Doctor Who: The Blood Cell (2 page)

‘Oh, I do,’ 428 nodded warmly. ‘Call it a vocation.’

‘Some inmates weave baskets. They find it very calming.’

‘I’ve never had much time for wicker,’ muttered 428. ‘I’ll just carry on escaping, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Of course it is. Be my guest.’ I waved the idea away magnanimously, reached across and patted him on the shoulder. I noticed with pleasure that he winced slightly. Clearly it was a little sore. ‘Escape as much as you want, my friend. I’m fully confident in my team’s abilities, but I’m sure they appreciate the practice. And, thanks to you, they have had a lot of practice of late.’

‘I do try my best,’ Prisoner 428 said smugly.

I toyed with the idea of cramming him down the incinerator, but beamed instead. ‘Well then, everyone must have a hobby, I suppose.’ I stood, indicating he was dismissed. ‘Off you trot, 428, back to your cell, and enjoy your escapades.’

‘You don’t understand,’ the Doctor – 428 – didn’t move.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You don’t understand, sir,’ Prisoner 428 repeated. ‘I did all the escaping for one purpose only. So that I could meet you.’

‘Did you now?’ I paused. I gave 428 another silence to tell me more about him. ‘You wanted to meet me?’ I leaned forward, interested.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, I’m pleased to have unlocked that particular achievement for you.’ I nodded, satisfied. ‘Perhaps you could learn a language next?’ I beamed, and motioned to the Custodians. ‘Take him back to his cell.’

‘No, you idiot … sir.’ The Doctor was on his feet, leaning across the desk, eyeball to eyeball with me, yelling fiercely as the Custodian sliced from the wall and wrapped electrified tendrils around him. ‘I had to meet you!’ he cried furiously, ignoring the pain, ‘Because I had to warn you. You have no idea what’s really going on here, do you? Unless you listen to me, a lot of people are going to die.’

I make it a rule not to look into the pasts of my prisoners. We all have skeletons in our closets, don’t we? and I try my best to be a man of my word. When I said to Prisoner 428 that I wanted to be his friend and that the details of his crimes did not concern me, I meant it.

All the same, he had been behaving extraordinarily. New arrivals often do. The Prison is an unusual place and takes some getting used to. I remember when I caught my first glimpse of it from the shuttle and my spirits, already low, slid down into my boots and then hid beneath my socks. I knew what The Prison was going to look like – in my old job, I’d been involved in the earliest planning stages, after all. But, when all of the worlds in our system, even now, are so colourful, to have helped create something so utterly grey and cold was horrid. The twinkling anti-gravity belts and external defence grid cast little lights on the darkness, creating pockets of almost-colour where you could
trick yourself into thinking that the grey became a rich purple or even was tinged with shades of blue.

But really, the asteroid was just a formidable fist of rock, huge and forbidding and dark and so very final. We’d taken an unwanted lump and we’d put the most unwanted people in the sector in it. And forgotten all about them.

As my shuttle got closer and closer on that first approach, I found myself caught up in schoolboy imaginings, trying to think of a way of escaping. What would I do if I was a prisoner here? How would I get out of my cell? How would I get off the asteroid? I couldn’t help myself, I just got wrapped up in my enthusiasms. But, as the rock drew closer and closer, those childish dreams died in me, and I don’t think I’ve ever been quite the same since.

Honestly, most of the many security defence systems are pointless. There’s no way off this prison. Shuttles don’t even land, instead a one-way transport crosses the Defence Array and beams supplies and prisoners directly into the reception area. I’m not saying that people haven’t tried to get out, but it never ends well. The only way to escape from here is to die. Eventually, everyone realises this fact. And after that, I have no further trouble with them.

But what about Prisoner 428, who would prefer to be known as The Doctor? Well, what of him? I’d seen his type before, so many times. He’d tirade and shout,
organise a furtive protest group, then a more blatant one. There’d be tiresome acts of rebellion, overt campaigning, perhaps a samizdat newsletter, maybe a few mass escape attempts. Inevitably, there’d be injuries (on his side), and his support would mutely drift away until Prisoner 428 stood alone, even sadder than when he first arrived.

I wanted to spare him that. Of course I did. It was my humane duty to do so. He was my friend, whether he wanted to be or not. So that was why I was breaching my promise to myself and finding out a little more about him. For no other reason than his own good, of course.

I blipped Bentley and she arrived, as stiff and immaculate as ever.

‘That was a bit of fun just now, wasn’t it, Bentley?’ I said.

‘If you say so, Governor.’ Bentley’s tone was cold, but the edges of her mouth twitched. She always teased me with the promise of a smile. I’d only ever seen her actually smile once, and that was when an escape attempt had gone horrifically wrong. Poor Marianne. To be truthful, I’m glad I’d never seen Bentley smile again.

‘Will you take tea with me?’

Bentley inclined her head in assent. ‘If you so order.’

‘It’s hardly an order. Simply a custom between friends.’ We were not friends. It was stupid to pretend
so. And yet, I could not help trying. She worked for me, and yet she treated me little better than her charges. No matter what I did, no matter how correct, stern and thorough I was, she always surveyed me as though there was jam on my uniform. I don’t even know why I was offering her tea. The whole thing was a stupid idea. But I’d made the offer, so I should press ahead with it. I beamed at her, a little forced, perhaps. Still – a drink between colleagues. A Custodian brought us tea and we both pretended to enjoy it. The drink was all right, so long as you didn’t question where the tea came from. Or the water.

Bentley settled in the metal chair opposite me. She was the only person who never seemed put out by its iron discomfort. She was waiting for me to speak.

‘I think we’ll have trouble with this “Doctor”, don’t you?’

She nodded. ‘Are you going to call 428 by his name?’

I was expansive. ‘We can afford to be generous. I doubt he’ll be with us for long.’

For a moment, Bentley almost caught my eye. ‘Would you like me to arrange …?’

‘No, no!’ I assured her hurriedly. ‘I simply mean that we’ve seen his type before. It never ends well, does it?’ Bentley considered the airy statement seriously. ‘We still have 112 on Level 6.’

It took me a moment to remember the number. ‘Oh.’ She meant Marianne Globus. Poor Marianne.
Poor 112. A dear friend. ‘Ah, yes.’ Neither of us said anything for a moment. ‘How remarkable of you to remember, Bentley. I’d quite forgotten, really. I’ve almost completely forgotten all about her. Well, what’s left of her.’ I was pretending to be airy. In reality, the very thought of what had become of poor 112 made me feel ill. ‘And how is she?’

Bentley almost faltered for a moment. ‘I have not supervised her personally for some time. But the Custodians on Level 6 have not reported anything negative about 112’s condition or her pain management.’

Poor Marianne. We’d stopped thinking about her. Level 6 was pretty empty. She’d not even seen a human guardian for quite some time. Oh dear. ‘I should probably arrange a personal visit with her at some point.’ I didn’t fancy it at all.

‘Indeed.’ Bentley inclined her head, pleased I wasn’t rebuking her.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I assured her. ‘You do a splendid job overseeing the running of the entire prison. You can’t worry about every little thing. That’s my job. My wife used to tell me a saying from Old New Earth: “Take care of the pennies, and the pounds will take care of themselves.” ’

Bentley inclined her chin, interested. ‘What does that mean, Governor?’

‘I’m not entirely sure. Then again, she also used
to tell me: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” That’s the problem with archaic prayers. To our ears, they seem so contradictory and elusive.’

‘A little like Prisoner 428?’ It was, for Bentley, a joke.

‘Yes,’ I beamed, keen to show I was pleased with what Bentley had said, as it fitted with where I wanted the conversation to go. ‘Sounds a lot like the Doctor! Remarkable fellow. Yes.’ I leaned back, feeling all thirty-six supporting comfopockets of the chair do their luxurious work. ‘You know, I’m rather keen we don’t end up with another Prisoner 112 situation on our hands … Well, all over our hands.’

‘What would you like me to do?’ Bentley waited for me to speak.

‘I was wondering if, in this case, forewarned is forearmed. I was thinking I’d have perhaps the tiniest of glances at 428’s records. Do you think that would be wise?’

‘Whatever you think best, Governor.’ Bentley kept her tone neutral. ‘It can be arranged. I can call his files up over the TransNet. It may take a little time.’

Communications were appallingly slow here. The relay of TransNet satellites back to the System HomeWorld were erratic. In the early days there had been an idea that we could use the TransNet for near-live relays of entertainment programming, news and communications back with loved ones. Sadly, once The Prison had been set up we had discovered
that the TransNet supplier had done a woeful job of the relay. Even the simplest communications were painfully slow. Prisoners just arrived here, often without us knowing who they were. Entertainment was sent in from the shuttles on old-fashioned hard copy (whoever said the data crystal was dead?), and what little news we received was either via extremely brief text bulletin or summaries burnt to hardcopy. In the beginning it had felt ever so isolating, but now we’d grown used to it. Almost to enjoy it. Prisoners and Guardians. We were all hermits together.

Sensing she was dismissed, Bentley made to get up, her cup of tea half-finished. I waved her to remain seated. ‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘I can do it from my terminal.’ Sometimes I think she assumes I’m a hopeless old has-been, but I tapped the computer to wake it up. It responded sluggishly. The terminals they’ve fitted us with were supplied by the same contractor who put in the lamentable TransNet system. They’re awful. The icons swam slowly into view. I tapped the one for ‘Records’. And then tapped it again. And then finally accepted that the thing had frozen.

Back home I’d been used to asking my tablet everything, constantly. Now I bothered with it barely once a day. I was forced to rely on my own wits. I was rather proud of that. The freedom it gave me. All the same, it would be nice if the systems worked just once.

Bentley was standing, heading for the door. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I looked up the records for you,’ she offered gently.

She really does think I’m past it. Ah well. There was another cup of tea in the pot, so I poured it. I’d not finished it when Bentley came back in with 428’s records hardcopied up into a folder. I settled down to read them thoroughly over the rest of the tea. After a few pages I stopped reading thoroughly and merely glanced, and then I pushed the folder aside, sickened.

I picked up the cup, but the tea in it had gone cold. I couldn’t face that either.

I realised Bentley was still in the room, watching me, curiously appraising my reaction. In many ways, she’s like one of the Custodians, silent and solid and grim. I’d never tell her this, of course. She has feelings, I’m sure she does. Somewhere. She’d feel terribly hurt.

‘You’ve read about the Doctor’s crimes?’ she asked.

‘Prisoner 428,’ I said firmly. He no longer deserved a name. Sickened, I pushed the folder over to her with distaste. ‘Take this away.’

My tablet had rebooted and I used it to login to 428’s cell-cam. His was as spartan as all of our prisoner accommodation. Each box contained a shelf for sitting and sleeping. And a door. There were no windows because there was no view. Only Guardians were allowed to see the stars and space. Prisoners
simply got to see the walls and each other. Each cell was a regulation size, although those on Level 6 were perhaps a trifle smaller. And yet 428’s cell seemed cramped, as though the man filled the room.

He paced the area, tugging away at the orange uniform, as though trying to pull it into something other than the shapeless garment it was. The orange was the only colour that the prisoners saw, and, as it was everywhere, they no longer noticed it.

I stared at him in fascination. So this was the man, the man who had … I shook my head. His crimes hardly bore thinking about. I hated him. It was unprofessional of me to do so, but I hated him.

I wondered when 428 would grow tired of pacing. They all did eventually. When I was a child, we still had zoos. My prisoners were the same as zoo animals, treading out the limits of their confinement, as if somehow they could wear away the floor and the bars, before they finally accepted defeat.

Prisoner 428 had not yet given in. Had not yet realised that he would never leave The Prison.

I zoomed in on his face, trying to read his crimes on it. We were about the same age, but his features looked stretched under the effort of containing his guilt, as though trying to keep several lifetimes of tiredness and anger at bay. It was a face that was commanding. Not exactly handsome, but certainly unforgettable. It chilled me to think that that was
the very last thing so many of his victims had seen. Not a sunset, not the faces of loved ones smiling a sad goodbye, but just that angry face boiling away like a dying star. I shuddered.

Whatever it takes, I vowed to myself, I will make you pay for what you have done.

The alarms roused me. I’d wandered away into my thoughts, which was always a mistake. There’s so much to do on The Prison, and it doesn’t do for a Governor to daydream. Even when things are running smoothly.

I glanced back at the cell-cam and started. It was almost as though 428 was staring through the lens, right at me. Those eyes. The terrible things they’d seen.

Hastily I cut the feed. And then the alarms blarted.