Doctor Who_ Original Sin Part 10

Chapter 5.

'I'm Evan Claple, and this is The Empire Today Update The Empire Today Update , broadcast-ing from the heart of the Empire. Tonight's special report: are the , broadcast-ing from the heart of the Empire. Tonight's special report: are the Overcities safe for humanity? As the latest figures show a disturbing Overcities safe for humanity? As the latest figures show a disturbing five thousand per cent increase in violent crimes, we talk to Adjudicator Spiritual Nbomo of the Church of Adjudication and Vice-Admiral five thousand per cent increase in violent crimes, we talk to Adjudicator Spiritual Nbomo of the Church of Adjudication and Vice-Admiral O'Gottif of the Imperial Landsknechte. All that and more, after this O'Gottif of the Imperial Landsknechte. All that and more, after this message . . . ' message . . . '

'Unknown.'

The word hung in mid-air, mocking them both.

Bernice leaned back in the chair and glanced around the cubicle. n.o.body was watching. The muscles across the back of her neck were knotted with tension, and she dug her fingers into them, pressing until it hurt, trying to force them to relax. It was no good. Impersonating a Landsknecht on a planet run entirely by the Imperial Landsknechte was not a situation designed to induce comfort.

She gazed past the Doctor and out of the crystal window instead. At least the view was tranquil. A few minutes after take-off, the hovercar had crossed an invisible boundary between two of the hexagons she had spotted from orbit, pa.s.sing with an almost imperceptible tremor from the bleak, mechanistic s.p.a.ceport to a lush, landscaped area of trembling white lawns and low buildings: the central administration area for the planet and, presumably, the Landsknecht fleet.

The Imperial Landsknecht Archive was a large building of rose-tinted mar-ble set in the middle of an albino lawn. The next section of Purgatory was visible as a huge wall of water that rose up and vanished in the blue of the sky. With Bernice's fingers firmly crossed behind her back, they had been escorted to a tiny cubicle with a desk and one chair. After a certain amount of 'After you', 'No, after you you' which culminated with both she and the Doctor trying to sit down at the same time, Bernice entered into a meaningful dialogue with the computer. She told it what she wanted, it told her what it could do for her, and etched the word into the air in several languages just to make sure that she understood. She'd been doing fine, up to the point when she asked it about Homeless Forsaken Betrayed And Alone.65.

'Fine,' she said, looking away from the window, 'let's make the inquiry a little more general. Computer, search all public records for mentions of the Hith race.'

'All records concerning individual members of the Hith race, the Hith race itself, the Hith Pacification and all subsidiary subjects are cla.s.sified,' the computer said primly.

'Hmm,' the Doctor said, leaning forward with interest. 'The war's been over for four years. You'd think that they could decla.s.sify something.' He thought for a moment. 'Let me try.' He cleared his throat. 'Computer, search all public records for Imperial Landsknecht prisoner of war identification numbers.'

'Searched and found.'

'Display all data on subject with Imperial Landsknecht prisoner of war identification number five zero three three nine one zero two.'

A pause.

'I know what it's going to say,' Bernice whispered.

'Information concerning the prisoner of war identified by that number is cla.s.sified.'

Bernice sighed. The Doctor smiled. 'We're on a trail,' he said.

'Yeah, but the trail's blocked.'

'Then we'll walk along the gra.s.s verge to the side,' the Doctor said. Bernice was still trying to work out exactly what he meant by that when he said: 'Computer, how many Imperial Landsknecht prisoner oh, this is stupid.' He thought for a moment. 'Computer, for the duration of this access session, please regard the phrase ILPIN as being equivalent to the phrase Imperial Landsknecht prisoner of war identification number.'

'Acknowledged.'

'Nice to know you speaka da lingo,' Bernice murmured.

The Doctor continued. 'Computer, how many ILPINs are cla.s.sified?'

'Two,' it said.

The Doctor turned to Bernice and said: 'Interesting. Our quarry is so important that he is one of two records that have not been decla.s.sified.' Turning back to the desk, he said, 'Computer, please give the date at which ILPIN five zero three three nine one zero two was issued.'

'That information is '

'Cla.s.sified,' he chorused with it. 'Very well, please and this is the clever bit please give the date on which ILPIN five zero three three nine one zero one one was issued.' was issued.'

'That information is '

'Shut up!' the Doctor barked, then grimaced. 'Oh, of course. Computer, please give the date at which ILPIN five zero three three nine one zero zero zero was issued.' was issued.'66.

'Tuesday the fifth of June in the year two thousand nine hundred and fifty-five.'

The Doctor clapped his hands together in joy. 'Smack in the middle of the Hith Pacification. Computer, please give the date on which ILPIN five zero three three nine one zero three three was issued.' was issued.'

'Tuesday the fifth of June in the year two thousand nine hundred and fifty-five.'

Bernice, who had been following this with interest, was lost. 'And this means . . . ?' she asked.

'It means that, of all the prisoners of war who were given numbers during the Hith offensive, only two were so important that all records of them are still cla.s.sified four years later. And we were having dinner with one of them a few days ago.'

'Homeless Forsaken Betrayed And Alone?'

'I think that we can safely a.s.sume so.'

'Something of an ironic joke,' Bernice said.

'I hope the joke consoles you during your incarceration,' a deep voice said from behind them. They turned, to find two Landsknechte pointing guns at them. Big guns, bristling with matt-black attachments. Beside them stood a portly Landsknecht in a provost-major's uniform, his hands behind his back.

His skin was blue and wrinkled, his ears were huge flapping sheets and his nose had been elongated into a flexible tube that dangled down across his ample belly. An expensive body-bepple, for sure. He reminded Bernice of something, but she couldn't remember what.

He smiled at Bernice.

'I apologize for the inconvenience,' he said pleasantly. 'I'm Provost-Major Beltempest, and you're under arrest for impersonating Landsknecht officers.'

He took his hands from behind his back, and Bernice was oddly unsurprised to find that he had four arms . . . 'I hope you enjoy your stay,' he said. 'It's liable to be a long one.'

The sound of metal sliding against wood was almost drowned by the soft hiss of rain against the surface of the ca.n.a.l.

Powerless Friendless took a deep, silent breath, and tried to squeeze himself closer to the side of the building. He was standing on a wooden walkway which dangled unsteadily from lengths of rope, wire and discarded fibre-optic cable. As with all the walkways in the Undertown, the cables were attached to the roof of the building above. The wall beside him, and the one across the ca.n.a.l, were sheer faces of polycarbide-reinforced plastic. The rain poured down in a steady, monotonous rhythm. High above, the ma.s.sive towers of the Overcity loomed impa.s.sively over the Undertown like stone clouds.67.

Metal again, sc.r.a.ping against the walkway. Powerless Friendless tried to locate it, but the hiss of the rain made it almost impossible. He could usually tell when there was a living creature nearby his skin crawled and his eyestalks itched but bots were different. They weren't alive.

He slid back a few metres.

Nothing. Perhaps it couldn't hear him. Perhaps there was nothing there.

He slid back a little more.

Still nothing. He'd been spooked by a rat, or some kind of scavenger. His nerves were all shot to h.e.l.l. Not surprising he was scared. Not in a place like the Undertown.

He slid back again, more confident now.

Sc.r.a.pe.

He froze.

What the h.e.l.l was it? The Undertown was dangerous, no mistake about that, but it was an obvious kind of danger. A danger that came at you screaming with a knife in its hand, not one that hid in shadows. There were gangs, sure groups of underlife pulled together by hunger, oaths and the threat of violence but they mainly stuck to raiding the lower levels of the Overcity and fighting each other over territory and imagined insults. Powerless Friendless did his best to keep out of their way as much as possible. Disorganized crime, he always called it, but not to its face. Too many acquaintances of his had laughed at the gangs, and were dead as a result. And then there were the kids who came down from the Overcity, thinking that beating up a few of the underlife was fun. But not this. Nothing like this. Nothing that skulked in shadows, watching, waiting.

Perhaps he could lure it out into the open. Find out what it was, what it wanted. He bent and ran his pseudo-limb along the rain-sodden walkway, checking for loose bits of wood or metal. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

A stinging squall of rain lashed across Powerless Friendless's face and slid off the water-repellent mucus that covered his body. He should have been in some dark, empty building, sleeping or practising his hag'jat hag'jat, not out in the open, playing cat and mouse with something from a nightmare.

Another squall sent splashes skittering across the slats of the walkway. Powerless Friendless extruded his eyestalks to their fullest extent and peered into the darkness, trying to separate black from black.

And then he noticed.

The rain was falling straight down in cold silver lines, with no breath of wind to disturb it, but some of it was bouncing in shallow curves off a tall shape in the shadows. He tried to follow the shape with his eyes, only to lose it amid the rain and the darkness. But it was there.68.

Cautiously he felt in his rucksack for some loose change. His hand re-emerged with a triangular coin. He hefted it for a few moments, then tossed it past where the figure was standing. The coin hit the wooden walkway with a dull thud and the figure stepped forward into the dull light that filtered down through the miasmic clouds.

It glistened in the rain. The rain rebounded hollowly from its metal skin.

A bot. A manual labour bot: the one he had seen outside the plaza and again at Waiting For Justice's funeral. It had had been following him! been following him!

It turned its head, trying to determine what had made the noise. 'Why are you hiding from me?' the bot said in a rich, fruity voice as it looked around.

'I know you're there. Why prolong the agony?'

'Why are you following me?' Powerless Friendless yelled, trusting the rain to disguise his location.

'Ah, you wish to play the innocent lamb? It won't do you any good, you know. I still have to kill you. I'm afraid you know too much.'

'I don't know anything!'

'If only I could believe you.' The bot sounded apologetic. 'This should have been over years ago. You shouldn't have run. You shouldn't have escaped.'

Glittering scalpels, cutting his flesh: machines that buzzed inside him, chewing their way along his nerve endings: a sardonic metal face, sneering down at him . . . him . . .

'You tortured me!' Powerless Friendless yelled as the images unfolded before him. They had always been there, fermenting in a corner of his mind, but he had refused to acknowledge them. What had those humans in the plaza started?

'I needed information,' the bot said in a surprised voice. 'Surely you understand that? But you escaped, and I thought I'd lost you. The Undertown is a large place to search, but I managed to find you. And then, to kill the wrong Hith . . . ' The bot spread its hands wide in a curiously human gesture of contrition. 'Still, at least I had the good sense to know that you would attend the funeral.'

Waiting For Justice . . . Powerless Friendless felt his eyes p.r.i.c.kle with tears.

Waiting For Justice had never said why he was on Earth, but now he was dead.

In Powerless Friendless's place. Mistaken ident.i.ty. A senseless death.

As if the bot had been listening to his thoughts, it continued with disarming bonhomie bonhomie: 'I was too eager. I admit that. Time makes us all careless, my friend, and I've had more time than most. It didn't occur to me that any other of your race would be on Earth. We can't be your favourite people, after all.'

If he closed his eyes, Powerless Friendless could almost believe that he was listening to a man, not a machine. The voice was that good.

The bot chuckled unnervingly.69.

'Still, he was only an alien without a home world, wasn't he?' it continued.

'No great loss to mankind. I put him out of his misery. Such a lot of misery, but I promise I'll make it quick for you. It's the least I can do, after all you did for me.'

'Murderer!' Powerless Friendless shouted into the rain, feeling the droplets sting against his tongue.

The bot's head turned suddenly until it was staring straight at him. Its eyes glittered with a feral green light. 'Ah, there there you are,' it said, amused. you are,' it said, amused.

It walked slowly towards him.

'Don't worry, my boy,' it said. 'It'll all be over soon.'

The room was large, plain, unfurnished and locked. It had taken the Doctor all of five seconds to exhaust all its myriad possibilities. He now stood by the window unbreakable transparisteel looking out at Purgatory.

An Imperial Landsknecht warbot stood in the corner, looking at him.

'Stop glowering at me,' he snapped.

The warbot didn't react. It was twice as tall as he was, and three times as broad. The armoured metal of its sh.e.l.l was painted in yellow and red splotches camouflage colours for some alien campaign, he a.s.sumed and it stood on two ma.s.sive legs. Two of its six arms ended in weapons, two in multi-purpose tools. The other two seemed to be designed for holding people in nasty grips, if his journey from the archives was anything to go by.

'I don't suppose your mother was a Swiss army knife?' he said.

No reaction.

He hated robots. At least Daleks and Cybermen had emotions you could play on, although both races would have denied it emphatically, had they been asked. Robots, though . . . You could go through all your best routines with them and you wouldn't even raise a giggle.

He turned his attention to the view through the window. Directly outside was a huge parade ground, miles across. As far as the eye could see, groups of Landsknechte were being marched up and down. He could see their mouths moving, but the window was hermetically sealed. He didn't need to hear, though. They would be shouting the same sort of things that young men had shouted on parade grounds since the first b.u.t.ton was sewn on the first uniform. 'Kill a Dalek for the Empire!' 'Peace through superior firepower!'

If he craned his neck, he could just make out the corner of the archive building. Soldiers ran along paths around it, moving from one meaningless ritual to another. He was grimly amused to see that they didn't cut corners.

No, that would be too simple. When they came to a corner they ran past it, halted, swivelled through ninety degrees and started running again. The military mentality. If it moves, salute it, if it doesn't move, pick it up and if 70you can't pick it up, paint it. At least Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, bless his little tartan cotton socks, had maintained a sense of humour about it all. The problem was that humans as a whole didn't laugh enough.

Still, it could be worse. They could be robots.

Talking of which . . .

The Doctor turned back to the warbot.

'Can you whisk eggs with that thing?' he said, pointing to one of its multi-function limbs. The bot swivelled its sensors to follow him as he walked closer to it.

'The prisoner is warned that approaches closer than five feet will result in a weapons discharge,' it warned somewhat obscurely, the Doctor thought as he came to a halt.

'But I haven't got five feet,' he replied, wondering how far he could twist the conversation before the bot lost track.

It failed to go for the bait. Try something else.

'Who is is the prisoner?' he asked, glad that Ben and Polly weren't there. They would have ribbed him about that one. the prisoner?' he asked, glad that Ben and Polly weren't there. They would have ribbed him about that one.

'You are the prisoner,' the bot replied.