. But, when he realised what the man had said. he all but dropped the book to the red-andblue-tiled floor.

He looked up slowly. Sorswo was smiling a sly expression, hooded eyes beneath arched eyebrows.

'Sorry, what did you say?'

Sorswo's eyebrows inched a little higher. 'I merely asked you if you were going to volunteer.'

Fitz swallowed a glob of foodstuff. 'What for?'

Sorswo pointed to the cobwebbed, vaulted ceiling. 'They're asking for volunteers to go up there.'

Fitz frowned, looked to where Sorswo's bony finger pointed. Nothing but cobwebs. Fitz hated heights. 'No b.l.o.o.d.y way. I'm not cleaning that muck off they can put me in solitary before I do that!'

Sorswo laced his fingers together and chuckled a dry little chuckle that seemed to come from deep within him. He was a tall, cadaverous fellow with short, curly black hair and a beard flecked with white. He was in for some tax fraud which he'd explained to Fitz one day. It was of such labyrinthine complication and so steeped in alien financial jargon that Fitz had quickly developed a headache. Sorswo had a dry sense of humour which Fitz could identify with, and he never seemed to let anything surprise or faze him. 'I don't mean the ceiling. I mean beyond the ceiling.'

Fitz finished his meal and pushed the bowl aside, suddenly loath to talk to Sorswo. The man was in one of his playfully obtuse moods and was probably setting Fitz up for an elaborate joke only he, Sorswo, would get.

Sorswo smiled satanically. 'Well, are you going to volunteer?'

Fitz decided to throw it back at him. 'Are you?'

'I already have,' said Sorswo, sitting back in his chair and stretching his arms. 'If my number comes up I'm off to the moon,' he said through a languid yawn.

Fitz had half risen from his chair, planning to go back to the rec room to finish the de Yquatine book, but on hearing this he sat back down and leaned across the table, suddenly extremely interested in what Sorswo had to say. 'The moon?'

Sorswo nodded. 'Some company's setting up on Muath and they're such a bunch of misers that they're planning to use the cheapest form of labour there is.' He pointed a finger at his thin chest. 'Us. Me, hopefully.'

Fitz's mind raced or rather tried to. His mental processes were so sluggish these days. It boiled down to: if he went to the moon he could cheat fate, escape the fall of Yquatine. 'How how can I volunteer for this?'

Sorswo waved a hand. 'Go and see Dakrius. He'll take your name and they'll draw lots at breakfast tomorrow.'

Dakrius was the officer in charge of their section, a stout, uncompromising Adamantean. 'Why do you want to go?'

Sorswo scratched his nose. 'Oh, just for the variety. Gets so dull in here. It's been ten years since I've been in s.p.a.ce.'

Fitz was already out of his chair, intending to visit Dakrius in his cavelike office.

'Where are you going in such a hurry?'

Fitz leaned over the table. 'I'm going to volunteer, of course. This is just what I've been waiting for!'

That had been yesterday. Dakrius had solemnly taken his name and told him that the thirty successful volunteers would be shuttled to Muath the day after the draw, pending a medical to verify their fitness for the task.

The medical. Fitz looked at his pallid face in the mirror. Somehow, he'd put on weight. He felt flabby and lethargic. There was still the best part of an hour to go before breakfast, and Fitz spent the time stretching his muscles and sweating like a b.a.s.t.a.r.d doing improvised, panicky exercises.

Soon the hour was up. Fitz washed his face and sweat-soaked hair. Nothing he could do about the damp patches under his arms. Oh well, he'd just have to smell.

At the appointed time the door to the cell automatically clunked open and Fitz walked out on to the walkway and down the stairs to breakfast.

The mess hall was long and narrow with three rows of tables along its length and prison guards pacing up and down keeping an eye on their charges. You were meant to sit at an allotted s.p.a.ce according to your cell number, but a certain amount of moving about was overlooked as long as you were discreet about it.

Fitz sat down opposite Sorswo.

Sorswo waved a hand in front of his nose. 'You're particularly ponglorious this morning, friend. What have have you been up to?' you been up to?'

Fitz grinned. 'Sweating. A lot.'

The food was usually served by scuttling Kukutsi cooks, but that morning there was a delay. Dakrius appeared on the walkway above, his glittering frame reflecting the harsh overhead lights. His voice rumbled out along the mess hall, echoing off the stone walls. 'No doubt you are all awaiting the results of the lottery: he said. 'Some of you will be going to Muath this afternoon. There are, sadly, no other prizes.'

There were a few laughs and shouted comments.

Fitz exchanged glances with Sorswo. The man's dark-brown eyes were tense, the brows pulled down, wrinkling his high forehead. 'Get on with it, you silicon-based swine.' he muttered. just loud enough for Fitz to hear.

'The following human prisoners have been selected to join the working party on Muath: Seth Jayd, Fitz Kreiner, Rufus Sorswo...'

There were other names, but Fitz didn't hear them. He leapt up from the bench. 'Whoo-hoo,' he yelled.

A guard stepped forward and shoved him back down into his seat.

Sorswo had broken into a grin which split his beard in two. 'Well, my friend, it looks like we're going to have the pleasure of each other's company on this little excursion!'

Fitz felt light-headed and giddy with relief. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. This is the first lottery I've ever won!'

Chittering Kukutsi cooks appeared behind clattering trolleys bearing bowls of morning slop.

Fitz tucked in, grinning inanely. 'Do you know how I feel?' he said between mouthfuls. 'Over the moon!'

Things were looking up. The old Fitz was starting to emerge, slowly bit by bit but surely.

Later, back in his room, Fitz could hardly contain himself. He laughed, he shouted, he cried, not caring who heard. Not caring that they thought he was mad to be so elated over doing a bit of work on the moon. They didn't know what he knew. They didn't know they were all going to die and he was getting out of here!

A moment of guilt. Should he tell them? Tell them that, in a few days, Yquatine was going to be destroyed? No if he did, they would probably take him off the work detail, send him to the psychiatric wing. Then there would be no escape and he'd die along with the rest of them.

He walked up to his window. It was a beautiful Yquatine summer's day. Even the blighted exercise ground looked cheery: small weeds had pushed their way through the cracks and produced bright spots of colour, welcoming the sun.

The sight both cheered and depressed Fitz. h.e.l.l, this was driving him b.l.o.o.d.y crazy! Total Ca.s.sandra complex, only worse. The Ca.s.sandra of legend was doomed to know the future with not a soul believing her. Fitz was doomed to know the future and dare not tell anybody in case he brought about that future.

He looked at the small weeds as they drank in the sun. For the first time in weeks, he thought of Arielle really thought of her, her long honey-coloured hair, the way she'd roll her eyes, the photo of her as a teenager. If she was still in her coma she was as helpless as these plants, rooted in the Yquatine soil, unable to move. He couldn't help the tears and he let them flow freely down his face.

Interlude 2 Eternal FEAR Compa.s.sion was doomed to travel for ever, never going where she wanted, never knowing where she would materialise next. She would never see the Doctor or Fitz again.

After escaping the Anthaurk, she'd tumbled through the vortex, not knowing what to do. She hadn't accomplished anything on New Anthaur. She'd tried to make the Anthaurk see reason, tried to turn them away from war, but it was in their blood. They were a species so steeped in warfare that to Compa.s.sion it was a miracle that there had been a century of peace in the Minerva System. She shelved all thoughts of testing her powers, trying to alter the future. That would have to wait. Her main priority was the mastering of the Randomiser circuit. She had to gain control.

She quickly found that this was going to be extremely difficult, if not impossible. The Randomiser was now so deeply embedded that she couldn't enter or leave the vortex without activating the foreign circuit. When dematerialising, it would drag her into the vortex, already trying to send her to some random destination. If she acted quickly enough she could momentarily cut power to all her circuits, including the Randomiser, and she could drift in the vortex for a while. This seemed to be the only way to temporarily bypa.s.s the thing, and it was dangerous, frightening like dying for a brief, fleeting moment but it was the only way she could prevent herself from being dragged screaming to an unknown destination.

And so the s.p.a.ce-time vortex became her only place of refuge. Some refuge. Drifting in the vortex wasn't pleasant, or maybe she wasn't used to it, or maybe only non sentient TARDISes could stand it, which was why they were nonsentient. It was as though her eyes had been scooped out and replaced by a million kaleidoscoping mirrors. She could stand it only so much, so she had to materialise somewhere. But every time she tried to set coordinates, begin to focus her mind and energies on the task, the Randomiser would kick in, wresting control away, taking her to a destination chosen blindly from an infinity of possibilities. She'd find herself thrust to the rear of her own mind, relegated to the back seat, while the Randomiser took control.

And so she'd find herself in the middle of a situation she'd immediately have to deal with or escape from. Or sometimes just some slab of rock in s.p.a.ce, but the Randomiser seemed annoyingly attracted to inhabited planets and dangerous situations. The first trip after New Anthaur had taken her to a smoke-choked trench in the middle of a war zone, sh.e.l.ls exploding frighteningly near, splattering her cloak with mud She'd got out of that one quick Focus, Engage, Artron surge. Randomiser (not that she could control the last). Then, a jagged, hurtling, airless asteroid. No point hanging round there, so FEAR. Then in the middle of a board meeting, the congregation of suits and haircuts all gaping at her as she materialised in the middle of their great big shiny table. How embarra.s.sing. FEAR. Then somewhere dazzlingly bright and hot, where incredible creatures like flower-headed lions in armour plating reared up over her. FEAR. Then on a damp gra.s.sy hillside, having her face licked by a giant singing b.u.t.terfly. Nice, for a while. But then, FEAR.

And other places, other times, with no control over where she was going. The maddening thing was she knew there must be a way to bypa.s.s the Randomiser. It was, surely, supposed to work in conjunction with her, so that it would activate only when she wanted it to. Surely the Doctor didn't intend an endless, crazy flight through Time and s.p.a.ce with no idea where he was going next. That was madness. There had to be a way around the Randomiser, but she was too new, she didn't know enough about herself, to be able to find it. And maybe she never would. She'd done everything she could to expunge it. but every time she touched it she drowned in pain.

Once she'd found herself in a human child's bedroom at night. A small room with a bunk bed, festooned with football posters and cluttered with toy cars and games. She'd watched the little boy sleeping, so peaceful, so innocent, so free, wondering what it was like to mother a child. She'd remained there for quite a while, until reluctantly consigning herself once more to the infinite golden throat of the vortex. FEAR.

And so she flew through the vortex again, growing ever more desperate. Maybe, if she travelled for long enough, she'd eventually b.u.mp into the Doctor or Fitz, or someone who could help her. But that may not be for centuries, or longer. Until then, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR.

Chapter Eighteen.

'We don't need your help anymore'

The Doctor and President Vargeld stood on the observation deck of s.p.a.cedock One and watched as the ships prepared to leave for Yquatine.

'I still think this is a bad idea, you know,' said the Doctor gently.

'Say that again and I'll have you locked up,' said the President lightly.

The Doctor glanced at him. His jaw was set, resolute, his gaze fixed on the departing fleets. 'You don't trust me, do you? Why is that?' President Vargeld didn't move or speak. 'You think I'm still in the thrall of the Omnethoth, don't you? Well. I'm not.' He sighed. 'You have to believe me.'

'I don't trust you because I don't know you.' The President turned to face the Doctor. 'You say you were at my inauguration. but I've checked. No one matching your description was there.

The Doctor scratched his nose. 'Yes, well...'

President Vargeld continued. 'You turn up from nowhere, and swan around acting like you're in control. Well. I'm in control.' He pointed at the departing ships. 'I'm taking action.'

'Well, it's the wrong action!' said the Doctor hotly. His voice became earnest. 'Let me try out my theory on our captive Omnethoth.'

'Station scientists are carrying out their own tests.' said the President smoothly.

The Doctor folded his arms. 'Yes, well that's very nice. but I could do in minutes what would probably take them weeks.'

A half-smile twisted across Vargeld's face. 'We'll see.'

Something moved at the edge of the Doctor's vision and he turned to see a fleet of Anthaurk ships speeding into the night, departing from a s.p.a.cedock further along the crescent of Aloysius. Even they had agreed to help in the bombardment of Yquatine, all hostility apparently forgotten. Or so it seemed. The Doctor was keeping a watchful eye on the Anthaurk for all he knew, it could have been they who had discovered the Omnethoth, found out what it was and used it as a weapon. They were a fiercely militaristic race. It was a possibility.

'You know, I've been thinking,' said the President, half to himself, 'about what someone said to me, a month or so ago. Something about Yquatine being attacked, destroyed. It's been bugging me. How did he know?'

The Doctor watched the Anthaurk ships recede into invisibility, Vargeld's words floating about the edges of his perception. Something about them set alarm bells ringing.

As if in a daze, he turned to the President, grabbing his arm. 'Who told you that?'

The President pulled away. 'A prisoner.'

The Doctor waggled his fingers in front of the President's face, as if trying to tickle the words out of him. 'Tell me more!'

The President's youthful face grew hard, truculent. 'What?'

The Doctor put on his most disarming smile and most relaxed, casual manner. 'Sounds interesting, I mean. Someone being able to tell the future like that.'

President Vargeld remained noncommittal. 'Maybe it was a lucky guess.'

Oh, open up, man! The gravity of the situation the possible damage to the timelines made it impossible for the Doctor to relax. 'Maybe, but this could be very, very important. Please, I need to know more. What was his name?'

President Vargeld's look hardened. He clearly had no love for this prisoner. 'His name was Fitz Kreiner.'

The Doctor felt as if he had been rooted to the spot by a shaft of ice. A picture was forming in his mind, like a half-remembered nightmare. Something he would rather not face. He rubbed his hands together, trying to regain his composure. 'Fitz Kreiner is a friend of mine. Where is he now?'

'A friend of yours?' Vargeld looked at the Doctor sharply, his voice suddenly hoa.r.s.e with anger. 'You're telling me you were mixed up with what he did?'

'Just tell me where he is now!' bellowed the Doctor.

'He's nowhere now.'

The Doctor feared the worst. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that as far as I know he was still in Yendip Internment Centre on the day of the attack. He would have died along with everyone else.'

Vargeld sounded pleased. The Doctor closed his eyes. Another companion gone. Hope was a stupid thing. The glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel that was either the oncoming train or the torturer returning for a another session. He opened his eyes. 'What was he in prison for?'

'He kidnapped Arielle. Took her away from me. I never found out what was really going on.' A sigh between clenched teeth. 'Suppose I'll never know.'