Doctor Who_ Deep Blue - Mark Morris [46]
„Not necessarily. They may be quite unaware of the effect their presence is having on the indigenous population.‟
„Some kind of chemical leak?‟ suggested Turlough.
„Possibly. Let‟s find out, shall we?‟
The Doctor ran his fingers deftly over the various component parts of the panel and, despite its haphazard appearance, the bulkhead door slid smoothly open.
„Technology assimilation,‟ he said. „It may not look pretty but it certainly works.‟
As they passed through the door, Turlough asked, „Have you any idea what kind of ship this is, Doctor?‟
„Morok battle cruiser,‟ the Doctor replied without hesitation, and indicated a row of embossed metal symbols running along the length of one wall. Turlough couldn‟t decide whether the symbols were intended to be ornamental, instructional or functional. The Doctor‟s voice became thoughtful as he added, „However, somehow I don‟t think the Moroks are in charge any more.‟
„What makes you say that?‟
„The Moroks are a very proud race. They certainly wouldn‟t use alien technology to improve, or even patch up, their existing systems. They‟d rather die than admit that any technology is superior to their own.‟
„So who are we dealing with then, Doctor?‟ Turlough asked, his voice quavering with nerves.
The Doctor pressed his lips together in contemplation, as if Turlough had posed nothing more than an intellectual question. „A crew of mercenaries recruited from the far-flung comers of the galaxy?‟
„Oh, is that all?‟ replied Turlough heavily. „And I thought I had cause to be worried.‟
„I could be wrong,‟ the Doctor admitted. „A man who is never wrong is rarely right.‟ He smiled cheerfully and strode on. „In my experience, people are usually friendly enough if you show them you mean them no harm.‟
Turlough gave him an incredulous look and followed. Over the course of the next ten minutes the two of them passed through a vast air filtration and water treatment plant, the systems humming and chugging efficiently away despite their apparently decrepit state; a food-producing area where the plants had withered and the fruit and vegetables had been allowed to bloat and rot in their artificial environments (leading the Doctor to comment that the dietary requirements of whoever had taken over the ship were evidently very different from those of the Moroks‟); and finally a derelict recreation area whose facilities suggested that the emphasis was not so much on pleasure as on physical fitness.
Leading off from the recreation area in one direction were the mess hall and kitchens. In the other direction, like spokes protruding from a vast wheel, were numerous corridors inset with evenly-spaced doors, a different symbol -
which Turlough took to be either names or numbers -
emblazoned on each.
„Crew quarters,‟ the Doctor said, and selecting a door at random began to tap in a sequence on the control panel beside it. He stopped almost immediately, however, fingers poised in midair. „No power.‟
„This place is falling apart,‟ commented Turlough.
„On the contrary. Essential systems appear to be running at maximum efficiency. This area is obviously superfluous to requirements.‟ The Doctor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. „What happened to the crew, I wonder.‟
„I‟d rather not think about it,‟ Turlough said.
„Hmm,‟ mused the Doctor, then abruptly he slapped Turlough on the arm. „Oh well, onward and upward.‟
They moved deeper into the ship, the smell growing stronger as they neared what the Doctor said was the command centre. Turlough produced his handkerchief again, covered his mouth and nose with it and tied it at the back of his head. He felt miserable, cold, sick and scared, and barely listened to the Doctor, who had started jabbering away like a tour guide about the austerity of Morokian architecture, its lack of colour, its over-reliance on dense metals.
Suddenly the Doctor stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes widened and he delicately pressed the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead. Then all at once his face creased in pain and