Doctor Who_ Companion Piece - Mike Tucker [2]
Junior navigator Ellen Trellawn punched co-ordinates into the flight computer and slumped back into her seat, waiting for the confirmation signal from traffic control to proceed. She stared through the forward view-port at the planet that hung below her. Haven — a patchwork of blue and gold, green and bronze — hung against the inky blackness of space; unspoiled, innocent. And the last place in the galaxy that she wanted to be arriving at. 'Cheer up; we won't be down there that long.'
Her co-pilot — the only other occupant of the cramped, functional flight deck — was grinning across at her from his adjacent seat. Charles Dolbyn was an old hand at this cargo run, a veteran with nearly seven hundred hours in warp. Something he never let her forget. He unsnapped his flight harness, rose to his feet and peered down over her shoulder.
`Sure it doesn't appeal to you? There are people who would give up anything to settle on a planet like this. Unspoilt atmosphere, lazy pace of life, no technology.'
`I happen to like technology. I'm a girl who likes her creature comforts.'
`Fresh air, open spaces.'
`No shops, no restaurants.'
`Lots of well-built farmers . . . '
Ellen clouted him with her cap. 'Give it up, Charles. I'm not about to go back to nature:
A harsh buzzer sounded. Ellen nodded at the control console. 'That's our clearance. You'd better take us down.'
`Yes, ma'am.' Charles slid back into his chair, grinning from ear to ear, and refastened his harness.
The cargo ship started to bank, the planet sliding from Ellen's view. Filters slid automatically into place over the view-port as the sun swung across in front of her. There was a lurch as the ship touched the atmosphere.
`Here we go; said Charles.
Ellen swallowed hard to clear her ears, and sighed. Eight days on Haven whilst their ship was loaded with grain. Eight days with nothing to do but stay inside the compound and get drunk. Contact with the indigenous population was kept to a minimum — not that she had any great desire to meet them. The planet was crude. Simple. Uncomplicated. God, if it hadn't been for the famine out on the backworlds, then first contact would never have been made.
The ship straightened and the planet loomed large in the view-port once more. A planet of fields and crops, a planet of food. It was that abundance of natural resources that had persuaded the old Council of Settlers to land on Haven in the first place — to break one of their most sacred laws: 'Don't contact a people until they're evolved enough to be contacted: Hunger had seen their noble rules consigned to the trash — where the Council had feared to tread, the Church had gone boldly forward, marching as to war, and all that.
A series of electronic beeps rang around the flight deck as Charles lined the Saint Augustine up on her glide path. The beeps merged into a steady tone as the ship homed in on the cathedral beacon.
Saint Saviour's, Braak. It must be. One of the great wonders of the new worlds. Gothic, ancient looking, and built less than twenty years ago. Already a popular site for pilgrims from all over the rimworlds. Pilgrimages had died out on the old planets centuries ago, but not out here, where the Church had made initial contact with dozens of systems. As was the case with most of the backworlds, the Church practically owned Haven now. Space port taxes for using cathedral landing pads, export duty; the entire operation was controlled and run by the Church, and they had to be coining it in.
Ellen's stomach lurched as the air brakes roared into life and the freighter dropped towards the planet's surface. As on every other landing that she had ever made, Ellen clutched at the small Saint Christopher medal that hung around her neck, and mentally kicked herself for her superstition.
The roar of the descending transport boomed across the cliff tops. AnneMarie struggled