Doctor Who_ So Vile a Sin - Ben Aaronovitch [52]
There had been a chance to start again, to purify every last part of 122
the Empire’s machinery. But the cleaning up had never been finished.
The Empire no longer serves the interests of humanity, Sokolovsky told himself. It was almost a catchphrase in the resistance.
It was cold on the number-two forward launch deck, cold enough to frost his breath. But it was always cold on a launch deck, with nothing but a single bulkhead between you and the big zero.
He blinked, time ticking down in the corner of his eye. Three hours, fifty-eight minutes.
Capture, escape, capture, escape.
Chris opened his eyes. He sat up. Where the hell was he?
The crew of the Victoria hadn’t been taking any chances.
While the medics took the Doctor away to the sickbay, an armed escort had marched the rest of the Hopper’s crew to the brig. It was a comfortable, large room, with some isolated entertainment computers and a food machine.
This wasn’t it. They’d put him somewhere else while he was sleeping. Had they drugged him? He didn’t feel drugged.
He looked around. The room was small, with a high ceiling, out of reach. He couldn’t work out where the light was coming from – out of the walls?
He pressed a hand to the wall. The stuff was – plastic? metal? –
not exactly hot, not exactly cold. He ran his hand along it.
Seamless, one wall curving into another, forming a narrow six-sided shape.
No seams at all. He couldn’t find the door. Nothing in the ceiling, either, not even a securicam. How’d they put him in here? Was it some kind of container? Where the hell was he?
‘Hey!’ he shouted, hammering on the wall. His voice and the sound of his fist echoed back at him, muffled. ‘Hey! What is this?’ No answer. They couldn’t even hear him. ‘Let me out of here!’
Chris opened his eyes. He sat up, knocking his head on the wall of the brig.
123
The Ogrons looked up at him from across the room. He blinked, rubbing the back of his head. Martinique was curled on the opposite bunk, looking ill.
‘OK?’ grunted Sister’s Son.
He nodded at the Ogron. ‘Anything happening?’
‘Eating competition,’ said Son of My Father indistinctly. Chris realized the Ogrons were sitting cross-legged in front of the food machine, each one with a pile of banana skins stacked up next to him.
Chris laughed out loud. The nightmare feeling already draining away. ‘Have they said anything about the Doctor?’
‘No. Nobody has been here,’ said Son of My Father. ‘What would they tell Ogrons, anyway?’
‘Good point.’ Chris frowned. ‘We’d better work out a way to get out of here.’
‘But Chris,’ said Sister’s Son, ‘there are only three of us, and many soldiers on the ship. If we do get out, where will we go?’
‘First rule of crisis, according to the Doctor,’ said Chris. ‘Panic about one thing at a time.’
Sokolovsky’s communicator chimed. ‘Yes, Lieutenant?’
‘The prisoner who was taken to sickbay has recovered, sir,’
said Emerson. ‘He wants to talk to you, sir.’
Sokolovsky was striding through the Victoria’s corridors. The time was ticking in the corner of his eye, a constant flicker of hot red figures. ‘He’ll have to wait,’ he said.
‘Er, he’s very insistent, sir.’
‘He’s a civilian, Lieutenant.’
‘Yes, sir. He’s a very insistent civilian. An exceptionally insistent civilian, sir.’
Sokolovsky couldn’t help smiling. ‘All right, then, Emerson.
Have him brought to the bridge. I’ll sort him out.’
‘Er, sir? He’s already on the bridge.’
‘What?’
‘He seems to have persuaded security it was in the ship’s best interests. I’m there now, sir, keeping an eye on him.’
‘I’ll be there in thirty seconds.’
124
The man was indeed on the bridge. All over it like a rash, flitting from station to station, peeking over the shoulders of the Ops.
Sokolovsky sank into the command chair and watched the little man pace. The captain’s station was almost at the back of the bridge, on the left side, giving him a view of every part of the