by Doctor Who
'Here we go, then.' The Doctor turned round, snapped his fingers and the TARDIS door squeaked, then slammed shut. He grinned, as much in surprise as in satisfaction.
'Getting better at that,' he said.
A quick glance at some calendars in a nearby gift shop was enough to tell him that the year was 2013. He liked to trust the TARDIS to get him to the right place and time these days, but it had been known to overshoot by a hundred years, or even a hundred million years. Which could be both embarrassing and inconvenient.
Hands in pockets, grinning, brown eyes wide open in admiration, the Doctor sauntered through Hyperville.
He'd seen leisure and shopping palaces before, of course. He remembered a particularly impressive one on stilts above
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the swamps of Dargeb IV, and an underwater retail experience beneath the carmine oceans of Ororous's second moon. But there was something very special, he always thought, about the ideas Earth people came up with. Something energetic, interesting, almost quaint. And the people themselves were usually a delight, even if the officious ones in uniform did cause him a bit of bother. The Doctor didn't always admit as much, but he did quite like humans. They were sometimes his favourite species.
This place seemed incredible for the time. The Doctor had checked the computerised maps and had realised that Hyperville covered an area of something like five square miles. The basic layout was a huge, metal triangle, from the outside a glittering wall of silver. It had a cylindrical, ten-storey megastore at each apex, the shops between them selling practically every commodity known to the human race. Within the walkways, malls and plazas in the sides of the triangle lurked designer clothes boutiques, shops and coffee-lounges, along with the banks, chemists, delicatessens and other outlets expected by the visitor.
In each of the major Plazas - Europa, Australis and Afrika - there was a giant installation. Europa had a glittering, ice-smooth cliff of glass, fifty metres high and inlaid with continuously falling cobalt-blue water, like a great slab of sea looking out over the small figures of the shoppers. Australis had sixteen pillars of blood-red marble, curving upwards to meet at a single point above the square. And Afrika Plaza had a great globe the size of a house, made out of some translucent material, suspended on a filigree of near-invisible threads so that it appeared to float in mid-air.
At the centre of the triangle squatted the Pyramid, home 19
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to the administration centre of Hyperville. And then beyond the apex of the triangle was the golden FunGlobe, which contained, as far as the Doctor could tell, a huge theme park: every themed leisure and fun permutation humans could think of.
The Doctor wasn't sure what he thought, to be honest.
Part of him felt it showed great imagination and verve, but another part of him was disturbed by it. He wondered why the human race needed this artifice when they had, despite all their best efforts to contaminate it, a beautiful planet full of mountains and oceans and forests and beaches, many of them still unexplored. And that which disturbed him intrigued him. There was a story here. Something going on under the surface.
'Watch where you're going, mister!'
The Doctor stepped back, and looked down. Among the crowds streaming past him, he had almost failed to see the chubby teenage boy with cropped hair who was looking up at him belligerently, waving an ice cream in his face.
The Doctor smiled. 'Sorry. In my own world.'
'Yeah, well. You almost made me drop my ice cream. I could have sued you under Regulation 4.4 of the Personal Space Act.'
The Doctor looked puzzled. 'Personal Space... No, never mind.'
'Reece! Reece!' A screeching voice cut across the Doctor's thoughts, and he saw a girl with pulled-back blonde hair and
saucer-sized
earrings,
wearing
a
pastel-pink
psychedelic dress. She was heading towards them from one of the nearby escalator-tubes, beckoning angrily at the boy. 'We're gonna be late for the Doomcastle! Come on!'
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The Doctor looked at the boy sympathetically. 'Sister?'
The boy nodded sheepishly. 'Chantelle. Gotta go.'
'Er.. .what is the... Doomcastle, exactly?'
The boy Reece held his ice cream mid-lick, managing to point it at the Doctor in a way which suggested he was beneath contempt. 'You don't know?' he said. 'What channels do you watch?'
'Oh, I haven't seen any decent telly in ages. Last thing I saw was that girl playing noughts-and-crosses, you know, with the...' The Doctor paused, finger in mid-air describing a noughts-and-crosses grid. 'With the clown... You.. .have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?'
The boy shrugged, licking his ice cream.
The Doctor sighed. 'Never mind, I get used to that. So, look, come on, what is the Doomcastle?'
Chantelle folded her arms and narrowed her eyes at the Doctor. 'Why don't you buy a ticket, mate?' she sneered.
'You might find out. Only fifty euros.' And she nodded to the electronic ticket booth at the side of the escalator. 'You need to get a move on, though. Train leaves in ten minutes.'
The Doctor pulled a face, bobbed his head from side to side as if weighing the idea up. 'Ten minutes. Right. OK.'
He put his glasses on and leaned down to peer at the electronic ticket booth, which resembled a tall, silver pyramid. It had a globe-shaped control panel on the top and a letterbox-sized slot. The screen on the panel was displaying a message in green pixels: INSERT CASH OR
HYPERCARD. The Doctor tutted. This thing needs money.'
He patted his pockets. 'Why do I never have money?'
He flipped his sonic screwdriver elegantly from his top pocket, jammed it up against the control panel and gave 21
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the dispenser a short, intense burst, looking guiltily over his shoulder. A young couple behind him did not seem to be paying him any attention at all. The machine clunked, whirred, and hiccupped. He selected his option on the screen, pressed the green button and took his ticket from the letterbox-slot as it was printed out. As he pocketed the ticket, the machine gave another hiccup and every light on the globe-shaped control panel was extinguished.
The young couple behind the Doctor, waiting patiently for their turn, looked disappointed. 'Is it not working?'
asked the young man.
The Doctor rubbed his ear. 'Um, well, noooo. Think they've got a few, um, distribution problems in the system.
You know. Credit crunch.'
He hopped into the blue tube and stood on the moving pavement, letting himself be carried through Hyperville towards Australis Plaza and an appointment with the Doomcastle.
High above him, a silvery globe, which appeared to be bouncing on air, sparkled and bleeped as it recorded every last pixel of the Doctor's face and flipped it through the network.
'Play it again, thirty-four,' said Max Carson sternly.
High on his platform overlooking the CCTV operatives, Max Carson sat in the black leather swivel-chair from which he usually worked. He wore a dark suit - a designer one these days, not the off-the-peg number he had owned four years ago when he first came to Hyperville - and he still had the same burning dark eyes and jet-black hair and beard, a little greyer now at the edges.
The walls flickered and danced with the images of a 22
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thousand plasma screens, which covered the walls in ranks like electronic tiles. Two dozen young men and women wearing headsets sat at curved consoles, constantly monitoring the screen's output from computer terminals.
In the four years since Max had first arrived at Hyperville, this section had expanded into a full circle of screens and operatives. Every wall around him was relaying crisp images of the various sectors of Hyperville: the shopping, entertainment, leisure, sport and recreation zones. At night, the images would change, with fewer images from the shopping an
d sport zones and more from the casinos and nightclubs buried in Hyperville's lower levels.
The young operative addressed by Max obeyed his instruction. She flicked a switch and the footage appeared on his personal screen.
'What an unusual man,' he murmured, leaning forward.
The camera shot came from inside one of the electronic ticket booths, and showed a youngish man with tousled hair, black-rimmed glasses and an irreverent grin. He was leaning into the camera - so into the machine - and appeared to be poking about at it with some sort of screwdriver-like device which lit up at the end.
'What did he do, thirty-four?' Max asked calmly.
The answer crackled in Max's ear. 'He forced a focused sonic wave into the sub-utility governing Ticket Booth 297, sir. Introduced a malleability routine into the program that enabled him to obtain a ticket without HyperCard payment.'
Max Carson's face lit up in an unexpected smile. 'A proper criminal! Excellent. It's been a while since we've had one of those. It's been all common thugs and hoodlums these past few weeks.' He pressed his fingers together. I wonder what
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he's up to? A sonic device...Got to admit, that does show a certain touch of class.'
'Shall I get Captain Tilbrook to pull him in, sir?' 'No, no.
Just watch him. I'm intrigued. I want to see what he does.
Get his face cross-matched with the criminal ID databases.
And see if you can find out what that device he used might actually be."
'Very good, sir. And shall I inform Sir Gerry?' Max frowned.
'Goodness, no. We don't need to worry the old fool. He's got enough on his plate with the Trainees arriving, not to mention that ridiculous pop-star woman.' He rose from his chair. 'Keep me informed of developments. I've got...
another matter to attend to.'
Max flicked a switch on the arm of his chair - and his platform, complete with chair, descended slowly into the floor. After a few seconds, he had disappeared from view.
Andrea Watkins didn't like being kept waiting.
She was pacing up and down in the lobby, tapping her electronic notepad impatiently against her ring finger.
Her shiny high boots and tight leather-look skirt - both expensive items from a designer boutique called Zarasti
-reflected the soft lighting. Occasionally she would glance through the impressive viewing window at the streaming hordes below in the mall. People in pastel hues and casuals, or crisp work suits, all going in and out of shops and carrying glossy, bulging bags emblazoned with the Hyperville logo and the name of the relevant shop. She could hear the hubbub, like a constant murmur in the background.
Andrea smiled. She enjoyed shopping.
The place was such a huge success, and that was supposed
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to impress her - but it worried her. And it worried her editor, too. And so, as she already had an 'in' with Sir Gerry, she had been dispatched back to Hyperville to get the full story.
At the age of 41, unmarried and dedicated to her work, Andrea was desperate to find the story that would really put her name on the map. She was convinced that she was right on the brink of getting it.
The lift doors opened, and a dapper, bearded man emerged.
'Hello, Miss Watkins.'
Andrea
remembered
Max
Carson,
Sir
Gerry's
right-hand-man - she hadn't liked him when she first met him and she didn't like him now.
Behind him came a woman — elegant, her brown hair in a bun and her curvaceous form contained within a smart suit with matching heels. She wore an expensive gold watch and diamond earrings. Catlike green eyes surveyed Andrea from behind semi-rimless glasses. The woman said nothing.
Andrea decided in a second that she neither liked nor trusted the woman. Max Carson was just a smarmy businessman with a high opinion of himself- Andrea knew the type and could deal with them. But this woman was something different.. .something not quite right.
'Mr Carson,' said Andrea. She nodded to Max, and looked the woman up and down.
'Call me Max, please.' He gripped her hand warmly. He gestured to the smart woman. 'Oh, my associate, Miss Elizabeth Devonshire. She'll sit in on this meeting, if that's all right with you.'
Miss Devonshire was too sharp-looking, Andrea thought
-too unnaturally immaculate. Andrea managed a tight, formal
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smile. 'Is Sir Gerry not available today?' she asked.
'Ah, well, the Chief Exec has a lot on his plate right now.'
Max Carson beamed.
Miss Devonshire spoke. She had a warm, down-to-earth American accent. This is a big place, Andrea. Needs leadership and that, ah, special factor.'
'I hear he's auditioning for successors,' Andrea suggested impishly.
Max smiled. 'Not as such. Sir Gerry is instigating a rolling programme of intensive Management Training. He believes our young people are the future. As, indeed, do we.' Max gestured towards the office door. 'Perhaps you'd care to step inside?'
Andrea smiled. She didn't like this pair, but she would pretend to if it got her the story. 'Of course,' she said primly. Boots clicking on the wooden floor, she strode through the doorway.
Inside the office was a huge, oval table, an empty slab of polished wood. Andrea could not resist running her hands over it. Then she looked up. There were two muscled, black-uniformed security men standing either side of Max Carson's chair, their faces strangely impassive under their black baseball caps.
'Do they need to be here?' she asked.
Max Carson merely smiled and gestured expansively as he sat down. It was Miss Devonshire who answered the question.
'Standard procedure in these frightening times, Andrea.
I do apologise. We wish as much as you do that we could live without such... measures.'
Andrea pulled a document from her handbag and spread
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it out on the table in front of her. 'I have the originals of these documents in a safe place,' she said. Her heart was beating furiously at this moment of brazen confrontation, wondering how they would react. 'Documentation from the independent electrical contractors who checked your systems following the workman's death. As you can see, they indicate that there was no fault.' She pressed her fingers together. 'Just how did he die? Was it something to do with the new development of Plastinol-2?'
Max Carson raised an eyebrow. Plastinol-2?' He glanced at Miss Devonshire, who didn't react. 'Goodness. You have been doing your homework. Most journalists these days seem to think half an hour on Wikipedia will do.' He reached out a hand. 'May I?' he asked.
Andrea pushed the documents across the table to him.
He scanned them, his eyes seeming to move very fast. She watched him. She was sure she had him rattled now, underneath that smooth surface. He then passed the documents to Miss Devonshire, who read them with a superior smile.
Andrea knew a lot didn't add up about the electrician who had died in the WinterZone. And she knew it had to be more than just coincidence that the cover-up had come now - just when Hyperville's investment in a new, pliable, versatile artificial substance called Plastinol-2 had come along. An investment which had a lot to do with Max Carson - and his former company, Carson Polymers. She wasn't sure where this creepy Devonshire woman fitted in, either.
After a minute or so, Miss Devonshire nodded and placed the papers back on the table in front of them.
'Seems you may be right,' she said softly. 'What are you gonna do with this information, Andrea?'
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Andrea smiled. 'What any good journalist does. Check more sources, compile a devastating article, and publish.'
Max Carson's eyes, beneath his thick eyebrows, fixed on Andrea. Unnerved, Andrea glanced up at the two security m
en, still standing at ease either side of Max, hands clasped behind their backs. Their faces were glistening as if with sweat, but looked oddly waxy and rigid.
'I see,' said Max Carson eventually. 'You do realise, Miss Watkins, that any attempt to take on the power of Hyperville will almost certainly result in disaster?'
Andrea wrinkled her nose. That sounds like a threat.'
Max Carson beamed and spread his hands. 'Merely a friendly warning. Really. Forget this silly incident. Forget Plastinol-2. It's... at a very early research stage, shall we say.
And
go
back
to
profiling
your
emerging
businesswomen and your garden-shed businesses. They really are fascinating.'
'Max is being polite,' said Miss Devonshire. 'I think they're dull as heck, myself.'
Andrea was on her feet. She'd heard enough. She knew now that she wanted to take down this arrogant pair, and that she was going to enjoy doing it. 'You're very patronising, Mr Carson. And you, Miss Devonshire, you're just rude.' She turned her back to them and looked over her shoulder. I’ll see myself out,' she said, and thumped the control to release the sliding doors.
It didn't work. Andrea thumped it again. No response.
She sighed and turned back towards Max Carson. 'Mr Carson,' she said, 'this is very tire—'
She frowned. Max Carson was on his feet now, arms folded, and the two security men had lifted their right arms so that they were pointing at her in an accusing manner.
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'What is this?' Andrea demanded. For the first time, now, her anger was giving way to fear.
'Accidents happen, Andrea,' said Miss Devonshire's drawl. It seemed to come from somewhere else, as if it was not really Miss Devonshire speaking to her, but someone -
something -using her mouth and vocal cords. 'Even to visitors.'
