“Meeting you, with a view to a kill.”
Mickey ‘Mad’ Michelson had good reason to celebrate. He was stumbling, woozily, down bridge B-NaNa-7-a-M-A, one of the many corridors and walkways located on the deck. The mojitos had made him pleasantly lightheaded, and as he plodded along he gazed in awe along the walls, at the great platinum circles mounted on the walls behind thick, reinforced glass.
“Face to face in secret places feel the chill.”
Once, that glass had seemed almost impenetrable. Now, as he counted drunken twones and thrours and fixes and fevans in his mind, it felt almost alien to comprehend that after the most recent release from his best, hit artist, T!881es the all-singing, all-dancing robocat, that he was currently rivalling sales equal to the sum total of every single platinum record released during the 1980s. One of the many drawbacks in not being able to roll out universally.
Michelson was on air, and it felt as if he was floating celestially over the technicolour linoleum tiled flooring, as if his euphoria were creating a gap, a few solid inches of sheer, unadulterated happiness, between his bright pink jelly shoes and the ground. He stretched out his arms, the spandex refusing to ride up, it too held in the beautiful moment. He was an explosion of rainbows and groove and glitter and glitz, and he did not believe this tidal wave of ecstatic synthesised piano melodies and percussion rhythms would end any time soon. His song of synth was an exquisite harmony, reaching out to billions and billions and billions.
“Nightfall covers me.”
Only then did Michelson catch a glimpse of a moving shadow in the vivid vibrancy of the hall of records. He felt his jelly shoes gently pad along the ground, still with the bounce and spring of a former dancer, the jelly squeaking against the spacey, rubbery floor.
He was approaching the end of the corridor of records, now. He caught a glimpse of the lights reflected in the glass cases, and his head darted from side to side. He wiped the alcoholic perspiration off his brow, and plodded onwards. Eventually, he cupped his hand over the door switch, and it slid open in front of him.
Entering observation deck.
The door opened, revealing the huge, reinforced glass window, and the kaleidoscopic wallpaper, of neon pinks and turquoises and lime greens. Michelson tentatively snuck down towards the window – he felt as if someone were watching him, though he couldn’t see who. The observation deck displayed some nebula he didn’t recognise. It was stunning – the huge swirling orb of colour in the blackness. The announcement voice thing was still talking, but he wasn’t paying attention – his eyes were glued to the expanse of nothing ahead.
Michelson tapped his foot. He was a natural foot-tapper. Music ran through him, always, and he was always moving to some beat, even if there was nothing there. When he focused, he realised it was the beat of his heart.
Emergency programme DUrANzz – DurUAnZ activated. Extracting observation deck.
Music was such a human thing – so much so, everyone had their own, internal rhythm, that kept life in a permanent –
What?
Michelson flung himself over to the door, and screamed. After his dreams of a singing career had been shot down, he’d gone into managing. Now, as his throaty cries rang in the garish hall, he could understand why. Nothing was good about the screams coming from his lungs. The metal slab would not wedge and he thrashed at it, tearing at it over and over with his hands, until he must’ve broken at least half the bones in his fingers and wrist through the incessant thumping. In the midst of the bloodcurdling screams there were a few words, but he couldn’t hear them – all he could hear was the 77-metres-thick observation glass cracking behind him, as if it were weaker than the useless crap they’d used in the Adele-bot’s most recent video.
Eventually, the hoarse screams and mangled words were replaced by the sound of winds gusting and Michelson’s neck being wrung by the vacuum of space.
His corpse somersaulted gleefully into the nebula.
But you know, the plans I'm making
Still oversee
Could it be the whole earth opening wide
A sacred why, a mystery gaping inside
The weekends why, until we
Mickey ‘Mad’ Michelson had good reason to celebrate. He was stumbling, woozily, down bridge B-NaNa-7-a-M-A, one of the many corridors and walkways located on the deck. The mojitos had made him pleasantly lightheaded, and as he plodded along he gazed in awe along the walls, at the great platinum circles mounted on the walls behind thick, reinforced glass.
“Face to face in secret places feel the chill.”
Once, that glass had seemed almost impenetrable. Now, as he counted drunken twones and thrours and fixes and fevans in his mind, it felt almost alien to comprehend that after the most recent release from his best, hit artist, T!881es the all-singing, all-dancing robocat, that he was currently rivalling sales equal to the sum total of every single platinum record released during the 1980s. One of the many drawbacks in not being able to roll out universally.
Michelson was on air, and it felt as if he was floating celestially over the technicolour linoleum tiled flooring, as if his euphoria were creating a gap, a few solid inches of sheer, unadulterated happiness, between his bright pink jelly shoes and the ground. He stretched out his arms, the spandex refusing to ride up, it too held in the beautiful moment. He was an explosion of rainbows and groove and glitter and glitz, and he did not believe this tidal wave of ecstatic synthesised piano melodies and percussion rhythms would end any time soon. His song of synth was an exquisite harmony, reaching out to billions and billions and billions.
“Nightfall covers me.”
Only then did Michelson catch a glimpse of a moving shadow in the vivid vibrancy of the hall of records. He felt his jelly shoes gently pad along the ground, still with the bounce and spring of a former dancer, the jelly squeaking against the spacey, rubbery floor.
He was approaching the end of the corridor of records, now. He caught a glimpse of the lights reflected in the glass cases, and his head darted from side to side. He wiped the alcoholic perspiration off his brow, and plodded onwards. Eventually, he cupped his hand over the door switch, and it slid open in front of him.
Entering observation deck.
The door opened, revealing the huge, reinforced glass window, and the kaleidoscopic wallpaper, of neon pinks and turquoises and lime greens. Michelson tentatively snuck down towards the window – he felt as if someone were watching him, though he couldn’t see who. The observation deck displayed some nebula he didn’t recognise. It was stunning – the huge swirling orb of colour in the blackness. The announcement voice thing was still talking, but he wasn’t paying attention – his eyes were glued to the expanse of nothing ahead.
Michelson tapped his foot. He was a natural foot-tapper. Music ran through him, always, and he was always moving to some beat, even if there was nothing there. When he focused, he realised it was the beat of his heart.
Emergency programme DUrANzz – DurUAnZ activated. Extracting observation deck.
Music was such a human thing – so much so, everyone had their own, internal rhythm, that kept life in a permanent –
What?
Michelson flung himself over to the door, and screamed. After his dreams of a singing career had been shot down, he’d gone into managing. Now, as his throaty cries rang in the garish hall, he could understand why. Nothing was good about the screams coming from his lungs. The metal slab would not wedge and he thrashed at it, tearing at it over and over with his hands, until he must’ve broken at least half the bones in his fingers and wrist through the incessant thumping. In the midst of the bloodcurdling screams there were a few words, but he couldn’t hear them – all he could hear was the 77-metres-thick observation glass cracking behind him, as if it were weaker than the useless crap they’d used in the Adele-bot’s most recent video.
Eventually, the hoarse screams and mangled words were replaced by the sound of winds gusting and Michelson’s neck being wrung by the vacuum of space.
His corpse somersaulted gleefully into the nebula.
But you know, the plans I'm making
Still oversee
Could it be the whole earth opening wide
A sacred why, a mystery gaping inside
The weekends why, until we
the eighth doctor adventures
series 5 - episode 8
the karaoke killer
written by Peter Darwin
“Everyone likes music,” the Doctor strode to the doors of the TARDIS, and he swung them open. He was dressed in his usual attire, while Lizzie donned a pair of baggy, fluorescent trousers, and a top patterned with a series of geometric shapes. Dress for your favourite era of music, he’d said. And so, there she was, looking like someone who’d walked straight out of the 1980s. “And that’s no different in the 52nd century.”
The TARDIS was in a strange, glass chamber – the size of a large theatre, perhaps. And it seemed to be the centre of a spaceship – through the great glass windows Lizzie looked up, and not only could she see the stars whizzing and dancing above her head, Lizzie could see the great, metal hulk of the ship, towering far above her head. Even when she craned her neck, she couldn’t see the top – and when she looked below her, Lizzie couldn’t see the bottom either. It was a colossal beast, floating through galaxies and star-systems – and it seemed to be carrying so many different people.
In the glass lobby area, hundreds of people milled around, all of them dressed quite ridiculously – and it was only then that Lizzie realised. All of them seemed to have walked out a specific era of history. No – not just history. Musical history.
“The iCruiser,” the Doctor waved around him, at the multitudes of nutty people, whom Lizzie was delighted to be in the company of. Everybody was looking ridiculous, and she seemed to settle into that quite well. The Doctor quickly guided her through the crowds. “Musicians, fanatics, critics, anybody who loves music, flocks to this ship. It’s a cruise-liner – one where everybody loves music.”
They stepped into a lift, and quickly the doors shut behind them. As it glided up through the belly of the ship, Lizzie could see around her – not only at the galaxies outside, but she glanced through into the various different floors. And as they went, the Doctor began to explain.
“The lower basement – the mosh pit. Believe me, I’ve met the Mosh, huge teeth. Then you’ve got grime, and so on, and so on. Electro, country, folk, and, I know you’re not one for parties, but I’m sure you’ll make an exception, Lizzie Darwin, for floor 80. 80s pop.”
And then, the doors of the lift opened, and revealed a strange world.
If Lizzie weren’t acutely aware of the fact she was walking on a spaceship, she would dare to wonder whether this was actually the 1980s – for it seemed like that decade had been perfectly replicated on the spaceship. Ahead of her, was an almighty hall, stretching on and on, with a dance floor, and bars, and bursting neon lights, and through the speakers above, Together in Electric Dreams played at top volume, so loudly it seemed to make Lizzie’s very insides want to dance along to those piercing tunes. The floor, a chequered pattern of all sorts of garish yellows and greens and pinks, and neon lights burst and flickered around.
There were hundreds of people, all in mini-skirts and Lycra and Spandex and with headbands, and giant hair, and reebok trainers, and scrunchies, and shoulder-pads, some of them were drinking at the bars, some of them were dancing, as if they were living purely for the moment. Everyone looked happy, everyone looked as if they were having the time of their lives. Several inflatable palm trees were balanced up beside the main bar, behind which a squid-like alien styling a perm and donning an animal-print blouse was serving drinks
The TARDIS was in a strange, glass chamber – the size of a large theatre, perhaps. And it seemed to be the centre of a spaceship – through the great glass windows Lizzie looked up, and not only could she see the stars whizzing and dancing above her head, Lizzie could see the great, metal hulk of the ship, towering far above her head. Even when she craned her neck, she couldn’t see the top – and when she looked below her, Lizzie couldn’t see the bottom either. It was a colossal beast, floating through galaxies and star-systems – and it seemed to be carrying so many different people.
In the glass lobby area, hundreds of people milled around, all of them dressed quite ridiculously – and it was only then that Lizzie realised. All of them seemed to have walked out a specific era of history. No – not just history. Musical history.
“The iCruiser,” the Doctor waved around him, at the multitudes of nutty people, whom Lizzie was delighted to be in the company of. Everybody was looking ridiculous, and she seemed to settle into that quite well. The Doctor quickly guided her through the crowds. “Musicians, fanatics, critics, anybody who loves music, flocks to this ship. It’s a cruise-liner – one where everybody loves music.”
They stepped into a lift, and quickly the doors shut behind them. As it glided up through the belly of the ship, Lizzie could see around her – not only at the galaxies outside, but she glanced through into the various different floors. And as they went, the Doctor began to explain.
“The lower basement – the mosh pit. Believe me, I’ve met the Mosh, huge teeth. Then you’ve got grime, and so on, and so on. Electro, country, folk, and, I know you’re not one for parties, but I’m sure you’ll make an exception, Lizzie Darwin, for floor 80. 80s pop.”
And then, the doors of the lift opened, and revealed a strange world.
If Lizzie weren’t acutely aware of the fact she was walking on a spaceship, she would dare to wonder whether this was actually the 1980s – for it seemed like that decade had been perfectly replicated on the spaceship. Ahead of her, was an almighty hall, stretching on and on, with a dance floor, and bars, and bursting neon lights, and through the speakers above, Together in Electric Dreams played at top volume, so loudly it seemed to make Lizzie’s very insides want to dance along to those piercing tunes. The floor, a chequered pattern of all sorts of garish yellows and greens and pinks, and neon lights burst and flickered around.
There were hundreds of people, all in mini-skirts and Lycra and Spandex and with headbands, and giant hair, and reebok trainers, and scrunchies, and shoulder-pads, some of them were drinking at the bars, some of them were dancing, as if they were living purely for the moment. Everyone looked happy, everyone looked as if they were having the time of their lives. Several inflatable palm trees were balanced up beside the main bar, behind which a squid-like alien styling a perm and donning an animal-print blouse was serving drinks
“You should dance,” the Doctor suggested, not even as a joke.
“Very funny,” Lizzie laughed, fully believing that it was a joke, as she gravitated towards one of the Rubix-cube tables in the corner of the club. She gazed around her, all the people living so marvellously and wonderfully, looking as if they were having oodles of fun, and she wanted to have such fun as well. But quickly, she gravitated to her usual position of the corner of the room, where she could admire them all, when she could muse on how wonderful life was, without needing to live it. Before long, the Doctor brought some drinks over, and they sat and watched the people singing terribly along to the music.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” Lizzie gave the Doctor an honest smile.
“Well… we’ve not done much together for a while, I thought it would be fun.”
“It is. Definitely. Thank you.”
They clinked their glasses, and sat back. The Doctor looked content, and Lizzie admired him, for coming so far. Even when Cioné and Iris weren’t with them, the Doctor was happy. It was as if he always had his family around him, and he was enjoying life. A very different person, to the one she’d found on her street corner. Often there were moments, when she would look over at him, and she would want to want to be like that. Would want to sit back, happily, and feel content, as if she were enjoying life. But that was a distant thought… because she still felt distant, she still felt… trapped. Even after seeing so much, there was something always nagging her, always keeping her back.
“This place, it’s very advanced,” the Doctor mused. “A great… musical database, it’s all this big computer programme that runs the whole ship, and it’s clever – it self-tailors all the playlists to each floor. And then the speakers, they play so loudly they have to be forged in the mountains of Dragon’s Sun, this funny old world off somewhere. And this place, it goes so far, they’ve got these massive exo-tonic shields protecting us whenever we go past suns and stars just a little bit too bright…”
He spoke so… happily. Every word was full of enthusiasm, a thirst for living. She could listen to him talk like that all day, his great passion for existence almost irresistible.
“You’re a… a wonderful person,” she smiled.
“You would always ask, wouldn’t you?”
The question perhaps seemed out of the blue, but as the Doctor watched Lizzie, she seemed so sad. Almost distant.
“Yes,” Lizzie lied, although she did it well, as the Doctor didn’t bat an eyelid. She would want nothing more than to ask for help, she knew she probably should’ve done so ages ago. But she just… couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was too scared, perhaps.
“Seriously, Lizzie. I think there are people who… refuse to help. Who think everyone has to just… do it on their own. And I worry that people like that can… put people who need help off asking for it.”
Perhaps he was right… although Lizzie didn’t believe that was the reason for her reluctance.
“How’s Iris?” she changed the subject.
The Doctor nodded slowly. “Yes, she’s doing wonderfully. She was getting all into politics the other day. Musing over this… Evangeline Cullengate woman.”
“I’ve heard about her.” Lizzie had heard the name crop up a few times. Prime Minister of the Empire. Seemingly quite controversial, and of the policies Lizzie had heard, she didn’t like the sound of her much.
“I’ve had my eye on her…”
But the Doctor’s voice was drifting, and his eyes were wandering… and he’d caught sight of someone, in an old battered trench coat, holding up a warrant card to a group of people who seemed like guards.
“You saw that?” the Doctor asked, his distraction evident.
“Yes…”
“I think someone might need our help.”
***
“Everyone, stand away from the bed,” the Doctor ordered, as soon as he strode into the room. They’d followed the detective, to whatever the scene of the crime was – and this was where they’d been going. The luxury suites, on Floor 80’s accommodation zone. Clearly the Doctor oozed self-confidence because all the guards stepped away from the bed instantly, bar the trench coat man. Lizzie followed the Doctor’s swift pace, but came to an abrupt halt as she saw the mangled crispy corpse lying on the four-poster-bed, singeing the pristine white sheets with a mucky burgundy gunk.
“And who the hell are you?” the man in the trench coat turned and squared up to the Doctor.
“I’m the Doctor. And believe me, I can help.”
“Oh? You can help more than five years of training, can you? Piss off out of my crime scene.”
The Doctor stopped, startled and backed down, looking awkwardly as the crowds of guards watched him pathetically.
The suite was still perfect in its cleanliness, Lizzie observed, if it were not for the body. In fact, it was exquisite, a master suite with an oak, Tudor-esque four poster, and a screen opposite that would not look out of place in a cinema. The lamps either side of the bed were on, bathing the chamber in a warm, orange glow, which was futile since the lights of the chamber had been switched on as well and emitted a piercing white light. The white floorboards were peculiar in that unlike the rest of the ship, whose floorboards did not creak through their artificiality, they gave a delightfully rustic moan.
“You’re a detective?” the Doctor asked, backing down so he didn’t look too stupid.
“Yeah. Oh, and who’s this?” the detective pointed to Lizzie, who waved awkwardly and wished she could work out how not to stand awkwardly in the corners of rooms. “Why don’t we let the whole bloody ship come and rubberneck?”
“What’s your name, detective?”
“DI Ronnie Wolfe. Now, look, go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere until we find out what’s going on. The Doctor. This is what I do.”
“Yeah? Same, funnily enough…”
There was an awkward silence between them all. “So has he been electrocuted or something?” Lizzie asked, hoping that it would shut them up.
“What makes you think that?” Wolfe asked, pulling a pair of latex gloves over his hands and poking at the corpse.
“I mean… it smells like it’s burning,” Lizzie muttered and then shut up.
“She’s right, it’s electrocution,” the Doctor said.
“Oh, for –…”
“The burning is too exact to account for him being set on fire –”
“– give me strength–”
“– guards,” the Doctor turned to them. “I need a full background check on this man, everything about him, and patch CCTV, we want to know everything about his last movements.”
“Sir,” the guards acknowledged, leaving the room, leaving just the Doctor, Lizzie, and DI Ronnie Wolfe. And the body.
“Christ on a space cruiser, who gave you the authority to swan in here like that?” Ronnie spluttered.
“Who gave you the authority?”
“… my boss, after the first five murders. See? Asking the wrong questions. Never bothered to inquire if there were more murders…,” Wolfe smiled smugly like a petulant child proven right.
“You’re from the Empire?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it still Goodwin in charge? Always scared me witless, that one…”
“Oh, yep, still running the ship. Still as terrifying as ever.”
“Better get results then. Come on!”
***
The operations bridge of Floor 80 (Lizzie had learned that because the ship was so large, as well as having a bridge, each individual deck had its own bridge) was lavishly decorated, almost more like some royal chamber than a place of work. The carpet was blood-red, and an ancient grandfather clock stood ticking in the corner of the room. There was a great window looking out into space, and the controls and computers were plated in gold.
On an antiquely carved oak table in the centre of the room, a menagerie of papers were scattered everywhere, and a great CID-esque pinboard was balanced above some of the ship’s instruments. Already Lizzie wanted to tidy the place up.
“The first murder happened two weeks ago,” Ronnie showed them a picture of a man with perfectly trimmed facial hair dyed a multitude of bright colours. “Dex Lyryi, found in a sealed airlock. With the air removed.”
Lizzie grimaced. What a horrendous way to go.
“Crystal Alphaus,” Ronnie held up a photo of a humanoid with a crystalline body structure. “Hypoxia, which is oxygen deficiency. And vomit. Everywhere.”
“And finally,” Ronnie shuffled through the mass of papers. “Blimey, this is a shocker. Barbara Blue,” Ronnie pointed to a monochrome picture of a happy, dancing young woman. “She was found with no limbs and her entire body had been mauled. There was a tiger found nearby.”
“And who was the victim on the bed?”
“Aye aye, not a nice way to talk about my husband,” Ronnie laughed. The Doctor sighed, and Lizzie, as immature as it was, rather enjoyed watching Ronnie Wolfe irritate the Doctor. “His name was Xevr Azalea. He’s a musician.”
Any relation to Iggy? Lizzie wondered (although her heart lay with 80s music, she knew all the lyrics to Fancy).
“How can we be sure they’re connected?” the Doctor asked, looking at the pinboard. Ronnie looked bemused, even though it was probably the most obvious question the Doctor could’ve asked.
“Well, we don’t –”
“Exactly,” the Doctor said. “You just assumed…”
“Well, it’s a bit bloody unlikely four people are murdered in elaborate circumstances on one floor of one spaceship by coincidence,” Ronnie raised an eyebrow.
“Also, well, I’m thinking the same, basically,” Lizzie piped up, and the Doctor actually turned to listen to her, unlike Ronnie. “Well, surely the fact they’ve been murdered under these circumstances is enough connection in itself. Because if you’re gonna kill someone in such an elaborate way, and three other people die in similarly elaborate ways, it makes sense it’s the same person.”
The Doctor nodded slowly.
“Someone who kills as a game, probably,” Lizzie continued. “I mean, why go to such lengths to kill someone?”
“You’re quite good at this,” the Doctor looked at her, as if he was surprised. That sort of look always got on Lizzie’s wick, that look that she received when she dared to breach the expectations placed on her.
“Yeah… I like crime dramas, haha…”
Insomnia had its benefits.
“So, we’ve got a murderer,” the Doctor listed aloud. “Killing for fun in the most audacious ways possible. Interesting. This is my cup of tea.”
“Right,” Ronnie waded in in the clumsiest way that was possible for one to verbally stumble into a conversation. “You’re both crapping annoying, for the love of god. Who actually are you?”
“I’m the Doctor, this is Lizzie Darwin. We’re straight out of a crime drama.”
“I’ve just ran a check on you both, and you ain’t even on board!”
“We’re stowaways,” the Doctor offered, in the hope that it would quieten the man down.
“I don’t give a damn whether you’re the bloody Queen –”
“There’s still a Queen?” Lizzie gawked, partly to stop them both from arguing.
“An Empress,” Ronnie admitted.
“This one is interesting,” the Doctor turned to the crystalline person, fittingly called Crystal. “With every other victim, we know how they were murdered, with Crystal, we’ve only got a precise cause of death. Hypoxia can be caused by all sorts. The vomit is intriguing…”
Lizzie grimaced. Casualty always gave her a strange interest in medicine but looking back she wasn’t so sure.
“Where was the body found, Ronnie?”
“The cooling decks.”
The Doctor faced turned, and when Lizzie saw him, he was pale. “I think he was spun to death.”
Ronnie hesitated, and then repeated the Doctor’s words, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Spun to death?”
“Oh yes,” the Doctor replied, not a hint of irony in his voice.
“Spun.”
“I’m not making this up, Detective.”
“But spun to death.”
Lizzie sighed, determined to shut them both up from this seemingly eternal argument. Men arguing was just… no.
“What makes you think that?” she asked the Doctor, she said, sounding much calmer than she actually was.
“There are massive fans on the cooling decks,” the Doctor murmured, turning to a computer and tapping away at the keyboard. “And I was right…”
“Oh yeah?” Ronnie swaggered over to him. The Doctor pointed smugly at the screen.
“Yes. There – the fans were powered down three hours before Crystal’s body was found. The fans were stopped, he was strapped on, and the fans were repowered. It’s the same principle as altitude sickness. The g-force, a lack of oxygen, leads to hypoxia.”
Ronnie jabbered away sheepishly, and the Doctor, irritatingly, put a finger to his lips. That made Ronnie even more annoyed, but all he could do was point furiously at the Doctor.
“You are a pompous brat with your head up your own –”
“Yes, thank you,” the Doctor ignored him. “But I think you’ll find…”
While the two men were arguing, they had neglected to notice the red telephone in the corner of the room, which had been ringing for the past 10 seconds or so. Lizzie glanced over it, her resting bitch face becoming twice bitchier than usual as the two men acted like primary school children. Eventually, she realised she was going to have to answer it, and ignoring the tsunami of anxiety that ploughed into her at the sight of a ringing phone, she answered it.
“Hello?”
“I’m a working-class kid, you know,” Wolfe said. “I worked bloody hard to get to where I am, and I won’t have you put me down.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” the Doctor retorted, ramping up the enunciation of his vowels to make himself seem even posher than usual. “It isn’t like I’ve been the one to actually make some progress in this case so far –”
“I’m not a moron, y’know!”
“Is that so?”
“Right!” Lizzie slammed the phone down, and they both shut up. Lizzie took a deep breath. “For god’s sake. Doctor, shut up with the entitlement, I’m sick of it. Ronnie, just be nice to him, I know he’s an arse but he’s alright sometimes.”
The Doctor and Ronnie looked at each other, eyes for each dripping with mutual revulsion. Then they looked at Lizzie, whose resting bitch face was now amplified by at least three times.
“Fine,” Ronnie spat.
“Okay,” the Doctor kicked his feet like a sullen child. 800 and something going on 4.
Lizzie hoped they wouldn’t fight each other to get out of the room when she delivered the next bit of news, and that her albeit dodgy attempts at mediating weren’t useless. “There’s been another murder.”
The Doctor grabbed his jacket and threw it on himself, striding out of the room. Ronnie did the same, grabbing his trench coat.
Ronnie stopped in the doorway. “He doesn’t even know where he’s going!”
Lizzie stepped out into the corridor with him. “That’s more of a metaphor for his entire life than you’ll ever understand.”
***
After the Doctor had, rather idiotically, walked out of the room without knowing where he was going, he seemed to have mellowed slightly, and Lizzie was suitably reassured that her words had got through to him.
They were in Floor 80’s sick bay (each deck was apparently so huge they maintained their own set of facilities), and ahead of them, was a door, like that of a classic bank vault, with a metal wheel on the front. It opened into a vault-like container, which was constructed of metal and glass, allowing the doctors and nurses monitoring the inhabitant to easily observe them.
It was a decompression chamber, and the most recent patient had vanished.
“How do we know he didn’t just leave the chamber?” the Doctor looked at the chamber sceptically, as a nurse twisted the great metal wheel, and opened the circular door, which led into an airlock-like porch area. The Doctor, Lizzie and Ronnie joined the nurse, and the outside door was shut, before the inside door hissed open.
“Oh! Let’s go!”
An old Earth song played quietly in the background.
“The chamber is shielded against teleport signals and automatically intercepts them,” the nurse explained. “After all, sudden teleportation alters pressure, which would be deadly with technology such as this. Our patients tend to be the maintenance crew, who have made repairs on the outer shell of the ship, but are still affected by the pressure.”
“Steve walks warily down the street,
With the brim pulled way down low
Ain’t no sound but the sound his feet,
Machine guns ready to go.”
“There’s precautions against that, y’know,” Ronnie warned.
“We know,” the nurse got rather cagey, before turning to leave.
“Oi,” Ronnie called over. The nurse looked at him, and Ronnie made dagger signs with his fingers. The nurse scuttled away, shutting them in the decompression chamber. “Bloody capitalism. Don’t want a lawsuit against not taking lawful protections so they have their own bleedin’ decompression chamber to cover up any medical bills.”
Some things never change, Lizzie mused, as the Doctor wandered around aimlessly, his tongue sticking out, an act which made him look strangely like a cocker spaniel. Ronnie glanced over at him, trying to hold in his laughter.
He couldn’t, and set out an almost high-pitched squeal, before falling against the wall at the back of the chamber. That only made him laugh harder, and soon Lizzie, much to the Doctor’s dismay, was giggling as well.
“You’re both ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry,” Ronnie howled away to himself. He was laughing. He was ugly laughing. Lizzie creased, sitting down on the bed in the chamber. It was one of those situations where the act of laughing was almost as funny as the original funny thing.
“Are you ready, hey, are you ready for this?
Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?
Out of the doorway the bullets rip
To the sound of the beat.”
The Doctor, by now, had his tongue back in his mouth, and a grim look upon his face. “I think I know how our victim died,” he murmured.
“Oh yeah?” Ronnie asked, between fits of laughter.
“You’re breathing them in.”
“Jesus with a crucifix up his arse,” Ronnie lurched up. “What do you mean I’m breathing them in?!”
Lizzie was silent, instantly, and tried not to breath, and then realised that was stupid, and so breathed again, even though the physical act of breathing made her feel almost sick.
“Oh…,” Ronnie looked at the structure surrounding them. “I get you…”
“It’s a ruse,” the Doctor ran a finger down one of the metal blocks of the chamber walls. Black soot came away with it. “Body vanishes in decompression chamber. Obvious answer to someone who doesn’t know science, the pressure in the chamber was increased so extortionately that the body exploded. But no…”
Ronnie had done the same as the Doctor, examining the soot on his fingers. “This was burned.”
“Burned at extortionately high temperatures too,” the Doctor observed, sounding almost impressed.
Lizzie hoped they would explain. GCSE Science didn’t really cover killing people in decompression chambers. “Sorry, but –”
“Someone pulsed a huge level of energy through here. I should think about 3 gigajoules. Enough to vaporise an entire human body. And it did… turned him into dust…”
Lizzie, while the Doctor was spouting some technobabble she didn’t really understand, lost focus, and her gaze shifted to a panel on the wall, like an iPod, perhaps. One of the panels she’d seen in private rooms all over the station. And it was still playing.
“Another one bites the dust.
Another one bites the dust.
And another one gone, and another one gone.”
She also couldn’t help but notice, that whoever had last listened to the music (whom she suspected was most likely the now-vaporised patient) had rather a love for the song, as it was on loop.
It was on loop…
“It’s the music,” Lizzie murmured, and an awkward silence followed as the Doctor and Ronnie stared at her.
Ronnie was, as expected, the first to declare how stupid she was. “Yer what?”
“Lizzie,” the Doctor began, but she took a deep breath and continued to talk over him.
“Obviously it’s not the music doing the killing,” she said. “But someone is tuning their murders to the songs. Can you access a history of all the songs played throughout the private iPods on Floor 80?”
Ronnie looked at the floor and at Lizzie. “Maybe I was, y’know, too quick to judge.”
She glared at him, awaiting her answer.
“Yes. I’m on it.”
The nurse allowed the three of them out of the decompression chamber, and Ronnie dashed straight over to a computer.
Lizzie turned to the Doctor. “Do you actually want me doing this? I’m not, like, stealing your thunder or anything?”
The Doctor was quick to put an end to her misgivings. “No, no, of course not.”
“Because I don’t want to be, like, second fiddle to your ego.”
“You won’t, don’t worry.”
“Here we go!” Ronnie called over, interrupting them. “Complete history.”
Lizzie wanted to see if she could guess, however. “Let me see… Dexter, trapped in an airlock… Every Breath You Take?”
Ronnie gave Lizzie an impressed glance. “Correct…”
“Crystal Alphaus… tied to a propellor and spun… it’s got to be You Spin Me Round.”
“Again… yeah,” Ronnie nodded.
“And finally…. Ooh.”
The Doctor peered over Ronnie’s shoulder. “It’s an obvious one,” he confirmed.
“Hmm…”
“Think Rocky.”
“Oh! Eye of the Tiger!”
“And last but not least…”
“Xevr Azalea, found electrocuted in their bed. Was listening to…,” and the Doctor and Lizzie spoke both in unison, “Together in Electric Dreams!”
“100%!” Ronnie grinned.
The Doctor turned to the three of them, who all seemed quite pleased with themselves. “Right, team. Passenger records - we need to check them out, see if we can identify any patterns and work out who’s next.”
The Doctor and Ronnie, who looked quite a pair in their flowing jackets, turned to the leave the sick bay.
Lizzie, however, hesitated.
“Actually - Doctor, can I go and call Maggie? I promised I would.”
“Of course!” the Doctor looked embarrassed, and there was a brief spell of awkwardness between them.
“You go and… find your murderer or whatever, I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Great! Okay, well, tell Maggie I say hi.”
“I think she’ll be the one wanting to say hi to you…”
***
“I reckon our Karen’s got herself a new… fancyman,” Maggie said, whispering ‘fancyman’ as if it were a dirty word.
“Do you?” Lizzie replied, taking a swig of cola between her bits of the conversation, and cupping the phone to her ear so she could hear Maggie over the great beating synths. She was stood outside the main hall, on one of the obversation decks. “Why?”
It was strange talking to Maggie from space, as if her phone produced an invisible cord stretching thousands of years, right across from the iCruiser to Maggie’s tiny kitchen.
“Well,” Maggie took a deep breath, and Lizzie was aware that a great big essay was incoming. “She phoned me yesterday, said she was down at Sainsbury’s, and she was panicking. I asked her why, and she said she was worried that she’d left the oven on! You know Karen, she’s a terrible worrier, so being neighbourly, I decided to go over. Anyway – I let myself in, I’ve got a spare key, you see – and there he is! Lying on the sofa, stinking of a brewery. Looked like that bloke off New Faces.”
“Oh… right,” Lizzie murmured, not exactly sure what to say. Karen and whoever the man was were both adults. There was nothing wrong with it. “Which one from New Faces?”
“What was his name… the presenter chap. It’ll come to me later - I’ll be doing something like putting out the bins or hanging up the washing. He looked younger than her, though.”
“How old is Karen anyway?” Lizzie suddenly realised that for all she knew about Karen, she didn’t know how old she was.
“Probably about my age.”
“Oh…”
“So. Where are you? I can hear music…,” Maggie asked suspiciously, as if she were wagging an audible finger.
“Oh, yeah. I’m on a spaceship thing. It’s some… music ship, and there’s this whole deck devoted to 80s music,” Lizzie could hear the faint (what a lie, it was the opposite of faint) chorus of Radio Gaga booming out on the main floor just a few metres away from her.
“Ohh,” Maggie sighed, as if she were about to start reminiscing. “I bet you’re having a ball.”
“Yeah,” Lizzie smiled, looking out over the stars ahead of her. “I am.”
“Derek Hobson!” Maggie suddenly declared.
“Who?” Lizzie thought Maggie had finally lost it.
“The man from New Faces. Hey… who was that group? They were bloody useless, looking back, but at the time, they were quite good. Were they 80s?”
“What group?”
“Show something. Show… show… it’ll come to me… show… show…… oh! Showaddywaddy!” Maggie proclaimed again, being blessed with a second Eureka moment.
“I don’t think so,” Lizzie chuckled, having never even heard of them. “New Faces was years before my time anyway! I wasn’t even born for another… what, 20 years.”
“Don’t knock ‘em. They were in the top 10. I think they might’ve had a number one…”
“Maggie,” Lizzie said, realising she was shouting over the noise. “I’m gonna have to go. It’s way too loud.”
“Okay – ta ta love! And don’t stay out of trouble! Live a little! Be like Karen with her drunkard gentleman caller!”
Lizzie slipped her phone away sighed. She wanted the trouble! She found herself quite enjoying it. But all the time, though she could fly across universes, there was still something that made her feel trapped. Something inside her, like a chain and ball, keeping her firmly on the ground. There was something about the spontaneity of the swirling nebula ahead that made her almost jealous. Envious of its freedom. Not that there was anything stopping her…
Except there was. It was her mind, mucking her about again. Stupid, stupid brain.
What she would give for just a few seconds of release, and she could dance, and fly, and not have to worry about tiny things that didn’t even matter much. It wasn’t even obvious what the tiny things were, but they were deeply rooted in her subconscious. If she had one wish, she would pluck them out, and enjoy life.
A few seconds passed and she noticed the Doctor walk out onto the deck behind her.
“Hey.”
He joined her beside the window, looking out at a supernova.
“This is… strange,” the Doctor murmured, placing a hand on the glass, and tracing the broken stars with his fingers. Lizzie nearly said something, but didn’t. It seemed weird that of all the people, it would be the Doctor to find all this peculiar.
“First trip out with me in… what? Centuries?” Lizzie was pretty sure she had the right figure.
“Yes. I had… well, I had a normal life. I lived a normal life, and now this just feels strange,” he stared gloomily out the window and into space. “Is this what it’s like for you?”
Lizzie hesitated. Then she thought of Derek Hobson from New Faces. “Yeah.”
The Doctor made a small grunting sort of sound, more an appreciative murmur, as for the first time, he stood on new territory. For the first time, he looked at Lizzie, and he understood something.
“That’s why I do all this.”
“Do what?”
“Pick people up. Fly into space. I’ve seen it so many times. I’ve been there, got the t-shirts, probably in all the sizes, colours, and armhole numbers available. So it’s… it’s good, having someone to share that with. Watching how it changes them.”
“You’re… such a god,” she laughed, as if it were an insult. Which is was. He was being irritating and he still hadn’t properly grasped it yet. The Doctor seemed to shiver.
“Humans. They’re the gods to me.”
Lizzie didn’t really get what he was saying. Sometimes she thought he just said stuff for sentimentality’s sake.
“You do everything you do, and you just… get on with it. I have to go and throw a hissy fit and draw attention to myself.”
“You’re a story, that’s what you’re meant to do.”
“Hmm.”
She placed a hand reassuringly on his shoulder and it wasn’t too awkward so she kept it there.
“Sorry for being irritating,” the Doctor admitted. “It happens. And it is because… I am so much smaller than you. It’s all I can do, I suppose, to feel better…”
“I get it,” she said, even though it was a rubbish apology.
“You are wonderful, Lizzie. And we make quite a team.”
Lizzie couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah… yeah, we do.”
“Evangeline Cullengate is on this ship.”
“Wait, what?” Lizzie had heard that name so many times, and never in a good context. The woman Iris had been getting irritated by. Lizzie had seen her on the TV once. Lizzie had sat down in Cione’s living room once and watched one of her speeches, and grimaced the whole way through.
“She’s here,” the Doctor said, just as bluntly. “I’m not meant to know,”
No sh –
“– but while you went to ring Maggie, Ronnie and I went to check the passenger logs. Turns out, her shuttle docked half an hour ago.”
Lizzie took an urgent sip of her cola. “You don’t think…”
“I do think,” the Doctor nodded, definitely thinking on exactly the same lines as Lizzie. “I’ve heard so much about her, and I’ve seen her speak a few times. And, well... Iris doesn't like her.”
“Vile woman…”
The Doctor looked at Lizzie, trying not to look too shocked. Lizzie noticed him looking and gave him a confused glance. He continued, ignoring their funny body-language conversation. The TARDIS translation matrix hadn’t evolved that much yet (to Lizzie’s annoyance more than anyone else’s).
“I think it’s time I met her.”
“Enjoy…”
“I’d let you come, but I’m worried you’d punch her. That’s odd, because it’s you. But I can see she irritates you.”
“There’s a first time for everything…”
“Find Ronnie,” the Doctor instructed, in that way he did when he expected everyone to do what he wanted. “Keep looking into these murders. There’s probably no connection. But the fact Evangeline Cullengate is here? You’d have thought the captain would’ve warned her, told her it’s too dangerous, perhaps.”
He disappeared into the hubbub of the dancehall, and Lizzie finished her cola.
***
When the Doctor entered, he stopped, and sighed, and smiled.
He had been outsmarted.
As he stepped further into the room, Evangeline Cullengate did not take her eyes off him, as he turned and slowly shut the door behind him, before turning back to face her.
The chambers were exquisite. Lavish silk curtains bordered the glass observation windows – her room looked right out over the supernova on the horizon, and the Doctor treaded over the antique Persian rug as he walked over to look out over the burning stars ahead of them. Orbs of light were attached to the ceiling, illuminating the room just slightly with a cold, white glow. On top of a glass coffee table stood a ceramic glass, the heads of dahlias and magnolias nervously poking their heads over the top, at their table surrounded by the walls of the cream sofas, without even the speck of anything unsolicited.
Evangeline herself was perched on the edge of a leather armchair, part of the same set as the sofas – she wore a crisp, dark blue business suit, and a set of pearls around her neck. Her beady eyes followed the Doctor as he paced alongside the windows. Artworks hung up on the walls – paintings every century that had passed – paintings from centuries that hadn’t passed.
“The Storm on the Sea of Galilee,” the Doctor observed the golden framed painting hanging above the ornate marble mantelpiece. No fire burned that evening. “Rembrandt, 1633. It shows Jesus calming the storm on the sea of Galilee. A priceless artwork. And rightly so… it’s beautiful.”
The Doctor scanned over it with the sonic screwdriver, although he was certain he had no need. Of course the painting was genuine.
“And stolen,” he continued, slipping the screwdriver inside the lining of his coat. “From the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in 1990.”
“Are you a fan of art, Doctor?” Evangeline asked. Her voice was eloquent, and her vowels enunciated. Proper Received Pronunciation. Her body remained motionless, her eyes still tracking the Doctor as he admired the art.
“Oh, absolutely. Did you steal it?”
“Hmm?” Evangeline was slightly taken aback.
“The painting?”
“Oh, good lord, no. I encountered it several years ago.”
“When you were CEO of your real e-space company?” the Doctor sat down opposite her on one of the sofas, and Evangeline bristled and nodded, cringing at his impropriety.
“Yes. We dealt with many art dealers who established online galleries with us.”
At that moment, a huge lump of golden dog bounced through from nowhere, almost like a trotting pony in how well trained it was, and slumped down at Cullengate’s feet.
“Oh, Doctor. Do meet Hugo.”
“Hello Hugo,” the Doctor leaned forward. Hugo jumped up and ran into the Doctor’s arms, and the Doctor ruffled his golden mane and ears. “Gooood boy. Good boy.”
Evangeline watched in horror as her majestic Golden Retriever seemed more interested in the impertinent idiot who had just walked into her chambers. She clapped her hands, and suddenly Hugo shrugged the Doctor away and sprawled himself at Evangeline’s feet, while a similar dog followed suit into the room, and lay down beside Hugo.
“This is Edwin. Hugo and Edwin are brothers.”
“They’re lovely animals,” the Doctor watched the two dogs in their contentment. “I’ve got a dog.”
“Oh?”
“K9.”
“Yes…?”
“No, that’s the dog’s name.”
Evangeline made to speak, but stopped herself, so a strange sort of exhaling of breath occurred instead. She changed the subject.
“Aren’t you going to ask the obvious question?”
“This is what’s confusing me,” the Doctor admitted, looking at the blank-faced old woman opposite him. “Because something isn’t quite right – you’re not quite right.”
Evangeline’s laugh was that of a high-pitched cackle. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do…”
Evangeline ignored him. “You still haven’t worked it out yet. Goodness, I’ve heard legends about you, Doctor. But you’re remarkably slow.”
“For once, I’m not entirely sure what the obvious question is… why are you here at the same time as these murders? Why were you allowed to board when there’s a killer on the ship? How do you know about me. How are you commenting on the politics of several different situations, even those not from your time?”
Evangeline, for the first time, hesitated. “I’m Prime Minister of the Empire. You’ve defended us many times. I see it as my responsibility to acquaint myself with our protector.”
“But you know me, you knew I’d be here, you get how I tick,” the Doctor’s voice slowed, and the ‘k’ clicked, like the sound of the hands on a clock slowly falling into place. “We’ve not met before, have we?”
“Oh, god no.”
Maybe he was wrong. As the Doctor looked over at her, he was sure he’d never met her before. Normally, he could tell, even when it had only been just the once, as if they left some small, residual imprint on him.
Evangeline Cullengate was a completely brand-new person to him, with her pearls and golden retrievers called Hugo and Edwin.
And yet, at the same time, there was something familiar.
***
“We’re missing something,” Ronnie spoke, between a sip of his lager.
He was sat, with Lizzie, at the second bar – a much quieter affair, more like a wine bar perhaps, than the club-like noise and hubbub of the main dance hall. Take On Me, by A-ha, played quietly in the background, and as Lizzie and Ronnie spoke they frequently found themselves punctuated by Morten Harket’s forever surprising falsetto.
“There must be something linking all the murders,” he continued to muse, as Lizzie watched her fellow bar-goers chatting to each other, leaning over tables and giggling and whispering and just generally having a laugh. There wasn’t a word to describe it, apart from… togetherness.
Then she turned back to Ronnie, and her heart sank as she thought to all those boxsets of Silent Witness.
Wasn’t it more likely for you to be murdered by someone you know? Lizzie was pretty certain she’d read that somewhere. Maybe that was the connection.
“Maybe all the victims know the same person or something…” she said.
“Well, whoever’s been doing it, they’re good. Because they leave nothing behind. Got to be trained, surely, to get away with something like that.”
“Definitely not an amateur, then,” Lizzie felt stupid saying it, considering she was just an amateur herself. “But maybe that means the murders are random, if they don’t feel the need to keep a constant pattern.”
“Oi, mate!” Ronnie called over to the bartender. Lizzie wondered if he was going to say anything useful. “You got any pork scratchings?”
Clearly not.
Lizzie grimaced as the vulture-like alien behind the bar tossed him a tiny packet of little pork scratchings.
“10 credits, sir.”
“10 bleedin’ credits?” he yelped, reaching to his watch and doing some electronic transfer technique. “Capitalism gone bleedin’ mad… mind you, ain’t as bad as the RFC upstairs.”
“RFC?”
“Raxacoricofallapatorian Fried Chicken.”
Was the future really as bleak as this? Lizzie wondered to herself, as Ronnie opened his packet and started munching away, washing each down with a swig of beer. Commodities shrunk, prices hiked. Aristocracy. Fast food explosion. Everything turned cold and clinical for the purpose of generating cash…
“Have you checked the bank accounts of the victims?” Lizzie asked. “Maybe they’re all in…debt or something…”
“We gotta pay an access fee.”
Of course.
“But if the killings weren’t so… creative, I’d be with you on that. Repossessions are done quickly and efficiently though, and they’ve got a license. Bailiffs leave no mess.”
“You mean….?” Lizzie gasped, disgusted.
“What?”
“Bailiffs kill people?”
Ronnie gave her a bemused look. “What universe are you from, love?”
Lizzie sighed. One that was destined to become this one, apparently.
A universe where people are killed because they don’t have the money. A universe where life is the commodity and where money is the ultimate gain. A universe not too far off her own, it was just a cracked mirror of her daily life. People were already spat at for asking for help. They were probably killed now.
Then, an idea came to Lizzie. Perhaps it was finally time for them to take down the economy.
“I think I know why the murders have happened.”
***
Evangeline sat up, and decidedly put two hands on her lap, ready to begin. “Where would you like to begin your interrogation?” she mused, merely for the purposes of making a sociable joke, of course. There was no friendliness about it.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve done my pre-reading, this isn’t an interrogation. More of a… confirmation, perhaps.”
A man in a three-piece suit – perfectly dressed for a butler, strode in, carrying a tray upon which sat a silver tea pot, and floral china cups and saucers.
Evangeline gestured to the glass coffee table. “Thank you, James. Just down there, if you please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” James knelt down and placed the tray on the table.
“That will be all, James.”
“Yes ma’am.”
James hurried out, perhaps a little too quickly. Evangeline’s eyes followed him, as if she were policing her staff’s every move.
“Shall I be mother?” she said.
“Oh, yes please.”
Evangeline, her hands perfectly still, took the silver teapot and with great ease and precision, poured two cups of dark, steaming tea.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Just a dribble, and three sugars.”
She looked up, to ensure he was being serious. He was.
“… right.”
Evangeline did not take sugar. Of course, as the Doctor watched her every move, he wondered whether there was any significance there. There probably wasn’t. But the new Prime Minister of the Empire was an anomaly, and he was determined to understand her.
“People are tired, you know. They are tired of the Time Lords,” Evangeline said. She waited for the Doctor to drink first.
“Oh?” the Doctor deliberately held off drinking.
“Mm. The power you possess, and the way you utilise it. The tide has been turning, you know. Your shambolic handling of the war so far has done you no favours.”
The Doctor wondered whether Evangeline expected him to take any responsibility – after all, it wasn’t as if any of it had been down to him. He’d tried to prevent it.
“Ever since the Daleks descended upon Heaven. It is power, unfathomable to the people of the Empire. They think of it as just a legend, but it’s real. That terrifies them.”
“Believe me, Evangeline, that wasn’t a good day for me, either.”
“I was elected to protect them,” she ignored him. “To provide the people with a voice. They are sick of politicians avoiding the problem. I was the only one to stand up and say no. We will not be pushed around.”
The Doctor finally took a sip of his tea, and Evangeline did the same.
“Did it ever occur to you that you don’t have the solution to the problem?” he dared to ask.
She laughed, placing a hand on her knee, a vacant and theatrical attempt to pretend to stifle her laughter.
“Crucially,” Evangeline said, her giggles halting immediately. “Nobody else has provided one. Nobody has even tried – and do you know why?”
I’ve a feeling you’re going to tell me. The Doctor gritted his teeth. He had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like what she was going to say.
“Because the solution to a problem is never fun.”
The Doctor was thankful he hadn’t brought Lizzie with him. He prepared to say something, but she interrupted him, her passion for her beliefs burning sickeningly stronger.
“I know that first-hand, of course," Evangeline spoke as if it were the most casual thing in the world. "I came from nothing. My family were as poor as muck! But I created this," she gestured around her, before returning to her original point. "For some childish reason, the establishment believe we should all be helping each other. The ‘status quo’ states that it is the right thing to do. But in fact, all it has done is led us into deeper trouble.”
“You know, you’ve really got no idea –”
Evangeline glared at him, a ‘you don’t interrupt me when I’m talking’ kind of glare.
“There’s no such thing as society, Doctor. And people expect. They expect society to look after them. They believe in entitlement before obligation. But… it is a fantasy.”
***
Lizzie and Ronnie had found themselves back on the operations bridge.
“Their search history,” Lizzie told him. “Can we bring it up? What did they use the ship’s computer system for, before they were killed?”
Lizzie was almost certain she was right. Something about this ship had seemed strange from the beginning, and she was finally beginning to understand that it was the ship’s philosophy.
“Where did this bright idea suddenly come from…,” Ronnie muttered, as he typed into the computer.
Your pork scratchings. “The entire purpose of this spaceship is to generate money…”
Lizzie had realised that it wasn’t to do with money. All they had to do was dig a bit further. Get right to the root of it… to the core of the ideology itself.
“However,” she continued. It went further than money, she was sure of it. It wasn’t just people who want financial help. “Someone, I think, maybe, hopefully, is killing off those who need help.”
Ronnie looked up from the keyboard. Lizzie prepared for the incoming rant. But it made sense – she was sure of it. When life becomes the commodity, needing help was a weakness. A defective product. And did manufacturers do to defective products?
“Right,” he was calm. “So, are we expecting to see that all of the victims activated some kind of… I dunno, assistance function on their computers, before they were killed?”
“Erm, yeah! I guess.”
Lizzie assumed that the killer, therefore, was someone who worked on the iCruiser. Someone who assassinated people who weren’t functioning at optimum capacity, or something like that.
“Bloody nora…” Ronnie’s jaw dropped, metaphorically, perhaps, to the Mosh Pit. “You’re right!”
Lizzie sidled around the table full of papers and documentation, which had actually turned out to be useless. It wasn’t a complex issue, it was an age-old one. But it was a dangerous one.
“The private computer systems have a ‘help’ function. You type in your query about life on the iCruiser, and it’ll search the ship’s databases for an answer.”
The first thing that struck Lizzie was that barely anybody had used the ‘help’ function. It was a mark of the state of society when people had got too scared to ask for help, out of fear of losing part of their life. Or in this case, their life. “And only five people have used it?”
“Yeah. I mean, ship’s got pretty detailed instruction manuals, and people often ask staff.”
Lizzie raised an eyebrow, but decided that now was not the time to merely remark on the dreadful state of affairs – they had to do something.
“Can we stop it? Shut down the system?”
“I think so,” Ronnie tapped away at the keyboard. “I’m on it…”
Lizzie gave him a reassuring smile. Except Ronnie’s face fell, and a look of terror blazed in his eyes.
She thought she heard him call out for her as the blunt object crunched into the side of her cranium. Her head lurched forward as her skull ricocheted against the thwack, and her legs snapped beneath her, sending her onto her knees, as if the only hope she could find was through praying. Something like a hand threw her face first, and she could see Ronnie’s battered boots as consciousness finally left her.
***
I used to think maybe you love me, now baby I’m sure
And I just can’t wait till the day, when you knock on my door
Unusually for an insomniac, Lizzie’s eyes refused to open. In fact, if her head wasn’t pounding like the speakers in the dance hall, and her mouth drier than sandpaper, she’d have volunteered to be struck over the head with a blunt object more often.
Her head was clear for once. There was, bar the raw aching in the side of her temple, a vacuum of thoughts being thought of. She couldn’t stress or worry because she couldn’t think of anything. The wooziness was like floating on a cloud, high above all her troubles.
The dull agony in her head was a reminder of the truth.
Sadly, it was not to last. Her mind was starting up again, like a computer that had just been switched on and off again – but one that had been taken over by some virus, and was chugging along slowly. Files were being sorted, a password typed in, the wheel of death spinning ad infinitum, and finally, the desktop. She could navigate the pits of her brain now. Lizzie Darwin was back in the real world.
She wasn’t exactly sure what the real world was, because she couldn’t see anything.
Lizzie screamed – in her head, she didn’t want to scream aloud in case the person who had smashed the object into her head was nearby. That was all that prevented her terror from bubbling over in an audible spill – that lone survival instinct, fighting above all else to keep her alive.
But she wanted to see, all she wanted to do was see. The system would silence her no longer.
Eventually, proprioception was thrown back into gear and she could find control over her hands. Giving her fingers a reassuring wiggle, she rose them to her head – she flicked them back when she felt something damp keeping her hair matted to her face.
Blood.
She forgot about the blood – she had to forget about the blood. Second time lucky…
Her fingers prised open her eyelids, and the air was warily cool against that thin layer of gel protecting the delicacy of her eyeball from the horrors of the real world.
Now cause every time I go for the mail box, gotta hold myself down
Cause I just can’t wait till you write me, you’re coming around
Lizzie took a look around her, trying to see if she could see anything. She was restrained – tied to a chair by some thick cable, the sort that looked as if it had been professionally made for the purpose of trapping someone. The room was in darkness. Actually – it was barely a room, it was almost the size of an aircraft hangar, more in the ilk of an indoor stadium than anything else. She realised that she was stood on a platform in the centre – a stage, as if she were the one on show. Except, she was on show for nobody. The stage was empty.
Eventually, when she overcame the soreness of her neck, she glanced upwards, revealing the glass ceiling, like the observatory in the TARDIS, with the colourful conglomeration of interstellar objects whirling and whizzing above her head.
Almost jealous of those stars, again. Especially now.
There was something else, that she wasn’t quite sure of. A sound, above the shrill screaming of her headache, only louder than her headache because it was, she realised, not just in her head.
There was a song playing.
The pieces of the 80s-song-based-murders-all-because-of-- rogue computer-program puzzle finally slotted together in her head, as if they’d all been leading up to this moment.
At that moment, as part of the ship’s flight, light crept into the room from the observatory. Just one tiny ray at first, bursting through the glass and gently stroking her arm. She yelped and flicked it away, like an animal that touched a fire and jolted itself away as fast as possible. It burned. Thankfully, her lower arm was free.
I’m walking on sunshine! Whoa oh!
I’m walking on sunshine! Woah oh!
I’m walking on sunshine! Woah oh!
And don’t it feel good!
Well, not really, Lizzie mused, as it truly dawned on her that the ship was flying past a massive sun, and the exo-tonic shields that should have been covering the observatory hadn’t been raised. More to the point, the ship flew slowly, and so they would probably be flying past it for about half an hour.
What would get her first? The burning or the blindness? And half an hour. An agonising way to go.
No, she told herself, refusing to think pessimistically.
Thankfully, because they were so many years in the future, mobile phones were long dead, and so her kidnapper had been reckless enough to leave hers in her pocket. After doing a quick check, to ensure that said kidnapper was not anywhere nearby and watching her, Lizzie tried to wriggle her hand through the constricting cable into her pocket. Her fingers grabbed the phone, and, although it nearly slipped and slid out of her grasp several times, she eventually held it in front of her.
Unfortunately, her upper arms were bound. Lizzie dialled the Doctor, and kept it on speaker, so she could shout at it without needing to raise it to her ear.
“Hello?”
***
“Sorry, Eva,” the Doctor placed his saucer on the coffee table and grabbed the ringing mobile in his pocket. Evangeline Cullengate gave him the most horrified, disgusted look he’d ever seen, as he walked over to the window and answered.
“Lizzie?”
“Okay, so,” Lizzie began, not quite sure how to word the situation, as she tried to shuffle the chair she was bound to away from the advancing rays of sunshine. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“Someone…,” she muttered between deep breaths, as she expelled all energy in shifting the chair just an inch and a half. “Whoever is doing the killing has got me.”
The Doctor grabbed the phone closer to his ear, as if somehow it would enable him to save her. So long away from this, and he had got it so badly wrong on their first venture back into space together for years.
“What song have you got?” he demanded. “Lizzie! Tell me!”
“Erm…,” Lizzie tried to shield her eyes away from the glare of the sun.
“Lizzie!”
“Walking on Sunshine,” she admitted.
“… right.”
“Yep.”
“Okay.”
“It is a bit hot.”
“I can imagine. I expect they’ve lowered the exo-tonic shields, yes?” the Doctor spoke quickly, waving his hand to try and make her talk quickly as well.
“I think so…”
“Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”
Lizzie peered around her, seeing if there was any indication of a location, other than bloody massive stadium. Her situation literally hadn’t shed any light on her location either. “It’s a stadium. A really, really big one, and I’m on a stage in the middle of it.”
“One of the concert halls, I should expect. Lizzie, sit tight.”
“I don’t really have much choice.”
He made to hang up, but stopped himself, mentally rewinding. “Oh! What’s the good news?”
“Oh, yeah,” Lizzie said, having forgotten herself. It wasn’t particularly high up her list of priorities. “It’s killing the people that ask for help – the people who submit an assistance request through the system.”
“Oh… Lizzie! You’re a genius!”
“I’m really not haha I’ve got no idea what’s going on,” she tried to wiggle the chair a little bit further away from the ever-increasing concentration of sunlight.
“Lizzie, on my life, I am on my way!”
The Doctor hung up.
“Good o,” Lizzie muttered. At that moment, a hand yanked her telephone from her hand, and threw it off the stage, into the screaming crowds of nobody.
***
“Sorry Eva,” the Doctor ran over to the door. “I’d love to stay and chat, but my best friend is in danger. And if I find out you’ve got anything to do with it, I will make sure you’re out of office by this evening.”
At that moment, Evangeline did the unexpected. She stood up, and she swaggered over to him, squaring up to him as if she were about to take him on in a fist fight.
“Have you got children, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you will stop seeing me as so repulsive. I will provide your daughter with a better future.”
He had never mentioned his daughter.
“Evangeline, yes – I do have a daughter. And I gave up my whole life for a hundred years to face up to my responsibilities. And I don’t regret it. Because that’s what all this is about. Responsibilities. And how people like you are determined to avoid them.”
He threw open the door, took Evangeline’s hand, and shook it. He was almost certain that this wasn’t going to be the last time they met.
And then Evangeline scowled at him, and spoke with a venom on her tongue that the Doctor hadn’t yet heard from her. “The Doctor and Darwin, throwing yourselves at the universe as if the universe gives a damn. Well let me tell you, it doesn’t.”
Before leaving, he offered her one final, smug grin.
“The universe isn’t quite finished with us yet.”
***
“You have found my secret.”
In front of Lizzie, there stood a hooded figure, robed in navy blue. It spoke in a deep, sonorous, yet villainous voice, and it waited motionlessly. Interestingly, it hadn’t pulled her back under the stream of ferocious, burning sunlight. Perhaps it wanted to talk?
“Yeah. Sorry about that…,” she came across as smugger than she’d intended. “Sorry, not wanting to like, disrespect whoever you are.”
Although she was interested – who were they?
At that moment, as if the figure were reading her mind, they whipped back their hood, to reveal…
Well, she wasn’t quite sure. But its head was a cube, made up of smaller cubes. Three by three by three – twenty-seven little cubes making up the big cube. And each little cube was a different colour.
Its head was a Rubik’s Cube.
“Oh. Hello,” she waved at it, even more awkwardly than usual considering the restraints on her arms. Lizzie also noticed a pair of rather expensive headphones over the top of the cube.
“I am the Rubix,” it snarled, stepping closer to her, glaring at her through a green square and a blue square. “And I am the killer.”
From her crime drama experience, Lizzie was pretty certain the confession shouldn’t have been as easy as that. Presumably whoever the Rubix was, they were proud of the murders, as displayed through the camp glee with which it came clean.
“I am here to ensure that correct guidelines are maintained, and to ensure the ship runs at optimum capacity.”
“So you kill those who are limiting that? That’s… abhorrent.” She hated the situation even more, as she heard the emotionless syntax it spoke with, as if it were doing everyone a great service. Capitalism – ruining those who need help for way, way too long.
“That is how the universe works. Nothing you can do about it.”
They were a strange person, speaking with a strange mix of 80s slang and robotically correct grammar.
“It doesn’t need to be!” Lizzie protested, with as much vigour as she could from being sat down. “God, how stupid do you have to be to think that this is working.”
“You are young,” the Rubix came a bit too close for comfort. “You think you are entitled. You are not. Honestly, the kids nowadays…”
“You treat life as a product, as if it hasn’t got any value other than a monetary value. It’s sick!”
“And you, Elizabeth Darwin, are preventing this ship from running at optimum capacity. Therefore, you must be eliminated.”
At least she was dying for a cause she believed in.
“You know, one day, you’ll learn that this stupid ideology you’re propelling has been holding back the universe for way, way too long, and – ow, ow, ow,” she felt tears roll down her cheek, and then evaporate in the sunlight. “Oh my god, stop it –”
But then, in the deathly silence, a familiar synth beat exploded in the stadium.
In the darkness above the arena, a mushroom cloud of dry ice washed down like a huge, slow-motion tsunami, shrouding the stage in a dense fog. The Rubix recoiled in horror, as through the shadows, there was something coming down from the sky.
It was godlike, floating from the heavens, as Europe’s The Final Countdown deafened Lizzie and the Rubix. Slowly the mist parted, and the divine figure became clearer – it was a man, parting the fog like Moses parted the Red Sea, and he was flying, hovering down to the stage below him.
It was the Doctor.
Except he wore the brightest pair of neon-red spandex trousers that Lizzie had seen in her life. A vomit-yellow tank top was hung from his shoulders beneath his Edwardian jacket, and a pink headband was slapped onto his head, and his hair had been mussed up and gelled.
“Oh my god,” Lizzie spluttered, as the Doctor raised his arms above him as if he were about to intone a Mexican wave amongst the non-existent crowds.
IT’S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN.
The man began to take steps. He was walking amongst men now, the true second-coming of 1980s culture. The mist was lifting now, revealing the Doctor and his new look in all his glory.
“It’s the final countdown,” he said.
“What is this nonsense?” the Rubix snarled, as the Doctor strode down from the stage, his Edwardian jacket, now with added sparkles, Lizzie noticed, trailing behind him.
“Oh, believe me, I’m not joking,” the Doctor glanced at his watch. “Approximately seven minutes to go before the ship crashes.
At that moment, a giant timer was projected on the wall in huge, red letters. It now displayed 06:55
“That’ll be Ronnie, projecting the time until we land.”
“You would risk the life of yourself and your friend?” the Rubix asked.
“And the detective? And the captain, and the crew, and the singers, and all the passengers as well?” the Doctor took a seat. “If we go down, we go down together.”
“There’s no such thing as together,” the Rubix spat (if it could spit through its neon coloured cubes).
“Glorious, isn’t it?” the Doctor reached into his pocket and chucked out three glowsticks, an NES remote, and finally settling on a Caramac, which he unwrapped and started munching into.
“You bring us all down, and yet at the same time, prove why what you believe will never work. Because people are coming together,” Lizzie murmured. When the Rubix, and the Doctor, turned to look at her, she was startled. But she continued, and this time, she spoke louder. “Everyone, apart from you lot. You, and... and the Captain, and Evangeline Cullengate, will probably just teleport off this ship while we all burn. But in the end, I guess, probably, it’ll be you that will burn. In the end -- people like us, in this spaceship, maybe, hopefully, will build something better.”
The Doctor applauded, and Lizzie smiled awkwardly.
“They should make you Prime Minister.”
Lizzie quickly put the suggestion to bed. “Oh god no.”
The Rubix started to give a mocking applause. “You truly are a stupid little girl.”
Suddenly, the ship jerked and rocked, sending the Rubix stumbling, their regaining of balance even more dramatic and ridiculous than its original tumble.
“Oh look,” the Doctor checked his fob watch. “Can’t be more than five and a half minutes until touchdown.”
The Rubix stared at him blankly. “You will explain why you are crashing this ship!”
“I could,” the Doctor admitted. “But I’m sorry, Rubix. Because that would be the end for you.”
Five minutes, the clock said. And it continued to tick, each sound marking a second closer to their deaths. Each tick felt like a blade, cutting agonisingly deeper as each second passed.
“I will not die!” the Rubix protested. “I will leave you to burn, I will teleport away.”
“Not possible, I’m afraid.”
The Doctor’s voice turned cold. Colder than Lizzie had heard it before. Perhaps a hundred years of parenting had changed him. Perhaps now, he was determined to protect his daughter, no matter what the cost.
“You’ve got a dilemma. You can’t leave this ship, meaning you can either crash with it, or save the ship. And then die.”
“I! WILL! NOT! DIE!”
“YOU HAVEN’T GOT A CHOICE!” the Doctor roared, throwing himself out of his seat. He jumped out of his seat, coming closer to the Rubix. “Behaving like you are, you were always destined for this, it was always destined to end this way. You can’t hang on any longer.”
The Rubix spoke monotonously and chillingly. “Then everyone will die.”
Capitalists. Always so stubborn, Lizzie thought.
The Doctor shrugged, as if he were giving up. Perhaps nothing could be done. “Then perhaps the crashing of this ship will show people what you’ve all done to the universe. Where persecuting those who need help leads in the end. And if that plays any part of winning the fight, then good! So be it!”
“You will die screaming.”
“I will die happy,” the Doctor was resolute. “Because it will have helped save my daughter from you horrific people.”
“As will I,” Lizzie agreed.
“And me!”
Lizzie looked down to the rows of seating, to see Ronnie dashing into the great stadium, his trench coat flowing behind him. He jumped up onto the stage, and with a knife, sliced through the cabling trapping Lizzie to the chair. The three of them stood up, and they took places beside each other.
The Rubix seemed much smaller now, as if it had sunk into itself and was digging for any small element of argument it had left. None, it seemed. It would still lose, even if the ship were to crash.
“You will explain.”
“And you’ll die?”
The Rubix seemed reluctant.
“Yes…”
The Doctor dashed over to the terminal in the centre of the stage, and leant back on it. His anger was gone now, replaced by a smug grin. “the biggest problem with this ship. You. You’re a computer program, a string of code.”
Suddenly, it all made sense. Why the killings had been so perfect, how no human trace had been left behind. Because they were done by a walking computer, with everything executed perfectly. Of course the crime dramas hadn’t prepared Lizzie for that.
“You’ve got no concept of human emotion. You’ll kill off the weak, those who ask for help, because that’s what you see as most logical. What you don’t actually understand is that firstly, it’s disgusting, and secondly, and more superiorly,” the Doctor stood up, and squared up to Rubix. “It isn’t logical either.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“I’m not the one crashing this ship, Rubix. You are.”
There was silence, which was only punctuated by the tick, tick, ticking of the clock. Only a minute to go until the ship crashed into the planet below.
“What.”
Abruptly the ship vigorously trembled again, throwing Ronnie onto the floor, and making the Rubix fall backwards.
“Do you truly think I would ever kill so many people? Innocent, good people? No... the computer system has gone too far. It’s identified the entire population of the ship as weak. So, what’s it going to do? Crash the whole ship. Kill them all off at once.”
They were approaching the ground, now, and the clock was on thirty seconds. They could tell, as the ship was violently quaking, making it almost impossible to stand upright.
Lizzie was hoping the revolution would happen sooner rather than later.
The Rubix strode over to the screen, shoved the Doctor out of the way, and typed in its password. Lizzie grabbed the Doctor, helping him back up, while the screen flashed red with ‘access denied. Please enjoy the music.’ In a wave of anger, the Rubix punched straight through the screen.
“How is this possible?” he cried, whipping off his headphones and tossing them on the floor. “How did I not know?!”
“The computer system operates on a tier-based OS. You, the program that initiates the kills, the literal executor, works independently to the program that gives the order. That’s what happens when there’s no society…”
“NO!” the Rubix bellowed. “NO!” as if repeating it would stop what was happening from all coming together.
Lizzie couldn’t help but smile, as she saw the Rubix fall to the ground for a final time, and she felt the ship turn upright again, plateauing on its original course.
When she blinked, the Rubix had vanished.
It was just the three of them in the stadium. And the millions of others on the ship, all who had survived. All of whom wouldn’t have to worry about asking for help.
“Haha!” Ronnie clapped and cheered. “Not bad!”
As the ship fully regained its original stability, Lizzie spoke. “Why did it vanish?” she asked.
“Because we got to the bottom of what it believed?” the Doctor suggested. “Perhaps, through the Rubix, we proved the ship wrong. Its current system was far from the best way of being prosperous. And so it saw no need to continue as it was, and… maybe it deleted the code.”
Lizzie turned to see Ronnie, stand up and dust himself off. “Well! That were bleedin’ brilliant! Nice one, team!”
The Doctor laughed, and looked around at the two of them. “Yes. Well done everyone.”
“God, I’m desperate for a drink. Pub, anyone?” Ronnie proclaimed.
“Pub,” the Doctor turned to make sure Lizzie was okay.
“Pub,” Lizzie confirmed, smiling at the two of them, in their own methods of ridiculousness.
The three of them left the stadium.
***
“What is this?” the Doctor grimaced as the cold liquid slunk down his throat. “It’s…”
“Glorious,” Ronnie closed his eyes and looked upwards, as if his ale had been divinely tampered with. Lizzie, meanwhile, had stuck to something soft. She wasn’t one for drinking.
“There’s something I’m missing,” the Doctor mused aloud, while Ronnie watched some intergalactic game of football from the screen in the corner of the pub. It was decked out in a traditional English style, but with some 52nd century alternations.
“What was Evangeline Cullengate like?” Lizzie asked, before taking a sip from her cola.
“That was it!” the Doctor exclaimed. “Cullengate owns the internet. There was a branch of her company, and they specialised in producing OSes for spaceships that combined online and engineering practises. And the company branch? Rubix….”
Ronnie swore a bit too loudly when he finally realised. “She was behind the whole bloody thing?”
Unfortunately not, Lizzie thought. Only indirectly connected. And, as Ronnie was about to confirm, she was probably untouchable through her status anyway.
“Sadly not,” the Doctor admitted. “Her company created the system, she had nothing to do with the installation or settings.”
“Even so,” Lizzie spoke out. “It’s an injustice. That she can do all that and get away with it,” Lizzie’s skin crawled to think at the fact there were probably other ships in danger of the same.
“No bloody point to policing nowadays,” Ronnie looked glumly over the rim of his pint glass. “Can’t arrest half the bastards.”
The Doctor placed a hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. “You can try, though.”
Ronnie’s face perked up a bit. “You know what? I bleedin’ well can!” he kissed the Doctor’s forehead, and gave Lizzie a firm handshake. “I think you two have given me the kick up the arse I needed!”
The Doctor, still slightly stunned from the kiss, couldn’t help but be delighted that they’d made such a difference. This was why they’d come back to it, after so much time away with Iris.
“You mark my words!” Ronnie began to stride away from them. “This will end! Hey – I’ll see you around on the ship, perhaps? Or if not, well - we'll run into each other again, I'm sure.”
“See you around,” the Doctor said, and Lizzie waved him off.
Before long, the Doctor and Lizzie made their way into the club, where they sat and finished their drinks, while listening to the music.
“I dare you to dance,” the Doctor said, before laughing to himself like a child. Lizzie glared at him, because it was never going to happen. His sentiments from when they first arrived hadn't properly sunk in... so, he would have to try a different tactic.
She laughed it off, as if it were a joke, which she hoped it was, she really, really hoped it was, but she knew it wasn’t.
“Oh, go on,” the Doctor continued, verbally prodding her in the side. "I said earlier, didn't I? Don't ever be afraid to ask for help? So, this is me... helping you."
“No,” she shook her head, as if trying to shake off the notion that she could ever dance. "And besides. I never asked."
"I think you did," the Doctor mused, thinking back to earlier, after Lizzie's phonecall with Maggie. He'd seen her, staring out at the stars ahead. Looking sad. Looking as if all she wanted was just... help.
Or was it that she couldn’t dance, or wouldn’t dance? Perhaps that invisible cord, always keeping her tied up, was just holding her back, refusing to let her have fun. She would never know, because she was too scared.
“I did the most terrifying thing for a hundred years,” the Doctor placed a hand over hers. “I'm a Dad.”
Lizzie gave him a look.
Not a ‘please go away’ look, as it had been before. More of a ‘oh god I really hate you but actually think you’re brilliant at the same time’ look.
She stood up. All her instincts were telling her to sit back down you stupid girl, nothing good was going to come of this, you might as well give up before you’ve even begun. Oh please Lizzie, stop it now, this is just ridiculous.
Lizzie ignored her instincts, and walked, and she probably looked a bit stupid but it was nothing in comparison of the movements she was about to make. When she turned to see if he was watching her, he was, with his annoying and stupid smug face that actually made her smile more than anything else.
What now? She asked herself, as the bodies sort of sidled around her, and she stood rigid and motionless and awkward in the middle of them.
And then she felt it – slowly at first, as if it was there, but growing, bit by bit, and not quite reaching its peak. The rhythm was slowly creeping inside her. Her blood began to sway gently along with it, dancing to the constant, thumping synths. And gradually as the music progressed, her blood stopped swaying and started dancing, and she felt every pint pump through her veins, the inner drum of her body seized from her heart and replaced by some tune from the 80s. And then before she knew it, she herself was dancing, and she didn’t even care what she was doing, because everything revolved around that one, simple rhythm.
And in those seconds, she could have gone anywhere.
Suddenly, Elizabeth Darwin felt freer than she ever had in her life, as she waved her arms wildly above her head, and she felt her hair swing sullenly around her, and she didn’t even care how ridiculous she looked, because life was ridiculous and she was willing to be its accomplice for once. Everyone around her was united, all the divisions between them healed by music, the ultimate doctor. Strobe lights burst in and out of life, blinding her temporarily in a kaleidoscope of neon pink and lime green and bubble-gum blue, and the floor beneath her was a mixture of shades more gloriously garish than she’d ever witnessed. And out the reinforced ten-feet-of-solid-glass-and-steel windows, the stars burned and tumbled and glimmered brighter than the hope bubbling up inside her now, and for those briefest of seconds, she thought everything was ecstatic in its wonderfulness.
The cord had been cut, and she was no longer jealous of the stars above.
"I think you did," the Doctor mused, thinking back to earlier, after Lizzie's phonecall with Maggie. He'd seen her, staring out at the stars ahead. Looking sad. Looking as if all she wanted was just... help.
Or was it that she couldn’t dance, or wouldn’t dance? Perhaps that invisible cord, always keeping her tied up, was just holding her back, refusing to let her have fun. She would never know, because she was too scared.
“I did the most terrifying thing for a hundred years,” the Doctor placed a hand over hers. “I'm a Dad.”
Lizzie gave him a look.
Not a ‘please go away’ look, as it had been before. More of a ‘oh god I really hate you but actually think you’re brilliant at the same time’ look.
She stood up. All her instincts were telling her to sit back down you stupid girl, nothing good was going to come of this, you might as well give up before you’ve even begun. Oh please Lizzie, stop it now, this is just ridiculous.
Lizzie ignored her instincts, and walked, and she probably looked a bit stupid but it was nothing in comparison of the movements she was about to make. When she turned to see if he was watching her, he was, with his annoying and stupid smug face that actually made her smile more than anything else.
What now? She asked herself, as the bodies sort of sidled around her, and she stood rigid and motionless and awkward in the middle of them.
And then she felt it – slowly at first, as if it was there, but growing, bit by bit, and not quite reaching its peak. The rhythm was slowly creeping inside her. Her blood began to sway gently along with it, dancing to the constant, thumping synths. And gradually as the music progressed, her blood stopped swaying and started dancing, and she felt every pint pump through her veins, the inner drum of her body seized from her heart and replaced by some tune from the 80s. And then before she knew it, she herself was dancing, and she didn’t even care what she was doing, because everything revolved around that one, simple rhythm.
And in those seconds, she could have gone anywhere.
Suddenly, Elizabeth Darwin felt freer than she ever had in her life, as she waved her arms wildly above her head, and she felt her hair swing sullenly around her, and she didn’t even care how ridiculous she looked, because life was ridiculous and she was willing to be its accomplice for once. Everyone around her was united, all the divisions between them healed by music, the ultimate doctor. Strobe lights burst in and out of life, blinding her temporarily in a kaleidoscope of neon pink and lime green and bubble-gum blue, and the floor beneath her was a mixture of shades more gloriously garish than she’d ever witnessed. And out the reinforced ten-feet-of-solid-glass-and-steel windows, the stars burned and tumbled and glimmered brighter than the hope bubbling up inside her now, and for those briefest of seconds, she thought everything was ecstatic in its wonderfulness.
The cord had been cut, and she was no longer jealous of the stars above.
|
|
next time - start new gameTokyo, 1999.
Eight children have gone missing in the last three months, and Inspector Kido is at a dead end. The only connection between them is a videogame, a virtual tale of a terrifying Yūrei, taking its vengeance on the children of the town. Kido never believed in ghosts, but when two strangers from the west arrive to take the case, his personal connections challenge his beliefs. Back on the TARDIS, Lizzie discovers the same case, and realises it may just hold the answer to the disappearance of her childhood friend, Meiko. Determined to put his friend’s mind at ease, the Doctor resolves to solve the mystery. The trio embark on a ghost hunt across Tokyo, but as the truth of the Yūrei reveals itself, the bonds holding them together come to breaking point. Can Lizzie abandon her friend? Can Kido defeat his own daughter? And can the Doctor really save the stolen children from the dark? |