Doctor Who_ Trading Futures - Lance Parkin [31]
The Doctor stood up, handed her the handcuffs and pulled her out of the room. ‘It really is time to get going.’
* * *
Fitz woke up, which came as something of a relief.
He hadn’t moved – the two men in the trenchcoats were still there, so was the big circus tent. He could hear the crowds. He was dimly aware that the old bloke who’d kicked his head in and his good‐looking ladyfriend were only a few yards behind him. But they hadn’t caught up with him in the time he’d been unconscious. However long that had been.
He felt like he’d just eaten a six‐course meal.
His vision was blurred, but – as if to compensate – the smells were overpowering. Grass, the canvas of the tent, the burgers and chestnuts from the food stalls. Fitz wasn’t a scientist, but he imagined the blurred vision was something to do with the good kicking he’d been given. He should have been worried it was permanent, but that lobe of his brain must have been whacked, too.
The two blokes were quite ordinary looking. Average height and build. They looked boring, more than anything else. There were two of them, of course, but even so, Fitz felt that he’d have a reasonable chance to get past them.
‘Doctor…’ one of them said.
They thought he was the Doctor. Fitz had forgotten that bit. What would the Doctor do in these circumstances?
‘Oh yes, I am the Doctor,’ Fitz assured them, worried he sounded a bit too camp.
‘You will give us the secrets of time travel.’
‘You know I can’t do that,’ Fitz said, looking back over his shoulder. The old bloke was right behind him, why hadn’t he caught up?
And why did it feel like there were lead weights in his shoes and coat pockets?
The gravity was higher than it was on Earth.
So there was a rather obvious conclusion to be drawn.
‘This is an illusion,’ Fitz told the trenchcoats. ‘A simulation of Earth, not the real thing.’
‘Yes, Doctor. Onihr science is capable of such magnificent feats.’ The man held up the little box he’d had before.
‘But not of sorting out the gravity problem.’
The two men looked at each other.
‘If you can’t manage simple artificial gravity,’ said Fitz airily, ‘then you’re hardly ready for me to hand you a time machine, are you?’
‘You will build us a time machine. You will teach us its secrets.’
‘We have fragments of the knowledge,’ the other added. ‘Our race has spent millennia acquiring them.’
‘You find them lying around?’ Fitz snorted.
‘Precisely. On every planet, there are pieces of the puzzle.’
‘Echoes in the rituals or artwork.’
‘Artefacts. Components. Relics.’
‘The Onihr race collects these, but however brilliant our scientists, we can not fit these pieces together.’
‘We want that knowledge. We shall be the masters of time.’
Fitz shook his head. ‘I’m not going to stop you trying,’ he said – doubting it was what the Doctor would say in the circumstances. ‘But I’m not going to help you. So, just take me home.’
‘You will serve us, you will –’
Fitz took the opportunity to reach out, and pull the control box from the man’s hand.
There were only a few controls. One of them would beam him back down to Earth, he was sure.
A second or two later, he wasn’t so sure. No doubt, one of the little square buttons activated the teleport… but what did the other ones do? He pressed one, but it just seemed to spray perfume at him.
The two men, or Onihrs, or whatever, were keeping their distance, circling him.
‘Hand that back.’
‘There is no escape.’
They were edging closer. Fitz realised he was going to have to press another one of the buttons and worry about the consequences later.
He plumped for one, and tapped it.
A smell like rotting fish burped out of the device.
The two Onihrs paused, just stopping in mid‐step, like they were on film which had got trapped in the gate. He’d found the stun setting, Fitz thought for a moment. Then they began to melt, hair blurring into skin, skin blurring into eyes and teeth.
Fitz coughed. ‘I’m sorry…’ he said softly.
But now they were straightening up. Their bodies were fizzing, fading, and it was clear that there were