Doctor Who_ Father Time - Lance Parkin [101]
‘Why ninety seconds?’ Debbie asked, wondering whether she really wanted to know.
The Doctor tapped a sheaf of papers marked ASCENT PKT CHECKLIST. ‘Once they light the engines, they can’t turn them off, they have to use up all their fuel. Solid rocket fuel is dangerous stuff. Looks like putty, but, of course, it’s highly explosive – wouldn’t be much use if it wasn’t. If there’s a problem with one of the solid rocket boosters then the mechanical stresses would almost certainly just pull everything apart. You can’t eject them; a detached orbiter wouldn’t be able to outrun them.’
‘We’d have a crash-landing.’
‘Oh no,’ the Doctor said wickedly, ‘Mission Control would self-destruct us – you wouldn’t want us crashing in an inhabited area. So, the solid fuel burns out after two minutes, and then those two tanks detach. The liquid fuel in the middle tank’s burning at about three thousand three hundred degrees, of course, but most of it’s burned off by then. That’s when we hit Mach fifteen. Ninety seconds.’
Debbie must have looked very pale, because the Doctor leaned over her. ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ she insisted.
‘Good.’ He handed her a security badge with her name on it. ‘l used some of my business connections,’ he explained vaguely.
‘How can this work?’ Debbie asked him.
‘A shuttle launch runs to a timetable. A totally predictable and controlled sequence of events,’ the Doctor said. ‘If you know the process, it’s easy to exploit that knowledge.’
‘They must have security.’
‘They do – and I know the precise location of each guard, fence and camera. They don’t even know we’re here, let alone what we’re planning to do. Even if they did, I doubt they’d believe we could achieve it.’ He smiled. ‘We have the advantage here. I almost feel sorry for them.’
* * *
Miranda was getting the guided tour, but Ferran was keeping the details vague.
Miranda was starting to piece things together, though. The ship was cylindrical, or something like that, with the living quarters and control rooms and recreation areas at one end, the hangars and things in the middle and the engines at the rear.
A ship this vast was a community, not just a warship. The corridors had soldiers – blond and blonde; servants in the drab robes; but other people too. Guessing from the costumes, there were entertainers, technicians, minor noblemen, chefs... and many other types besides.
There were search parties, fanning their way through the ship, taking pictures, drawing up maps and technical diagrams.
They were all Ferran’s people. There were no robots, no monsters, no mutants. No black faces, either, or Chinese ones, only a few female soldiers. Racial purity. She shuddered.
Studying Ferran and Cate together worried her, too. He showed concern about her, appreciation – but only the concern a man might have for a sports car, or a particularly stylish music centre. She was property.
The flight deck was a short lift journey from her own quarters.
Miranda stepped in behind Ferran. Cate followed.
The room was hexagonal, with a high vaulted ceiling. They came out on to a raised walkway. The lighting was soft, throwing shadows everywhere. The walls were dark – glossy black metal and gold trim. There were a number of ramps down towards the centre itself, where six high seats all faced towards the centre of the room, each with computer panels set into the armrests.
In the centre of the vaulted ceiling, hanging down like a chandelier, was a pyramid full of swirling lights.
Her bedchamber had been an exercise in steel and plastic minimalism. This was more ornate, and as architecturally striking as it was functional.
Each seat had one of Ferran’s men in it. All wore smart green uniforms, all were blond, a variety of ages, but otherwise with little to distinguish them from one another.
‘What is our status?’ Ferran asked.
The reply came from all around: a woman’s voice with a slight electronic distortion.
‘Ship is in class-three orbit above planet Earth,