Dr. Who - BBC New Series 45 Read online

‘Ahhh…’

  ‘In various capacities. Dancing, waitressing, bar-tending… But it’s a man’s world, if you know what I mean. So you,’ and he looked at Amy, ‘will need to watch your step.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she retorted. ‘If some bloke thinks he’s going to treat me like…’

  ‘Pond!’ The Doctor pointed a stern but warning finger.

  ‘Let’s not go there. We take alien races as we find them.

  Well, unless they’re invading some poor defenceless planet. Or developing dangerous time-travel technology.

  Or…’ He waved his hand as if to dismiss the distraction.

  ‘Anyway, the point is that eventually they’ll see the error of their ways, but it’s not our responsibility to make that change for them.’

  The Doctor turned to Rory. ‘For the same reason, these Outer Rim platforms also attract people who are not involved in honest work. I’m talking smugglers, gamblers - all kinds of criminals. So you’ll need to watch your step as well.’

  Rory sniffed. ‘Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea?’

  The Doctor moved to the console. ‘You can stay in the TARDIS if you want. But this particular platform, LP9, is policed by an old friend of mine. He won’t let things get too out of hand. If we mind our manners and keep a low profile, everything should be fine. In fact, it should be quite an experience. Think of it as being like a galactic Wild West town.’

  ‘Who is your old friend?’ Amy wondered. ‘Wyatt Earp?’

  The Doctor smiled. ‘He makes Wyatt Earp look like a nursery teacher.’

  ‘Typical,’ she said. ‘There’s always someone who has to spoil things.’

  That night, Harry took pains to disguise himself, using boot polish to darken his beard and moustache, and pulling on a woolly black cap, black knitted gloves and a heavy donkey jacket.

  He made these preparations in front of the living room mirror, because Dora wasn’t there. As was her way midweek, she’d dozed for most of the evening on the settee, before heading up to bed at around nine o’clock.

  Sophie wasn’t around either. Earlier that evening, she’d grudgingly replied to her mother’s phone calls to say that she was ‘going with Baz to a gig’. When asked by Dora how she was paying for it (and presumably for Baz), Sophie had replied that she’d be using her EMA, despite its main purpose being to aid with her travel costs to and from college. This was something she didn’t want to do but had no choice about, she said, her tone implying that it was all her parents’ fault for not giving her an extra allowance. When Dora had replied that Sophie ought to get a part-time job like most of her friends, Sophie had cut the call.

  Harry wasn’t concerned. He’d long ago given up trying to impose discipline on his daughter; her scornful defiance of everything he said had reminded him once too often of his own inadequacies. Likewise, he’d stopped being exasperated by the calm manner with which his wife accepted Sophie’s wayward lifestyle. If Dora wanted to believe that this unprovoked rebelliousness was genuinely nothing more than ‘an assertion of teen independence’, that was up to her. For the moment, he was simply glad the two them weren’t around to interfere.

  He picked up his holdall. It contained a rope and grapple, an electric torch, a pair of bolt-cutters, a screwdriver, a roll of duct tape and some surgical gloves: in short, a burglary kit. His spine chilled as the reality of what he was doing washed over him.

  He’d been a police officer for eighteen years; he’d given law enforcement the best part of his life. It was difficult to see how he had finally come to this.

  Two voices argued inside his head. One said that he was taking too much of a risk. Regardless of the rights and wrongs, getting caught tonight would be the last thing he’d need; it would give him a criminal record at a time when he was trying to get back on his feet. The other contested that risks were sometimes necessary. He’d taken countless as a cop; he’d bent the rules on numerous occasions during his service, and it had helped him secure some of his best arrests. And this would be no different.

  OK, he’d be forcing entry to someone else’s property, and doing damage; by the letter of the law, yes, he would be committing burglary. But this was an end to a greater means. If he could show Grant Pangborne that he needed a security man on the site - a week before ringing up and asking for his old job back - it had to be worth it The longest unbroken stretch of the journey there was on the Circle Line. At this late hour, Harry rode in his compartment alone. One deserted platform after another flickered by, scrap paper blowing in the breeze. He only saw handfuls of commuters: the odd gang of teenagers; the occasional dishevelled businessman. Not the sort he’d expect a problem from, but even so he couldn’t help wondering if they suspected that he was up to no good.

  Maybe all villains felt this way when going to do a job.

  A job.

  Again, he went cold.

  He reminded himself what had happened with Peoplefind. He’d been out of the police a year when he’d put in his application form to them. They were a private recruitment agency, who specialised in allocating unskilled and semi-skilled labour across the capital. Most of the time they were only able to provide applicants with short or part-time contracts, but this was better than earning nothing. Even so, Harry, with his track record, hadn’t expected that they’d be able to help him. But after only one interview with Grant Pangborne - the MD of Peoplefind - he’d been startled to be offered work on the site itself, providing security. It was a surprise they hadn’t already hired someone to fill that role. Presumably they previously hadn’t thought there’d be anything on site to make it worth a thief’s while breaking in, though most likely insurance issues had finally necessitated that they appoint someone.

  Harry had still worried that Pangborne would be

  deterred from employing him by the circumstances of -

  his enforced departure from the Met, but far from it.

  Apparently, Pangborne had felt that Harry was ‘just the right man’ - what exactly that meant when Harry had such a tainted record was difficult to fathom. But of course he’d taken the job, and everything had gone swimmingly for the next three months. He’d worked to the best of his ability, scrutinising everyone who came on site, keeping accurate records, even attempting to arrange the installation of CCTV and a better alarm system.

  Maybe it was his imagination, but it was this last thing that had seemed to tip the balance against him. During the course of the three months, the more efficient Harry had been the more frustrated he felt Grant Pangborne had become with his performance. When his initial contract had expired, Pangborne had shown no hesitation in informing Harry that they wouldn’t be renewing it.

  They’d decided that having a full-time security officer at such a small depot was an expensive luxury.

  Even now, Harry was bewildered. Grant Pangborne, who wore a Rolex watch and only the most chic Armani suits, and who arrived at his office each morning in a Bentley, had never struck him as being financially strapped. Of course, rich men didn’t get rich by spending money unless they absolutely needed to. Well - and about this Harry suddenly felt grimly determined - Grant Pangborne was about to wake up to the reality of need.

  The Torodon were basically humanoid, with two legs, two arms, a head, torso and so on. But they were of larger, stockier build than the average human, and moved with leonine grace - even the women’s physiques suggested impressive strength. They had shaggy white hair and a silvery skin-tone, both of which contrasted sharply with their piercing blue eyes.

  Most Torodon males wore a basic bodysuit of shiny, elastic material, but over the top of that all kinds of extra, heavy-duty clothing: capes and bandoliers, hauberks that were belted and harnessed, clumping, steel-clad boots and thick woollen leggings. From the scuffs and stains that streaked these rough-and-ready garments, they were work uniforms. Evidently, those wearing them were here taking a break from whatever mine, factory or space refinery they toiled in. The Torodon females wore considerably less, i
n many cases little more than the figure-hugging bodysuits, but also stiletto heels and rainbow-coloured facial make-up that would not have been out of place on Earth during the 1980s. They dripped with jewellery, and wore their hair dyed and styled with astonishing extravagance.

  That said, three plainly dressed strangers didn’t attract much attention.

  ‘No one’s batted an eyelid at us,’ Rory said, as they threaded along a noisy street.

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘The Torodon Confederation spans several star systems, and they exploit all their natural resources. That means they have a colossal workload, and not enough workers. So they import loads of immigrant labour.’

  It was true that there were different species loitering around: reptilians, insectoids. There was also a very diminutive group - hunched, shrewish figures, grey-skinned and often with distorted features - who limped about, pushing carts or carrying packages. One blundered into them, and Amy grimaced when she saw him up close; his facial features were badly malformed - they’d almost melted into each other.

  ‘Ex-convict,’ the Doctor said, once the pathetic figure had hurried on his way. ‘The Torodon have always used convict labour. Any planet where they have implemented heavy industry, there are work camps. These are the remnants of those who worked the sulphur quarries on Gorgoror. The neuro-toxins in the air eventually had a catastrophic effect.’

  ‘Those creatures were once Torodon?’ Amy asked, horrified.

  ‘It’s no surprise there were riots,’ the Doctor said.

  ‘The Gorgoror prison facility was destroyed more than

  once by its inmates. The final uprising was interrupted by a major earthquake, so the whole complex had to close permanently. But there were plenty of emergencies before that. The last convicts were sent to these Outer Rim leisure platforms to work as menials. They still don’t have much of a life.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the Torodon,’ Amy said.

  ‘Oh, every race has skeletons in its closets. In the case of the Bone Hoarders of Nebulo Beta, quite literally in fact. But don’t be too quick to judge.’

  Every few metres, arched entrances gave through to spacious interiors filled with lurid lighting and wild shouting. No doubt these were bars, nightclubs, casinos and so on. Outside them, flamboyantly clad Torodon girls catcalled to the men. There were similarly tacky displays on the street: rickety stalls gaudily coloured and crammed with curios, displays of impromptu street theatre, in which jugglers performed alongside acrobats and fire-eaters. Every so often, Torodon police officers would press through the crowd in globular, visored helms and body armour consisting mainly of articulated black plate.

  Like everyone else, the cops seemed oblivious to the rainwater streaming off them. Both Rory and Amy, on stepping outside the TARDIS, had been stunned to find themselves in an intense downpour, which was clearly a regular occurrence given the numerous gutters cut into the platform’s floorways.

  ‘Not rain,’ the Doctor had explained. ‘Condensation.

  From the underside of the dome roof. Like I said, this is the Outer Rim of the Phrygian system. LP9 only services workers from the most far-flung planets and asteroids.

  It’s cold out there.’

  They entered what looked like a central plaza. It was as crowded as everywhere else, but its far end was dominated by an official-looking building. All its windows were of opaque glass, and a sweeping flight of steps, built from shining marble, let to its entrance, which was located under a portico pillared with stone.

  ‘Government House,’ the Doctor said. ‘So ostentatious only a mayor could be found here. Not to mention a law court. And also, of course, Police Headquarters.’

  ‘And why are we going to the police, again?’ Rory asked.

  ‘Kobal Zalu and I go back some time,’ the Doctor recalled. ‘He was a soldier once. We served together.’

  Amy looked round at him.’ You were a soldier?’

  ‘More a consultant than a squaddie.’ The Doctor was thoughtful. ‘Torodon was at war at with the Terileptils.

  There was a particularly nasty space battle, and the TARDIS got caught in the crossfire. I finished up on a damaged Torodon destroyer, where I had to fix lots of fiddly stuff before we all got blown to bits. Never managed to repair the coffee machine, mind you - which some of them weren’t too impressed by. Anyway, Zalu was on board. He was young then - a lieutenant in the Galactic Marine Corps. His group were off on a mission on the comet Zamos. If I hadn’t helped out, they wouldn’t have managed it.’ He walked towards the official building.

  ‘Since we happened to be in this part of space-time, it seemed like a chance to call in for a cuppa with an old mucker. But…’ He halted again. ‘There’s nothing more boring than reminiscing about old times when they’re old times you didn’t share in, is there? Why don’t you two just flutter off? See the sights? There’s plenty to do here.’

  Amy grabbed Rory’s arm. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  ‘Just try to avoid trouble,’ the Doctor reminded them.

  ‘That sounds like a plan too,’ Rory said. He firmly linked arms with Amy before they sauntered away.

  The Doctor turned back towards Government House.

  He’d learned from bitter experience that hooking up with old pals wasn’t always the best policy. But he’d seen Kobal Zalu many times since the war with the Terileptils, and, as far as he was aware, he’d left him a contented and grateful man. Things had been good between them.

  At which point he was hailed by a siren-like voice from above.

  Hovering overhead was a long, sleek aircraft, black in colour and bulbous at one end. It was covered with police insignia.

  ‘I said don’t move!’ the voice bellowed.

  With a pneumatic hiss, a hatch slid open in the craft’s underside and, before the Doctor could object, he felt a terrific suction and went rocketing upward. The next thing, he was tucked inside a narrow, padded capsule.

  Another hatch slid open. The featureless visor of a police officer gazed in at him.

  ‘Hello,’ the Doctor said. ‘Um, could you tell me what I’m being arrested for?’

  The policeman ignored him. Instead, he addressed someone else - most likely a partner seated at the flight controls. ‘This is him. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I have a right to know,’ the Doctor protested.

  ‘Keep quiet!’ the cop snapped. ‘You’re lucky you haven’t been shot on sight.’

  Harry had never expected that it would be so easy to get into Peoplefind.

  He’d walked up to the front door and, even dressed as he was, no one had looked twice as he’d tapped in the key-code and entered. Once inside, all he’d had to do was deactivate the alarm, and that was it. On first setting out from home he’d expected that he’d have to climb over the rear wall, or something, hence the rope and grapple. He’d been working on the basis that the entry codes would both have been changed by now, and it astonished him that neither had been.

  The red eyes of the alarm censors watched him harmlessly as he moved from room to room, but without CCTV backup what use were they? His basic plan, once inside, had been to start smashing computer terminals, though he didn’t like the idea of doing that. Besides, he’d have to think things through a little more carefully now.

  If it was apparent to the investigating officers who came

  in the morning that the offender had come in through the front door, they’d know it was an inside job. And it wouldn’t take them long to focus on a former security guard disgruntled because he’d been sacked. So, before he did anything else, he’d have to set up a fake point of entry, probably somewhere at the rear, to make this look like the work of an opportunistic vandal.

  The yard at the rear was about fifty metres by forty, the encircling wall almost four metres high. That would take some climbing, even with a rope and grapple -

  however, there was also a double-gate by which vehicles were allowed access. This was only two and a half metres hig
h and, though there were barbed-wire coils along its top, Harry could pull some down and make it look as if he’d gained entry that way. He slid out through the offices’ rear door. There was a motion-sensitive arc-light high in the southeast corner. He had a vague idea where its field of vision started and ended. If he first edged his way along the south wall and after that along the west, he should reach the gate without activating it.

  But then he received a shock. During the time he’d spent here, he’d never known a vehicle be parked in the yard at night. Yet now there were two of them. By their size they were lorries, though it was difficult to tell as they were covered by tarpaulins.

  Harry tried to recompose himself. This wouldn’t make any difference. In fact, maybe it would help. He could damage the vehicles as well, so it would really look like wanton vandalism. He was edging along the wall when he heard the first muffled cry for help. Harry froze, wondering if he’d imagined it.

  When the second cry came, he realised that it was

  close - whoever it was, they were on the premises with .

  him, though again the voice had been muffled as if it was indoors. He peered across the yard at the depot garage. It was closed. The windows in its office were in darkness.

  He hardly dared walk out into the centre of the yard to look, because that would trigger the arc-light. But then he heard a third cry. Incredulous, Harry regarded the two shrouded vehicles.

  Someone was inside one of the wagons.

  A different voice now shouted. Suddenly there was a hubbub, as if the captives had realised there was somebody outside.

  ‘No wonder you don’t want a security guard, Pangborne,’ Harry said as he ventured forward. ‘No wonder you don’t want CCTV.’

  He was no longer concerned about the light. He doubted it was even operational - and he was right. He entered its field of vision, and it didn’t activate. He hurried to the rear end of the nearest vehicle. Was this what Peoplefind was really about? The irony of that name! Pangborne was smuggling in illegal workers, maybe illegal migrants.