Doctor Who_ Wooden Heart - Martin Day [50]
‘Welcome to hell,’ said the guard, without a trace of irony in his voice.
Abbas watched the plasteel door seal itself shut. Moments later, the red warning light over the airlock flicked on; he felt the floor shake slightly as the transport ship disengaged from the larger craft. Through the window he could just make out the flash of a silver wing as the transporter banked. Without warning – and in absolute silence – the big engines flared for an instant, causing Abbas to blink involuntarily.
When his eyes opened again the ship was nowhere to be seen, lost in the fathomless darkness of space. It was as if the captain couldn’t stand to be in this sector any longer than he absolutely had to.
Abbas didn’t blame him. He’d heard the rumours about this place, and none of them were pleasant.
‘This way,’ said the guard, his eyes full of longing as he averted his gaze from the spot where the transport vessel had been.
Abbas tried to swallow down the irrational, claustrophobic feeling that had gripped him from the first moment he’d glimpsed the research station.
He followed the guard, shuffling through the angular corridor, passed a number of bright-white rooms, then stepped out onto the latticed walkway that encircled the small communal area. Looking down he could see a handful of overall-clad men training with weights or sparring in a hastily assembled ring of plastic crates and thick rope. It was clear from the light-emitting signs that peppered the walls that the door at the far side of the walkway led to the security team’s sleeping and social quarters. To his left, endless, anonymous cells. To his right, the technical area – the heart of the ship, and Abbas’ eventual destination.
Before he stepped off the curved walkway and into the antiseptic corridor, Abbas risked a glance upwards. Through the thick, transparent bubble that formed the roof of the common room, he could see a planet, impossibly close, impossibly large. Its pale blue mass seemed to threaten to hurtle downwards at any moment, its landmasses and frozen oceans ravenous for the microscopic morsel that was the research centre.
Abbas glanced away as his head and stomach swam with the unnaturalness of it all. Heaven above, hell below, he thought. There was something primal about the arrangement.
The guard caught his hasty look at the planet. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘Does my head in, too.’
As they walked along the featureless corridor, Abbas felt the faintest of vibrations through the floor, as if they were approaching some sleeping creature. Every ten metres or so they passed a door, numbered and with a status panel at head height. On some the digits were green; others, blue; still others, a twinkling scarlet. As they passed each red door, and despite the soundproofing, Abbas could hear muffled screams and cries of anguish.
They came to a halt about halfway down the long corridor. The shouts from the next room were just reaching a crescendo, the red lettering spelling out words and numbers that Abbas couldn’t follow. Then, suddenly, there was silence. The read-out cycled though amber, then blue, then finally became green.
The door began to hiss open, but Abbas was bundled into his own room before he could see who or what emerged.
‘Sit down,’ said a bald, white-coated man, indicating a padded seat of synthetic leather in the centre of the room. His manner was imperious and abrupt, as if he did not expect to be challenged. The guards on either side of him, armed with snub-nosed guns, showed that the scientist had every reason to be confident.
Within moments, Abbas found himself strapped to the seat, utterly unable to move. The white-coated man turned his back for a moment, his hands moving over a pedestal of equipment. Then he turned towards Abbas, a wicked smile on his face.
‘This is the point,’ he said, ‘when convention dictates that I should say that it won’t hurt a bit.’ He leant closer, and Abbas could feel his breath on his cheek. ‘But I