Doctor Who_ Placebo Effect Part 12

'Robots. Invented by some old professor, MacTaggart or somesuch, who went off his rocker, lost his job and ended up creating the Tees. He let them set up their own civilisation, but they failed and the Federation bought them lock, stock and barrel.'

The Doctor sat on the floor looking at his fingers. 'I'm very surprised that in an environment like this, devoid of paper and powder-based products, and with efficient servo-robots to do the cleaning, you'd have quite this amount of dust around your door.'

'And your point is?'

'It's not dust. Someone is bugging your office, Professor Jeol, using microscopic particle recorders.' He waved his fingers at Jeol.'Look, Ma, we're on Candid Camera '.

Jeol frowned.'I'm sorry, I simply don't know what you're talking about.'

The Doctor sighed, and Jeol felt unpleasantly as if he were being treated like a child by a teacher who was having problems explaining rudimentary mathematics. The Doctor was up again, shoving his hand in the direction of Jeol's face.'Look. This is not dust. It is a form of surveillance equipment that is placed here to record simple things such as who is using this office, what electronic transactions take place and such like. It's heat-sensitive and will have recorded every conversation that has taken place in here, both vocally and over the networks.You, Professor, are being spied upon.'

'Who by?' This was, of course, ridiculous, but Ritchie had insisted that everyone play along with the Doctor.

'By whom. Someone high up, I should imagine. Someone with access to the knowledge that you ate the sort of person they'd want to spy upon in the first place.' The Doctor walked out of the office. 'Let's go and see how sterile Sterile Room Four actually is, shall we?'

Jeol shook his head and followed the Doctor out. The man was mad. A sterile room was... well, sterile. No amount of dirt-pretending-to-be-surveillance-equipment could get in there.

Ritchie needed his own head examined for foisting this moron upon them at this time.

Sam stood and watched the water cascading down the side of the sculpture, catching the glow of the multicoloured lights behind it and making different shapes and patterns all the time.

The statue was Prometheus, the life-bringer. It also had the words Grecian Corp stencilled at the bottom of the plaque.

She quite liked fountains - there was one outside the swimming pool at Bethnal Green, but that just dribbled a green slime most of the time. During school holidays, when she was a kid, Sam and her mum would stop and look at it on their way to Mum's DSS office.'Once, it was really pretty,' her mum said. "Then the vandals got to it and b.u.g.g.e.red it up. Shame really.'

But as her mother dismissed it, so Sam got indignant. She didn't know why exactly, but she took an instant dislike to vandals. Her mother had said something was beautiful but wasn't any longer -and they were responsible.

Looking back, maybe that was something to do with where her efforts at campaigning, joining demos and marches came from - a desire to see things that were once beautiful put right again. Of course, that path took a few twists and turns that neither of her parents entirely approved of, but Sam knew her own heart was in the right place.

'G.o.d, was I ever that young,' she muttered, smiling at the naivety of youth that believed the world's wrongs could be so easily put right. Preaching to the converted, that was the trouble with demos.

The Prometheus statue glistened as the water splashed across it, the multicoloured lights exposing dents, scratches and tiny imperfections that the daylight would never have shown up. Sam liked that - unlike most things on Micawber's World, the statue wasn't perfect. Come to think of it, if she looked closer at Carrington City late at night, she'd probably find a few dents and scratches in that as well. She hoped so - perfection was very pretty but became dull after a while.

She sat on the side of the fountain, letting the occasional water spray soak her neck and shoulder as she looked back at the business district. She had pa.s.sed a Menards all-purpose store a while back and bought a datapad, a ball of string, three balloons and couple of local delicacies (well, actually, they could have come from anywhere - she just knew they weren't from Earth) called gwampa fruit, according to the somewhat chatty and kindly grey-haired old man who worked there and insisted on telling her his name was Szmanda and that his family had originally come from Earth. Exactly what she needed the odds and sods for, she had no idea, but he had been very persuasive and it had pa.s.sed a few minutes harmlessly.

Relaxing beside the fountain, she tugged at the little string bag the gwampa fruits were in, took one out and bit into it. Sweet but a bit stiff, a bit like an unripe pear, but not unpleasant.

G.o.d, when was the last time she'd had a pear?

'I wonder what Mum's doing right now.' She smiled a little sadly at that. She had really wanted to ask the Doctor to take her back for a visit just once, after all these years - just to let them know she was fine. Seeing Stacy with her parents rubbed salt in that little wound a bit more - although she was very happy for Stacy to get the chance to be with her parents again.

And Sam had no doubt that he would take her if asked. But did she have the right?

She had been seventeen when the Doctor met her (well, give or take a few months). Now she was twenty-one. All that time on Ha'olam meant she must have missed a couple of good parties back home.

So, to Mum and Dad she had been away perhaps four years. Did they think she was still alive? She could imagine the Crimewatch programmes, the newspaper reports and announcements on GLR or Kiss FM. Missing girl.

Samantha A. Jones. Last seen wearing jeans and a white T-s.h.i.+rt with SHORTLIST across it and dates from a club tour on the back. Blonde hair, slim, five foot sixish.

By now they'd have opted to accept, if not quite believe, she was dead. The joky postcards from far-flung galactic locations had seemed funny at the time; now they just seemed a bit cruel. Another mis-per on the Sun Hill nick list. To return home after four years without warning, healthy and unhurt would be something rather difficult to explain. And she couldn't just arrive the minute she left, not looking like this, not with everything she'd seen and done and... lived through. So what should she do for the best? A flying visit in person? Get a message to them? Or just leave well alone?

And she couldn't even get that tatty old Shortlist T-s.h.i.+rt on now if she tried.

G.o.d, what did she ever see in that type of music anyway? She only fancied the lead singer because he reminded her of Stevie at school.

Sam finished off the gwampa fruit, threw the core into a nearby waste bin and set off for the Mirage hotel, where that religious group had said they were staying.

She had moved away from the well-lit fountain and into a thin walkway between two buildings. Halogen street lamps lit the path well, but some instinctive feeling made her move a bit faster. Thinking of home reminded her of the alleys down by Barton Street and how unsafe they could be - Baz and his stupid gang doing their Charlie deals, trying to feel important and never quite realising how unimportant he was when there were bigger, organised gangs who'd slit his throat without hesitation rather than let some seventeen-year-old big-mouth on their patch and attract the attention of the police.

Behind her, one of the street lamps flickered and died.

Carrington Corp must have backups to override that or some little nanites that would repair it before morning.

Two more went out, in sequence. Then another. And another.

Sam found herself quickening her step instinctively, breaking into a light jog.

The first boy that appeared in front of her caused her to slow down, but another two behind him made her decide to stop. She glanced around, and five or six more were emerging from behind the bushes behind her, cutting off her retreat. They seemed to be quite broad but very small, about three feet high.

They watched her, some standing, some crouched. Expertly. Wherever she could think of moving, she was covered.

She couldn't see any weapons, but again, that meant nothing.

The darkness meant that she was unable to distinguish faces, even on the nearest. Were they masked?

'Evening, lads,' she said.'Can I help?'

They didn't answer, but one towards the rear of the group directly in front took something from his pocket. It seemed to resemble a bolas and the others parted as he walked forward. As he got nearer, Sam became transfixed by the bolas - each of the tiny b.a.l.l.s had barbs on it, as did the tiny threads of metallic filament that connected them. If they wrapped themselves around her, she'd be sliced apart in a moment. These boys were not playing.

As the leader got closer, she could see his face. No, they weren't human - or at least this one wasn't. It was a dark face, possibly a sort of muddy green or brown colour, with a small rubbery snout and huge flnlike ears pinned back by a series of bejewelled studs - clearly some kind of fas.h.i.+on accessory, because his snout had some as well. Apart from the snorkelish nose, there were tiny gills rising and falling on his neck. Amphibians of some sort?

Two of the others walked closer, wearing different jewels on different parts of their faces. They had manga eyes, white with tiny black pupils, and the snouts were of varying length. The leader had a tiny scar on his cheek, although Sam had no way of telling whether this was a battle scar or another fas.h.i.+on statement.'Ya, waya do'adis ba.s.s, Thainch'k?'

It took Sam a second to realise it was asking her a question.

'Did you turn the lights off?' she countered.

The creature nodded. 'Da, out tabeamers. A'ba.s.s, ya view, Thainch'k?'

Sam shook her head. 'I'm sorry, guys, but you're losing me.'

'She's not a Thain,' came a human voice from the far end of the walkway.

The creatures looked over Sam's shoulder, so she turned as well, but kept one eye of the swinging bolas. 'Leave her alone, please.'

The leading alien just gurgled, a sound like very sludgy water going down a blocked drain. He raised the bolas, and Sam took her chance. She dropped to the floor, scooping up the mud and grit -at least, she hoped it was mud, but she'd wash her hands carefully later, just in case - and chucked them at the leader, catching him full in the face. He went down spluttering, the bolas dropping and bouncing on to the gra.s.s.

Two of the others went for Sam, the rest concentrating on the man, believing a human male was more dangerous than a human female.

Fortieth-century chauvinism had its place then, Sam decided, as she dived aside and landed on the gra.s.s, rolling back on to her feet. The two creatures promptly collided with their leader, who was still wiping dirt from his large eyes, and the three of them went down in a tumble of arms, legs and vitriolic curses.

The others, however, were overpowering her knight in s.h.i.+ning armour.

She saw an opportunity and grabbed at the stunned leader.

A second later, she yelled at the attackers. They turned to look.

Sam was gingerly holding the bolas - how were they to know she'd never use it? Like all bullies, Sam noted, the leader was bricking it and the others were confused.

The walkway lights went back on in rapid succession and four SSS agents ran over, one carrying what was presumably a portable gadget-for-turning-lights-back-on. The creatures surrendered immediately and the agents dragged them off.

'Sorry,' said the sergeant. 'We thought we had this area flushed weeks ago but this lot must have laid claim to the turf of the previous gang.'

a.s.suming that was all the explanation required, he followed his men as they got into a silently hovering vehicle Sam took to be this century's equivalent of a Black Maria, within moments they were gone.

The man who had saved her pa.s.sed Sam her dropped bag with its single remaining gwampa fruit.

In the light, she could see the familiar vestments of the Church of the Way Forward - the young man who had saved her was the same one she'd accidentally thumped at the wedding. He even had a small bruise on the side of his head.

'I hit you hard, didn't I?'

He nodded. 'Still,' he smiled at her, 'they say pain is good for the soul.'

'Well, thank you.' Sam wanted to give him a piece of her mind about the way he and his mates had ruined Stacy's wedding, but remembered the Doctor's mission. And this was as good a lead into the enemy camp as she was going to get. 'The name's Sam. Sam Jones.'

The man shook her hand. 'Kyle Dale. One day, it'd be nice to meet under pleasant circ.u.mstances, Sam Jones. Luckily for you I saw the lights out and guessed what the Kleptons were up to.'

'Kleptons?'

"Those little parasites are Kleptons. They dislike humans because they remind them of their old enemies, the Thains. The irony is of course that the Thains died out ten thousand years ago and so generation after generation has never actually met a Thain. It's more a mantra to them.'

'Or a religion?'

Kyle paused and thought about this. 'In a way, perhaps, yes. I shall put that point of view to Reverend Lukas.'

Sam saw her chance.'MaybeI could. It'd give us a chance to sort out this morning's fracas.'

Kyle smiled.'He'd like that.'

'How about right now?' suggested Sam, brightly.

Kyle's smile grew broader.'Please, let me take you there.'

As he led her off, Sam just hoped that religious orders were still polite, respectful of others and not a lion's den of lecherous old men with seedy pasts and dubious moral hypocrisies who'd jump a girl's bones before she could say three Hail Marys.

Feeling that she might be wise to rename herself Daniel, Sam followed Kyle along the quiet streets.

'It's nearty midnight,' whined Jeol. 'How on Earth do you expect me to track down all my staff now? Most of them are at home. With their wives and children. And their holos. And their datapads. And their sleep.'

'So? I need to speak with as many people as possible.'

'Now?'

The Doctor stared at Jeol. Why did humans never understand that every so often, urgency was quite a positive thing? Or was it a quirk of this new personality of his that he regarded humans a little less tolerantly since becoming acquainted with his own - how could he put it? - genetic heritage?

He grabbed Jeol's shoulders.'Don't you see it, Professor? This is an adventure. Some excitement to add novelty to your ludicrously humdrum existence.'

No, that hadn't come out quite right. Still,press the advantage...

'Together, you and I can solve this mystery. It's like a jigsaw -we're just missing a few pieces. And the overall picture. And especially all the nice, flat edge bits.'

No, still Jeol didn't seem inspired.

"Think about how proud Mrs Jeol will be when she hears how you made a major contribution to stopping the Foamasi disrupting the Olympic Games'

'My mother is dead.'

'Ahh.' The Doctor released his shoulders. 'I meant your wife, actually.'

'I'm not married. Any more.'

'Why not?'

'Because I was forever being called into work at midnight. Receb didn't like it.'

The Doctor sighed heavily and began to wander off. He could see he wasn't going to get anywhere with Professor Jeol.'Useless oaf,' he muttered ungraciously.

'What was that?'

'Goodnight, Professor,' he called. "Thank you so much for your help.'

'Well, er... Goodnight then, Doctor. What are you going to do?'

The Doctor turned and flashed him a smile. 'Oh potter about a bit, see what I can find.'

As Professor Jeol shuffled off, the Doctor decided he didn't particularly want to stay in the SSS building any longer. It was high time he paid a visit to the mysterious Green Fingers. Whoever he might be.

Sam was sitting in a large room, comfortable enough, if a little too Spartan for her tastes.

It was rectangular, about thirty foot by fifteen, a series of camp beds lining the walls, each bearing a small rucksack. Obviously the Church of the Way Forward travelled light.

The hotel itself seemed plush enough so perhaps the Reverend Lukas had stripped it himself of any luxuries. Well, he did run this bizarre sect, cult or whatever. And what a weirdo he was.