Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies - Lawrence Miles [73]
‘Oh. Well. That’s all right then.’ Qixotl shot the Doctor an anxious glance. ‘Does this mean...?’
‘It means any Daleks you may have invited are a no-show,’ the Doctor told him, flashing a quick smile at the crystalline creature. ‘The Krotons have come to take their place.’
MR QIXOTL’S STORY
Traducersville, Dronid, local year 15367
22:55; one can down, no ill effects so far.
The club was called Shockley’s Den of Almost Limitless Iniquity, and it was starting to get on Mr Qixotl’s nerves. OK, so the decor was nice. All the rooms were half-lit and shady-looking, and the balls in the pool rooms were artificial intelligence jobs, so they consoled you in teeny squeaky voices whenever you missed a shot. And yeah, there were plenty of side-cubicles where you could do deals in private, and yeah, the drinks were cheaper than battery acid. The problem, in Qixotl’s view, was the clientele.
They were all Professionals. Professionals with a capital “P”. Qixotl had been hanging around the underworlds of Mutter’s Spiral since he’d been a tube-squirt, he’d dealt in everything from stolen time capsules to illicit cloned body parts, but never before had he seen a planet that took its criminal operations so seriously. If you worked for one of the organised crime networks on Dronid, you were considered to be a career-minded citizen. The Professionals were the kind of people who’d put “thug” or “hired killer” on their passports and be proud of it.
In theory, the set-up should have suited Mr Qixotl down to the ground, but in practice, it was getting to be a pain in the neck. Most of the Professionals crowding around the bar area were wearing suits, for a start. Not classy designer numbers, like Qixotl’s; old black-tie-and-jacket numbers. Some of them probably dealt in hot DNA for a living, but they looked like a bunch of accountants. All much, much too formal for Qixotl’s liking. He was a wild card, a one-off, a free spirit...
His discomfort had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that these people made him feel like an amateur. No no no. Nothing at all.
Behind the bar, a girl leaned over to take the order of the Professional standing next to Mr Qixotl. Another suit, Qixotl noted. ‘Two glasses of Tequila Mockingbird,’ the man said, raising his voice above the I-bet-I’ve-shot-more-people-than-you-this-week hubbub around him. ‘And where can I get hold of some dystronic explosive?’
The girl checked a chalkboard on the wall behind her. ‘Twelve denaris for the drinks,’ she said. ‘And... erm, no one’s in tonight who does dystronic weapons. Will Klutterbug missiles do?’
The Professional frowned. ‘I can live with ’em.’
‘You want Mr VenFaxil. He’s in pool room number three. Two denaris service charge, please. Thank you.’
The man’s drinks, when the girl finished mixing them, turned out to be bright blue, with two thumb-sized genetically engineered flamingos wading around in each glass. Crass, thought Qixotl. He waited until the Professional had moved away from the bar, then raised his hand.
‘Another can of Blue Dog,’ he said. ‘And I’m looking for some high-level propulsion systems here, yeah?’
23:07; two cans down, still sober.
Mr Qixotl sat in one of the side-cubicles, opposite a man who, according to the girl behind the bar, was generally known as “Mr Gabriel”. From what Qixotl had gathered, the man was a Gabrielidean, one of the many off-worlders who’d come to Dronid looking for an easy pinch. Gabrielideans didn’t have proper names back on their own planet, so Qixotl couldn’t help feeling that the handle this one had chosen for himself wasn’t too original. In Qixotl’s opinion, meeting a Gabrielidean called “Mr Gabriel” was like meeting a Dalek called “Mr D Arlek” or someone from Earth called “Harold Human”.
‘Let me make sure I’m on your wavelength,’ Mr Gabriel said. ‘What you want, and I’m not going to mince words here, is a new dematerialisation circuit. Is that what you’re saying?’
Qixotl looked over his shoulder, even though there was nothing