Doctor Who_ Deep Blue Part 12

'He was carrying a rail card with his name and address on it,' DI Worthington said. 'Our enquiries led us here. We were given this address by a neighbour of yours.'

'Mrs Ramirez,' said Charlotte dreamily. 'She's looking after our house while we're away.'

DI Worthington nodded. 'I understand what a terrible shock this is for you, but I'm afraid the body must be formally identified, and as quickly as possible. Christopher may have died in suspicious circ.u.mstances. We need to carry out a post mortem immediately to ascertain exactly how.'

Charlotte felt light-headed, not quite rooted in reality. She stared at DI Worthington with tunnel vision, oblivious to everything else around her. 'What do you mean, "suspicious circ.u.mstances"?'

He s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in his seat. 'There was extensive... damage to the body. It may have been caused by rocks, but then again...' He clasped his hands together and gave a grimace of apology, sympathy, discomfort.

All at once Charlotte was jolted back to reality by her mother's scream. It was a terrible scream, like an animal in intense pain. Charlotte jumped, then sank back, shaking, as her mum dissolved into tears beside her.

The grief was frightening in its intensity, emotion so raw it seemed to possess an awful destructive power that Charlotte felt sure would tear around the room like a hurricane if unleashed. Suddenly everything seemed too stark, too real.

Charlotte saw DI Worthington cross the room and drop to his knees in front of her mum, trying vainly to comfort her. She saw the tall man she'd b.u.mped into on the doorstep yesterday enter the lounge, to be immediately confronted by Worthington's colleague, who peeled himself from the wall and held up his hands as if to physically repel the man back into the corridor.

'I'm Captain Mike Yates from UNIT,' she heard the man say, raising his voice above Mum's hysterical wailing. 'I'm afraid I couldn't help overhearing what your colleague said, and I think it might have some bearing-'

Charlotte lowered her head, squeezed her eyes tight shut and pressed her hands over her ears. She didn't care what the men were talking about; she didn't care about anything.

Chris was dead, and there was an unwanted baby growing inside her, and Mum and Dad hated each other, and her whole world was falling apart. At that moment, she realised, she envied her brother more than she grieved for him. She wished with all of her heart that she could be dead too.

The Brigadier slammed the phone down in frustration. Surely those idiots in Whitehall ought to realise by now that he asked them for aid and co-operation only when absolutely necessary? He'd saved them from getting a considerable amount of egg on their faces over that Global Chemicals business, and how did they repay him? By continuing to put barriers in his way.

He hadn't even managed to get through to the Prime Minister this time; no doubt the fellow was too embarra.s.sed to speak to him following his misjudgement over the Llanfairfach incident. He had left it to one of his minions to inform the Brigadier that quarantining the town would be tantamount to martial law and therefore out of the question.

Martial law! Did the fellow have no inkling of how UNIT operated, of how many times the planet had been saved from invasion or annihilation by the Brigadier's small but highly trained force? Given UNITs track record they ought to be allowed carte blanche carte blanche to take whatever steps they deemed appropriate in any situation. to take whatever steps they deemed appropriate in any situation.

But no. Still the Brigadier had to put up with government fat cats droning on about 'public interest' and 'civil responsibility', knowing all the while that the only responsibility they felt was to themselves and to the retention of their parliamentary seats. Actually they were less like cats and more like turtles, retreating into their sh.e.l.ls, unwilling to stick their necks out, refusing to acknowledge that if they continued to decline to untie the Brigadier's hands every time he asked for a little leeway, then sooner or later their gutless reaction might well lead to some hostile alien force or devastating home-grown threat reducing them and their precious parliament to so much turtle soup.

The Brigadier opened his clenched fists in an effort to release his rage, but it didn't work. He tried to focus on the positive aspects of the discussion he had just had, which were pitifully few, but better than nothing. The oily-voiced cretin had promised him that the government would 'look into' the alleged connection between seafood and illness and that they would encourage - though not order - the local authorities to put up signs warning people that there was a danger of pollution along the coastline and that bathing was inadvisable.

Unless something happened that required a military response - and no one wanted that because it would mean that things were getting quickly out of hand - the Brigadier was therefore stuck in the familiar situation of twiddling his thumbs and waiting for the Doctor to come up with something. He thought about the fish he and his men had eaten last night and hoped that this new fellow was up to the job. If not, then before very long they might all be in a great deal of trouble.

'Nothing,' said the Doctor dejectedly, his eyes scanning the results scrolling down the screen in front of him. 'Nothing at all.'

'You can't find an antidote?' said Turlough, hovering at the Doctor's shoulder.

The Doctor spun round. 'Worse than that. I can't even identify the infection.'

'But I thought you said you had some of the most sophisticated equipment in the Universe in here?' Turlough reminded him.

'Oh, I do. But the infection is continuing to prove impervious to a.n.a.lysis. It appears to have no physical characteristics whatsoever.'

Turlough looked irritable, as if the Doctor was being deliberately obtuse. 'But that's impossible.'

'Yes,' said the Doctor thoughtfully. He pivoted slowly on his heels, eyes roving around the vast laboratory as if searching for something specific. 'I wonder.'

'What -' Turlough began, but the Doctor was already off, striding along the aisles between the cluttered benches, cream coat flying behind him. Turlough caught up with him beside a pair of double doors, which he had a.s.sumed led deeper into the TARDIS. They were made of some heavy dark wood, each one carved with the stylised representation of a s.h.a.ggy tusked beast rearing up on its hind legs. The Doctor threw the doors open with such force that Turlough had to jump back to avoid being hit in the face.

When he recovered he saw not the expected corridor, but a large cupboard. Though Turlough had never seen spiders in the TARDIS, the jumble of scientific equipment heaped haphazardly on the shelves was festooned with cobwebs.

'Aha!' the Doctor cried, and dropping on all fours crawled into the cupboard, dipping his head to duck beneath the bottom shelf. He reached in and grabbed something, then backed out, hauling the object with him.

It was a green metal cabinet with a panel of b.u.t.tons on the front and a small screen inset at an angle into the top. The cabinet was on castors and the Doctor pushed it gently in Turlough's direction. 'Look after this for a moment, would you?' he said, then plunged back into the cupboard again.

Turlough stopped the trundling cabinet with his hand, grimacing at the sticky dust that adhered to his fingers. The screen was cracked and there was a mess of multi-coloured wires hanging out of an open panel at the back.

The Doctor back-shuffled out of the cupboard again, this time dragging what appeared to be a large green hair-dryer on a tall metal stand. It was only when he had pulled the object fully out into the light that Turlough realised it was a rather more sophisticated piece of equipment than he had first thought. The exterior of the cone-shaped helmet was studded with lights that were evidently linked to a maze of circuitry within the helmet itself. Like the cabinet, the 'hair-dryer' was covered in dust and cobwebs - as indeed, by this point, was the Doctor himself.

'What is this thing?' Turlough asked, prodding at the cabinet with his foot, sending it trundling a few inches across the floor on its squeaky castors.

'It's an Image Reproduction Integrating System - IRIS machine for short. It translates thoughts into pictures.'

'Does it work?' Turlough asked.

'Oh yes. But the only time I used it, someone died. I haven't tried it since.'

Turlough looked dubiously at the two pieces of equipment, battered and covered in grime like so much sc.r.a.p. 'Will it still work?'

'I don't see why not,' said the Doctor, plucking threads of cobweb from his hair. 'All it needs is a bit of spit and polish.

Come on.'

He bent and picked up the 'hair-dryer' and carried it - its jointed metal stand sc.r.a.ping the floor behind it - over to his main area of operations. Turlough followed, pus.h.i.+ng the cabinet on its squealing castors. The Doctor placed the 'hair-dryer' on a clutter-free work bench, took a large maroon handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the worst of the grime. He handed the handkerchief to Turlough, then pored over the interior of the cone, prodding connections, hmm'ing and 'hah'ing as he worked. Turlough half-heartedly wiped dust from the cabinet, grimacing all the while as if the task was beneath him. He had almost finished when he heard a familiar sound.

'Doctor, listen.'

The Doctor looked up, strands of cobweb still clinging to his fringe. Hmm?'

'We're materialising'

The Doctor's face cleared, 'So we are. I wonder where.'

Leaving the IRIS machine for later, he hurried out of the lab, Turlough scurrying behind him. They crossed a courtyard with a white marble fountain in the shape of a cherub, and strode along a narrow cobbled street reminiscent of Victorian England, complete with what appeared to be a starry night sky overhead, before finally emerging in one of the TARDIS's innumerable, identical corridors. The Doctor halted, raised a finger as if to point right, then abruptly spun to the left. Several twists and turns later they reached the console room.

The Doctor dashed inside and began to scamper around the console, making all the necessary checks. Turlough stood to one side, arms folded, but turned his head when the Doctor operated the scanner to see what awaited them outside.

It looked neither encouraging nor welcoming. They saw metal support girders, covered in rust, trickling with moisture. Part of a wall, part of a bulkhead, the whole thing soaked in brownish, penumbral light. That was all.

'Are we inside what landed in the sea?' Turlough asked doubtfully.

The Doctor continued to stare at the screen for a moment as if he could see something that Turlough couldn't. Then he said, 'Let's find out, shall we?' and operated the door lever.

Two things struck Turlough as soon as they stepped outside: the cold and the smell. The chill was motionless and permanent, like the inside of a refrigerator. The smell was worse than the cold, though. It was like too many bad things all rolled into one. Rotting fish, rancid meat, large sweaty animals, the dankness of decaying vegetation.

He took a fresh handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. He glanced at the Doctor, who seemed unaffected by the stench. The Doctor was looking around the vast, high-ceilinged area, which appeared to be some kind of cargo bay (or perhaps shuttle bay, although there were no shuttles to be seen) with a mixture of caution and keen interest. Turlough said, 'What is that awful smell?'

The Doctor sniffed the air as if he couldn't detect it otherwise. 'It smells like putrefaction,' he said matter-of-factly, 'but I don't think it is. I suspect it's some kind of musk.'

'Musk?' said Turlough, looking around nervously. 'You mean there are animals down here?'

'Or were,' said the Doctor. He moved across to a bulkhead door on the far side of the room, some two hundred yards away, his feet reverberating hollowly on the metal floor.

Rusty water dripped from above. When a spot landed on the Doctor's head, he stopped, glanced up ruefully, then unfolded his hat from his pocket and put it on. Reluctant though he was to leave the protective confines of the TARDIS, Turlough stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and followed, glancing around nervously, all but wringing his hands. He kept thinking he glimpsed movement in the clotted brown areas of shadow, but each time he turned to look there was never anything there.

He caught up with the Doctor by the bulkhead door. The Doctor had perched a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and was engrossed in an examination of the control panel beside it. Half-turning, he said, 'What do you make of this?'

Turlough looked, though without much enthusiasm. The panel was a mess; the cover had been prised off and a ma.s.s of trailing wires linked the unit to a greenish component that looked more like a spiny sh.e.l.l than a piece of technology.

This in turn was linked to what appeared to be some kind of circuit board, which had various other bits and pieces attached to it.

'It's a bit of a mishmash,' Turlough said, shrugging. 'So what?'

The Doctor looked at him, a little pained by his lack of interest. 'What if I were to tell you that there are at least...

oh, seven separate technologies evident here?'

Turlough feigned interest and asked, 'Is that significant?'

'It means that whoever these visitors are, they're very resourceful,' said the Doctor. He paused for a moment, then added, 'I don't think they crashed. I think they landed here deliberately.'

'So their intentions are are hostile?' hostile?'

'Not necessarily. They may be quite unaware of the effect their presence is having on the indigenous population.'

'Some kind of chemical leak?' suggested Turlough.

'Possibly. Let's find out, shall we?'

The Doctor ran his fingers deftly over the various component parts of the panel and, despite its haphazard appearance, the bulkhead door slid smoothly open.

'Technology a.s.similation,' he said. 'It may not look pretty but it certainly works.'

As they pa.s.sed through the door, Turlough asked, 'Have you any idea what kind of s.h.i.+p this is, Doctor?'

'Morok battle cruiser,' the Doctor replied without hesitation, and indicated a row of embossed metal symbols running along the length of one wall. Turlough couldn't decide whether the symbols were intended to be ornamental, instructional or functional. The Doctor's voice became thoughtful as he added, 'However, somehow I don't think the Moroks are in charge any more.'

'What makes you say that?'

'The Moroks are a very proud race. They certainly wouldn't use alien technology to improve, or even patch up, their existing systems. They'd rather die than admit that any technology is superior to their own.'

'So who are we dealing with then, Doctor?' Turlough asked, his voice quavering with nerves.

The Doctor pressed his lips together in contemplation, as if Turlough had posed nothing more than an intellectual question. 'A crew of mercenaries recruited from the far-flung comers of the galaxy?'

'Oh, is that that all?' replied Turlough heavily. 'And I thought I had cause to be worried.' all?' replied Turlough heavily. 'And I thought I had cause to be worried.'

'I could be wrong,' the Doctor admitted. 'A man who is never wrong is rarely right.' He smiled cheerfully and strode on. 'In my experience, people are usually friendly enough if you show them you mean them no harm.'

Turlough gave him an incredulous look and followed. Over the course of the next ten minutes the two of them pa.s.sed through a vast air filtration and water treatment plant, the systems humming and chugging efficiently away despite their apparently decrepit state; a food-producing area where the plants had withered and the fruit and vegetables had been allowed to bloat and rot in their artificial environments (leading the Doctor to comment that the dietary requirements of whoever had taken over the s.h.i.+p were evidently very different from those of the Moroks'); and finally a derelict recreation area whose facilities suggested that the emphasis was not so much on pleasure as on physical fitness.

Leading off from the recreation area in one direction were the mess hall and kitchens. In the other direction, like spokes protruding from a vast wheel, were numerous corridors inset with evenly-s.p.a.ced doors, a different symbol - which Turlough took to be either names or numbers - emblazoned on each.

'Crew quarters,' the Doctor said, and selecting a door at random began to tap in a sequence on the control panel beside it. He stopped almost immediately, however, fingers poised in midair. 'No power.'

'This place is falling apart,' commented Turlough.

'On the contrary. Essential systems appear to be running at maximum efficiency. This area is obviously superfluous to requirements.' The Doctor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. 'What happened to the crew, I wonder.'

'I'd rather not think about it,' Turlough said.

'Hmm,' mused the Doctor, then abruptly he slapped Turlough on the arm. 'Oh well, onward and upward.'

They moved deeper into the s.h.i.+p, the smell growing stronger as they neared what the Doctor said was the command centre. Turlough produced his handkerchief again, covered his mouth and nose with it and tied it at the back of his head. He felt miserable, cold, sick and scared, and barely listened to the Doctor, who had started jabbering away like a tour guide about the austerity of Morokian architecture, its lack of colour, its over-reliance on dense metals.

Suddenly the Doctor stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes widened and he delicately pressed the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead. Then all at once his face creased in pain and he staggered, dropping to his knees as if he had been shoved hard in the back.

Turlough watched in horror, then glanced quickly around in an effort to ascertain where the attack had come from.

Seeing nothing, he squatted beside the Doctor and called his name. The Doctor groaned; his eyelids flickered. Terrified of the prospect of the Doctor pa.s.sing out and leaving him alone to face whatever had taken up residence on the s.h.i.+p, Turlough shook his friend roughly by the shoulders and shouted into his face, 'Come on, on, Doctor! Please wake up!' Doctor! Please wake up!'