Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies - Lawrence Miles [75]
‘Right,’ said Qixotl. ‘The point is, he says he’ll overlook this little problem if I pay him back with interest, yeah?’
‘How much interest are we talking about?’
‘About 400 per cent.’
Mr Gabriel reached for the Blue Dog. ‘So, you want to get yourself off Drornid while you’ve still got all your legs?’
Mr Qixotl felt like hissing. He hated people who did that. Technically, this planet was supposed to be called “Drornid”; that was the name the locals had always used, anyway. But there’d been a typo in the first edition of Bartholomew’s Planetary Gazeteer, so the rest of the universe called it “Dronid”, including the off-worlders who came to make a living/killing here. And, as the off-worlders were at the heart of the planet’s economy, most of the natives went along with them. Some people always had to be picky, though.
‘There’s a lot of demand for time technology right now,’ Mr Gabriel continued, between mouthfuls of Blue Dog. ‘You know how it is. Everyone’s trying to get away from Drornid before the Time Lords come back. A lot of Professionals are talking about building their own armed-up TARDIS units, maybe tapping into the Eye of Harmony behind the High Council’s back.’
‘I get the idea. What you’re saying is, the circuit’s going to cost me an arm and a... wait a minute. What d’you mean, “before the Time Lords come back”?’
‘You haven’t heard? There’s a lot of unhappy rumbling, down in the underground. They say the High Council’s making plans for some kind of war. Somebody’s upset them, and badly.’
Mr Qixotl felt like sulking. Typical. He was always the last to know these things. ‘So surprise me. Who are they supposed to be fighting?’
‘Who knows? Like I said, it’s only a rumour. D’you know there’s a whole fleet of Gabrielidean warships on its way to Drornid? Heard it on the TV this afternoon.’ Mr Gabriel chuckled an artificial chuckle. ‘That’s my government, bless ’em. The word is, the Time Lords have set it all up. The warships are acting for the High Council. Don’t ask me what the Gabrielideans are getting out of the deal.’
‘I’m missing something here,’ Qixotl said. ‘OK, so the Time Lords are going to war. Then why are they sending the warships to Dronid?’
‘Wish I knew. It’s going to be where they have their first face-off with the enemy, that’s all I’ve heard. Maybe they’re hoping all us Professionals are going to get wiped in the crossfire. I mean, it’s embarrassing for them, knowing a planet like this has got people trying to build TARDISes on it.’
‘I have to use the little bipeds’ room,’ said Mr Qixotl.
23:42; four cans down, going beyond “relaxed” and into the realms of “introspective”.
Qixotl had picked up another couple of cans on the way back from the toilets, and he’d already downed one, even though he hadn’t gone back to the cubicle yet. He stopped off in one of the club’s relaxation lounges, where Professionals huddled together in suspicious little clusters, discussing the latest developments in narcotics science. The lounge was designed to make the Professionals feel at home, with a black-and-white Bakelite TV mounted on the wall in one corner, and the skinned corpses of undercover policemen dangling artistically from the ceiling on meat hooks. All very tasteful, really.
Qixotl made his way across to the TV. Someone else was already standing in front of the screen, drink in hand. The Professional was young, dressed in the obligatory black suit, with an unconvincing frown on his face. Another Gabrielidean, Qixotl judged.
The TV station – Dronid only had the one – was running a news bulletin. Qixotl watched a piece of footage that had presumably been taken by one of the surveillance satellites the off-worlders had put into orbit. Half a dozen spaceships were moving through the vacuum in close formation. The craft were plain black cuboids, utterly