Doctor Who Page 10

  The students believed that, since the crash, the ship had been broadcasting an emergency distress signal, but the Faculty wouldn’t want them to know that was a lie. For any normal teacher it would have been a priority: protect the children, send for help. But something had gone terribly wrong on New Phaeton.

  Yaz could only imagine the horror that must have followed the crash. Whatever had happened must have driven the teachers and M8-Tron completely mad.

  As Yaz tried to rid herself of the image, she wondered if perhaps she could get the equipment working and transmit an emergency distress signal herself. The lift, the lights – there was power on this deck, that much she knew. But how to bring the ship’s communications back to life? The Doctor would have known which buttons to press, although Ryan had confided in her that the Doctor’s approach to most technology seemed to be to press all the buttons.

  She studied the control desk for a clue, circling it twice before she spotted a fat booklet propped between a couple of sliders. She picked it up, and turned to the first page.

  Congratulations on purchasing the Nanospatial 5000, the latest in modular interstellar communications, from your friends at Paragon Teletronics.

  It was the user manual.

  The Nanospatial 5000 comes with a two-year universal warranty. Not valid on Mars.

  She flicked to the contents page, and ran her eye down the headings: Intro, Assembly, Software Installation, Quickstart…

  Okay, she thought, let’s give this a go.

  The last lines of the third and final hymn of the ceremony tingled to the lofty ceiling of the assembly hall, and the students once more took their seats.

  Ryan touched the tie round his throat. Past M8-Tron, he could see the Doctor and Graham in the audience, but what could they do? The Faculty held all the power, literally, in the palm of its hand. With one press of a key, it could cause agony – or worse – to every child in this room.

  ‘So smart and well behaved,’ said M8-Tron cheerily. Its musical duties performed, the robot passed along in front of the graduating class. ‘You older students must set a good example to the younger ones. Now, a dose of pink medicine will help to dull the pain.’ It began measuring out a spoonful for Ryan.

  ‘I’m not in pain,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  M8-Tron’s voice retained its unflinchingly cheery tone. ‘Oh, but you will be.’ The robot trundled closer. ‘When the Spectres eat you alive.’

  The Faculty stood at the dais, beaming from ear to ear to ear to ear, greeting the graduating students as they walked forward, shaking hands and passing out certificates. As each student collected their diploma and returned to his or her seat, there was a muted round of applause from the audience of schoolchildren. To Graham, it sounded like blasters firing. In just a few minutes, Ryan and the others would be flung out into the wasteland, at the mercy of the Spectres.

  ‘Doc, we have to do something,’ he urged.

  ‘I already did,’ she said, pulling herself out of her chair and leaping lightly on to the stage. She snatched a diploma meant for one of the graduates out of the Faculty’s hands.

  ‘This is most irregular,’ said the Head. ‘Please sit down, Mrs Smith.’

  At the end of the row, Ryan frowned. ‘Mrs Who?’

  Even M8-Tron was distracted by the unusual development. Its brimming medicine spoon froze midway to Ryan’s mouth.

  The Doctor reached past the Faculty for the microphone. ‘Paragon Teletronics,’ she said, the words booming out across the assembly hall.

  ‘Really, madam, this interruption will not do.’

  She ignored the Head and carried on addressing the children. ‘One of the most successful, innovative manufacturers of military and law-enforcement technology in this time period. Thing is, there was a scandal – or, I should say, there will be, about twenty years from now. It happens when users discover that the company included a secret line of code in all their products. See, Paragon wanted customers to buy their shiny new gyrovariable handcuffs or supersonic frosted riot shield or –’ she turned to the nearest student, who happened to be Aaron, and tweaked his tie – ‘vibrospatial strangulator. And, while many were happy to queue up for the latest version, most didn’t bother upgrading until theirs broke. So Paragon decided to help that along, by including a kill code.’

  Sensing danger, the Faculty raised the palm with the embedded keypad.

  ‘I warn you,’ said the Head, and the Deputy Head finished, ‘one more word and I will severely punish the entire school.’

  The Doctor barrelled on. ‘The kill code lets you slow down the processor, drain the battery or even knock out the whole device.’

  ‘That is quite enough!’ bellowed the Head, tapping at the keypad. ‘School, prepare for collective punishment.’

  Graham turned to look out over the audience. The children winced in expectation, but when their terrible ties failed to stir their expressions changed to puzzlement.

  ‘This is…can’t be. Wait just one moment.’ The Faculty stabbed furiously at the keypad.

  ‘It won’t help,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not even if you turn it off and on again.’

  Graham could sense the mood in the hall alter. The cowed silence that had lain over the room like a cold fog began to lift. Whispered conversations broke out among the children. He heard excited snatches.

  ‘It’s not working!’

  ‘Can’t hurt us!’

  All four eyes of the Head and Deputy Head blazing, threads of angry spittle at both of their mouths, the Faculty rounded on the Doctor. ‘B-but how?’ stuttered the Deputy Head.

  The Doctor smiled. ‘To trigger the kill code you just have to know the secret handshake.’ She waggled a hand.

  At last, the Faculty understood. The Head gazed in horror at the Doctor’s extended hand. ‘In the study…when you shook my…’

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiled, then became serious. ‘Of course, it is possible to kill the kill code itself, if you remember to alter the default settings. But no one in the history of the universe has ever altered the default settings.’

  There was panic in all four of the Faculty’s eyes, then both mouths screamed, ‘Noooo!’

  ‘Doctor, look out!’ Graham shouted.

  M8-Tron was making its way across the stage at speed. Scalpels and surgical saws gleaming in several outstretched arms, the robot launched itself at the Doctor. ‘I will not have such disobedience in my school. It’s the Sanatorium for you, young lady.’

  Ryan sprinted after the robot, and with a running jump he threw himself on to its back. ‘Here, have a dose of your own medicine!’

  Ripping off his tie, he used it to lasso the arm holding the bottle of pink medicine. Wrenching it upwards, he tore the bottle from the robot’s grasp and promptly upended the medicine over its head. The liquid seeped into its joints, and sparks began to fly from the metal casing. The vile stuff had fried the robot’s internal workings, including apparently its guidance system. Ryan leaped clear as M8-Tron spun round, out of control, arms clawing the air. It careened across the stage, and the Doctor neatly sidestepped out of its path.

  The Faculty, however, was not so quick to react. The robot’s flailing arms caught it, embracing it tight to its triangular chest.

  ‘Oh, M8-Tron!’

  As the two rolled past like a mismatched couple at a school dance, the Doctor stuck out a hand and nimbly plucked the keys from the Faculty’s hip. Unable to stop themselves, M8-Tron and the Faculty trundled straight into the vacant airlock, triggering the automatic door mechanism as they crossed the threshold. The door closed with terrible finality, and the lock began to cycle. There was a hiss, as the outer door sprang open and a tongue of daylight poked inside. The outside air roiled like water during a frenzied piranha attack, and it seemed as if the very atmosphere bent and buckled as the shrieking Spectres poured through the gap, enveloping the Faculty and M8-Tron.

 
; It was all over in a matter of seconds.

  Sated after their feast, the Spectres retreated. The protective dome over Dorm reactivated, once more surrounding the school in its bubble.

  A hush descended over the assembly hall. The Faculty’s reign had come to an end.

  The stunned silence was broken by a crackle of static over the school’s public-address system, followed by an unfamiliar female voice.

  ‘This is Earth Survey Ship Guardian, responding to your distress signal. We are three days out from your location. Heading to you now on maximum burn. Hang in there.’

  A disbelieving murmur swept the hall. After all this time, someone was coming for them. Relief turned to tears for some of the younger children, while the older ones cheered, yanking off their ties and throwing them in the air.

  Yaz appeared at the entrance to the hall. Making her way through the joyous celebrations, she joined the others and explained how she had found the communications centre and managed to send out the signal.

  ‘Just goes to prove you should always read the manual,’ she said.

  ‘Funny. I don’t think I’ve ever read one in my entire lives,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ muttered Ryan.

  The Doctor sifted through the keys she’d pinched from the Faculty. One was the same deep colour as the leaves of a copper beech tree, its blade engraved with a delicate leaf pattern.

  ‘I think this is what we came for,’ she said, holding it up.

  ‘Then let’s go,’ said Graham. ‘Clock’s ticking on the Galactic Seed Vault.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we stay until the rescue ship gets here?’ asked Yaz.

  The Doctor looked around at the celebrating students of New Phaeton. ‘No need. They’re all going to be just fine. School’s out. Forever.’

  He was a mole-catcher, like his father, and his father before him. The Manners’ family tradition extended into the past in an unbroken line, reaching back to the court of Henry VIII, when his ancestor held the title of Mole-catcher to the King.

  These days, however, Tom Manners’ clients were more likely to be wearing expensive suits than crowns. The only people who could afford gardens in London in 2018 were bankers, and today the job was one of those fancy residents-only gardens in Kensington. He’d had to park miles away, and it was a hot afternoon. ‘Typical,’ he grumbled to himself, as he checked the address again: Never Square. Not for the first time, he reflected on the oddity of the name.

  He shifted the bag containing his traps from one shoulder to the other. It was getting heavy. The contents of the bag jangled. He’d brought six steel traps, all spring-loaded. Nowadays, though, he was just as likely to be asked to use humane traps and catch the mole without causing any harm. People were strange. The mole might be digging out a new Northern Line under their precious lawn, but still they went pale at the thought of exterminating the thing.

  To Tom, moles were an enemy to be wiped out. Even so, he retained a healthy respect for the creatures. They were a formidable opponent; a perfectly adapted subterranean predator. Pound for pound, a mole could shift more earth than an excavator. The tunnels it clawed out – ‘runs’ in the professional lingo – were traps designed to catch earthworms, its primary food. A mole could sniff worms out as efficiently as a great white shark can smell a drop of blood in the ocean, and its saliva contained a poison that paralysed its prey, so that the mole could store the unfortunate worm in its larder to enjoy later as a midnight snack.

  Tom had reached the address. The garden was ringed by high iron railings, and overshadowed by sweeping terraces of handsome white stucco townhouses. Tall sash windows with those little triangles of plaster above them gave the buildings the appearance of faces with raised eyebrows. Snooty, that’s how Tom would describe them. From outside on the pavement, you wouldn’t have known there was a garden not two metres away, since the residents had grown a tall hedge along the inside of the railings to stop anyone from being able to peek in.

  Tom reread his instructions, which told him to go to the east gate. Like the railings, this gate was made of heavy black wrought iron and looked as if it could withstand a direct hit from a nuclear missile. He was no expert, but the gate looked old. Really old. It had a lock with a keyhole that’d take one of those big, heavy keys – the sort that jailers in a Dickens novel would carry around on a big metal band. The top half of the gate was decorated with a curious design. He had to squint against the brightness of the afternoon sun to make it out. Some kind of creature, curled around itself like a sleeping snake. Or maybe a dragon.

  ‘Mr Manners?’

  The voice startled him, and it took a moment before Tom realised it was coming from the very modern intercom attached to the ancient gate. The telltale lens of a camera scrutinised him.

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s me.’

  ‘You are expected,’ said the voice. Tom thought the man sounded like his old English teacher.

  There was a click from the lock, then a long buzz. Tom pushed at the gate, and it swung open silently on oiled hinges. Whoever looks after this place takes very good care of that gate, he thought.

  It was midsummer, and in the garden flower beds frothed with colour and the scent of roses drifted on the air. Tom made his way along a white gravel path, and each tiny stone looked as if it had been individually polished. The path led beneath an arched pergola, then wound past herbaceous borders and mature trees. He followed the snaking route, until the view opened up to reveal the heart of the garden.

  Before him lay a broad expanse of lawn, shaded by three large oak trees and dotted with deckchairs, their stripy green-and-white seats stretched taut by a sudden and welcome breeze. In one corner overlooking the garden stood a stone statue of a man in a frock coat, with a severe expression and an exquisitely carved flower at his lapel. One of those little robotic lawnmowers buzzed up and down, keeping the short grass in perfect condition. Tom watched the mower trundle off and disappear behind the wide trunk of one of the oaks.

  A second later, there came a thud.

  Curious, Tom stepped past the tree to find the mower on its back, like some sort of mechanical beetle, wheels spinning uselessly in the air. On any other day, his first thought would have been to wonder how it had ended up like that, but he was distracted by something else: three mounds of freshly dug earth blotted the perfect lawn. They were each as wide as a manhole cover and as high as his hip. He set his bag of traps down next to the nearest mound, then crouched down to study it with professional interest. Whatever had made this, it was no mole. Certainly not any variety he – nor any of his illustrious ancestors, he’d bet – had ever come across.

  He registered a flash of light in the corner of his eye and glanced round. It was just the sun reflecting off one of the townhouse windows, but he saw a figure standing in the window. As he watched, the figure closed a set of wooden shutters across the inside of the window. In the room above, another figure shuttered that window too. Tom was suddenly aware that, all around the square, shutters were closing across every window.

  He shivered in the midsummer heat. Come on, Tom, he thought. Get a grip, man.

  There was a jangle from behind him. His traps. Something had knocked the bag.

  He turned to scan the garden, but couldn’t see another soul. Actually, come to think of it, there was a distinct absence of wildlife too. For the first time, he noticed the complete lack of birdsong. Probably can’t afford the house prices round here, he thought, turning back to the strange mounds of soil. As he did, he glimpsed the patch of grass at his feet. It had wobbled.

  An instant later, Tom felt the ground beneath him give way. He dropped. A dark hole gaped in the lawn where, just moments ago, he had been standing.

  * * *

  —

  His eyes opened slowly. He could only have been unconscious for a few seconds. As his vision gradually adjusted to his new surroundings, he saw he was undergr
ound, lying on the clammy earth floor of a tunnel the size of a sewer. Far above him, he could make out a small circle of daylight. He had fallen a surprisingly long way.

  Must be an old mineshaft, he thought, anger building. As soon as he got out of there, he was going to send a complaint to the owners of Never Square. No, he would sue them!

  He felt a throbbing at his temple. Must have struck it on the way down. He rubbed his head and tried to stand, but for some reason his legs wouldn’t obey him.

  His hand came away from his head wet. It was dripping with a sticky substance that he now realised was all over his clothes too. As he stared at his gloop-covered hand in the gloom, he heard a scuttling noise from somewhere in the darkness of the tunnel beyond.

  He couldn’t move. He was paralysed.

  And that’s when he knew: this was a run. And he was the worm.

  The scuttling drew closer.

  * * *

  —

  Ryan watched the TARDIS vanish into the afternoon. When the last wheezing groan had faded, he turned to follow Graham, who was already striding off along the pavement.

  They’d decided to separate into pairs, in order to speed up their search for the two remaining keys to Vault Thirteen. He and Graham were back on earth in the present day, which had come as something of a let-down. Sure, things on New Phaeton had got a bit hairy, but Ryan was developing a taste for travelling to alien destinations with the Doctor.

  According to the information stored on the navigational bluebell, the key that Ryan and Graham were after was hidden in some bloke’s back garden. The most dangerous obstacle they’d encounter was likely to be an old guy shouting, ‘Get off my lawn!’

  ‘This is the place,’ said Graham, pausing next to a black wrought-iron gate. ‘Never Square.’

  Ryan huffed. Stupid name. He was quite sure there was no chance of anything remotely exciting happening in a place like this.