‘Of course,’ said the old man in a gruff, clipped English accent, ‘talk to the young ’uns today and they won’t believe you. They weren’t there. The Battle of Olympus Mons. Saw ’em coming over the ridge, you know, like a million little spiders, armed to the teeth.’
He lifted up his arms, miming the action of aiming and firing a rifle.
‘Bang!’ he shouted. ‘Bang bang! Four of ’em. . . five of ’em. . . blew one fella’s chin off. And then, out of the sky. . .’ He looked up at the ceiling, feigning surprise, waving his hands in mock horror.
‘Aaagh!’ he yelled. ‘And they swooped down, like flying monkeys, you know? Caw caw! Caw caw!’
Standing behind the bar, drying a glass with a tea towel, Mr Carstairs shook his head.
‘Is the Major bothering you?’
‘No,’ said the Doctor, smiling. ‘Not at all.’
‘Nother one, Mr Carstairs, if you’d be so kind,’ interrupted the Major, taking a hefty swig from his glass and then holding it up.
As Mr Carstairs poured the Major another drink, the old man turned to the Doctor and held out his hand.
‘I’m frightfully sorry, old chap,’ he said, his moustache twitching from side to side as he spoke, ‘but I didn’t quite catch your name.’
‘I’m the Doctor,’ said the Doctor, shaking his hand. ‘And you’re the Major?’
The Major nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. Then he leaned in close and spoke in hushed tones. ‘Though I’m not actually a major, you know.’
‘Really?’ said the Doctor, smiling. ‘Well there’s a coincidence.’
Mr Carstairs gave the Major his brandy and then cast his gaze on the Doctor. The Doctor could still sense the hotel owner’s evident distrust.
‘So, Doctor,’ said Mr Carstairs, eventually. ‘Will you be visiting the Flower Show tomorrow?’
The Doctor tilted his head from side to side, as if mulling it over.
‘Possibly,’ he said, and then, ‘Depends if I can get a ticket. Yourself?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Carstairs. ‘We’re much too busy for that.’
The Doctor looked around the bar, which was empty but for himself, the Major and Mr Carstairs.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Really? Seems awfully quiet. Considering the Flower Show starts tomorrow, I mean.’
Mr Carstairs’ eyes met the Doctor’s and he offered a curt nod.
‘Yes, well,’ he said. ‘Business has been a little slower than anticipated, but I’m sure all that will change.’
The Doctor nodded, taking a sip of his drink.
‘I must say, though,’ he said, ‘I’m a little bit curious about what brought you and Mrs Carstairs here in the first place.’
Mr Carstairs shook his head as if the question were an affront, laughing nervously.
‘You’re very forward with your questions, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Sorry if I’m being nosey,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s just Earth, right now. . . The beginning of the twenty-sixth century. . . They’d be about due for the Third Renaissance, if I’m not mistaken. The Theatre of Nomogan? The ceilings of the Chamber of Ra? The Simarine Orchestra? I mean. . . Everyone’s talking about those things, and they’ll be talking about them for centuries, and yet here you are. . . Out here. . . On Chelsea 426.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Carstairs. ‘Earth is certainly very cosmopolitan. A little too cosmopolitan, if you know what I mean.’
The Doctor’s smile faded. He understood all too well what that meant.
‘Right,’ he said, getting up off his stool. ‘Well. . . I really should be hitting the old dusty trail. There’s all the excitement of the Flower Show to look forward to tomorrow.’
‘Quite,’ said Mr Carstairs, forcing a curt smile. ‘Goodnight, Doctor.’
‘Goodnight.’
‘Yes. . . G’night!’ slurred the Major. ‘Always sleep with a pistol under me pillow, you know. Never know when the swine are gonna cut your throat in the night, what!’
‘Goodnight, Major,’ said the Doctor, smiling once more.
As the Doctor left the bar the Major lifted his glass to his lips and took another swig.
‘Same old Grand Hotel,’ he said. ‘People come, people go. Nothing ever happens.’
‘Mr Pemberton,’ said Wallace, as he and Mr Pemberton approached the entrance of the Oxygen Gardens, ‘are you sure this is all right? With Professor Wilberforce, I mean? There’s people paying good money for tickets to see the Flower Show.’
‘Of course it is, lad, of course it is,’ said Mr Pemberton. ‘I managed to get my hands on a dozen new thermometers for him only last month. He asked if there was any way he could repay the favour, after paying us good money, of course, and I said I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the show when there’s not Newcomers cluttering up the place and making it look untidy.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘And I said, “Mind if I bring the lad along?” and he said, “Not at all.” So here we are.’
When they reached the entrance, the guard there nodded to Mr Pemberton and spoke into his walkie-talkie. Moments later Professor Wilberforce was there to greet them.
‘Ah, Mr Pemberton!’ said Wilberforce. ‘And this must be Wallace. Come on in. Everything’s ready for tomorrow morning. The Caeruliflora Saturnalis is looking particularly resplendent this evening, I must say.’
Wallace and Mr Pemberton followed the Professor into the Oxygen Gardens, down a dark and narrow metal corridor and out into the main chamber itself.
Wallace failed to suppress a gasp upon seeing the scale of the plants there. When he’d heard all the talk of the Flower Show, he had imagined pretty little things like his mother grew in pots around the house, not the gigantic creation that towered over them now.
‘Well,’ said Professor Wilberforce, beaming down at Wallace, ‘what do you think?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Wallace, nodding enthusiastically. ‘Very impressive, sir.’
‘As you can see,’ Wilberforce continued, ‘they come in all shapes and sizes, from our biggest specimen all the way down to the smaller shrubs here.’
He gestured towards a flowerbed lined from front to back with rows of similarly exotic blue flowers.
‘They have an exquisite perfume,’ said Professor Wilberforce. ‘Perhaps you would care to sample it?’
Wallace looked from the Professor to Mr Pemberton and frowned.
‘Go and smell it, boy,’ said Mr Pemberton.
Wallace nodded nervously, and stepped a little closer to the flowerbed. He leaned over its outer edge towards one of the flowers, and breathed in. He wasn’t really sure what the Professor was talking about; he couldn’t smell a thing.
‘Lean a little closer, Wallace,’ said Professor Wilberforce, ‘and breathe in slowly. Take the perfume in and savour it, my boy.’
Wallace did as the Professor said, but this time, as he breathed in, the flower shook violently and emitted a fine green cloud of dust. Wallace coughed and gagged, and stumbled back, away from the flowerbed, before falling to the ground with a thud.
As he writhed in agony at their feet, Professor Wilberforce and Mr Pemberton smiled down at him.
‘There there,’ said Mr Pemberton. ‘It’ll all be over in a moment.’
Back in his room at the Grand Hotel, the Doctor paced back and forth, occasionally standing at the window to look down at the western edges of the colony. He’d only ever visited Saturn on a handful of occasions, primarily because there wasn’t a great deal to visit in the first place, but the one thing that never failed to impress was the horizon. On most worlds, there is a slight and almost imperceptible curve to the horizon. It’s so slight most creatures don’t even notice it, but it’s there. Saturn was so vast a planet that no such curvature was noticeable, not even to a Time Lord. It genuinely seemed as if the world were flat.
The only feature out there on the blank and boundless canvas of Saturn’s surface was the storm they called the Great White Spot. From this
height it was almost flat, an enormous grey disc sweeping inwards with monstrous grace towards a dark vortex. More dramatic than the unending flatness of the horizon or even the Great White Spot was the appearance, to the south, of Saturn’s rings. They arced up from where the planet’s flesh-coloured clouds met the black infinity of space, like the blade of an impossibly large scimitar, before tapering away into the darkness.
The Doctor would have found it all indescribably beautiful if he hadn’t been quite so concerned.
Something wasn’t right on Chelsea 426, though he couldn’t say for certain what it was. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was going to find out.
WHERE’S JAKE? THOUGHT Vienna, as she polished the last of the dining room tables. They had agreed to meet in the dining room to finish their chores before breakfast, but he still wasn’t there.
Vienna could only imagine that he was still snoring under his duvet, while she was here, scrubbing and polishing. When the doors at the far end of the dining room opened, she hoped it might be her brother, still a little bit sleepy but ready to help finish the task. To her disappointment, it was their mother.
‘There’s somebody here to see you,’ said Mrs Carstairs, icily. ‘That boy from the hardware shop.’
‘Wallace?’ asked Vienna, smiling and then composing herself, not wanting her mother to sense enthusiasm.
‘Yes, I think that’s his name,’ said Mrs Carstairs, holding the door open as Vienna ran through.
Her pace slowed to a walk as she neared the lobby. Wallace was waiting for her at the reception desk, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, his shoulders slumped, holding an envelope in both hands.
‘Morning, Vienna,’ he said, looking up at her bashfully.
‘Morning, Wallace,’ said Vienna. ‘You wanted to see me?’
Wallace nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, holding out the envelope. ‘I just wanted to give you these.’
Vienna took the envelope from him and tore it open in an instant. She reached inside with her forefinger and thumb and pulled out four shiny tickets.
‘The Flower Show?’ she asked, her face lighting up with glee. ‘Four tickets to the Flower Show?’
Wallace nodded before averting his gaze once more to the tiled floor.
‘Oh, wow!’ said Vienna. ‘But how did you. . . I mean, these must have cost a fortune!’
‘Mr Pemberton won them,’ said Wallace. ‘In a raffle.’
‘A raffle? But I didn’t hear about any raffle.’
‘Yeah. . . It was the shopkeepers. They. . . they had a raffle.’
Mrs Carstairs appeared at Vienna’s side and looked down at the tickets in her daughter’s hand.
‘What are those?’ she asked.
‘Tickets to the Flower Show!’ said Vienna. ‘Mr Pemberton won them in a raffle. He gave them to Wallace, and Wallace has given them to me!’
‘Really?’ said Mrs Carstairs, unimpressed. ‘And why doesn’t Mr Pemberton want them?’
Wallace looked up at Mrs Carstairs very suddenly, with a mean look in his eyes that took the woman by surprise. He’d always seemed like such a shy and nervous boy, but that look, that penetrating gaze, chilled her blood.
Wallace’s expression softened, and was replaced with a crooked smile.
‘He’s already got some. And I’m going with my mum next week, so I thought you might want them.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Carstairs, still a little shaken, ‘that’s. . . that’s very kind of you, Wallace. Thank the boy, Vienna.’
‘Thank you!’ said Vienna, beaming,
‘Anyways,’ said Wallace, biting his lower lip, ‘I’d best be going. Lots to do at the shop.’
He looked at Mrs Carstairs once more and flashed a smile that she still found strangely hard and menacing.
‘Thank you, Wallace,’ she said uneasily. ‘This is very generous of you.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘And thank Mr Pemberton for us,’ added Mrs Carstairs.
‘Oh, I will,’ said Wallace, still smiling as he made his way towards the hotel’s exit.
‘Wallace!’ called Vienna.
He turned to face her.
‘Maybe I’ll see you later?’
‘Yes,’ said Wallace. ‘That would be agreeable.’
And with that he left the hotel, turning back to look at her just once as he made his way down Tunbridge Street.
‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Carstairs, disapprovingly. ‘Tickets to the Flower Show, indeed. Probably stole them.’
Vienna looked at her mother with an angry frown.
‘When was the last time anyone stole anything here?’ she snapped.
‘Vienna Carstairs, I will thank you kindly not to use that tone of voice with me, young girl. It’s the Newcomers. They come here and they bring their Earth ways with them. Just you mark my words.’
Vienna sulked and looked back down at the tickets.
‘So when are we going to the Flower Show?’ she asked.
‘Well, your father and I can’t go,’ said Mrs Carstairs. ‘We’re far too busy with things here.’
From behind the reception desk, Mr Carstairs emerged from his office.
‘Finished polishing those tables, have we?’ he asked, somewhat sarcastically.
‘Almost,’ replied Vienna.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Mr Carstairs. ‘So that would explain all this standing around in the lobby partaking in idle chit-chat. What have you got there, anyway?’
Vienna held up the tickets for him to see and smiled again.
‘Tickets to the Flower Show! Four of them!’ she said. ‘Wallace, Mr Pemberton’s assistant, he brought them round.’
Mrs Carstairs turned to her husband.
‘Won them in a raffle, apparently,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘I’ve told Vienna there’s no question of us going. We’re far too busy.’
Mr Carstairs looked at the tickets, at his daughter’s smile, and then at his wife.
‘Nonsense,’ he said, allowing a faint smile of his own to lift the corners of his mouth. ‘We only need one of us to stay here. It’s not that busy. How about you and the twins go down there and take a look at it. Won’t do any harm you leaving the hotel for an hour or two. I hardly think we’re going to be inundated with guests in your absence, dear.’
Mrs Carstairs shook her head impatiently and looked at the tickets. She rolled her eyes and shook her head again.
‘Oh, all right then,’ she said, finally giving in. ‘But only for an hour. I’m not wasting my time looking at a lot of silly old flowers while there’s work to be done.’
Mr Carstairs turned to Vienna and winked, and Vienna let out a little squeal of excitement which she muted very quickly.
‘Talking of work,’ said Mrs Carstairs, ‘where’s that brother of yours?’
The Pride of Deimos was, quite possibly, the most famous leisure ship in the galaxy.
A mile long, its hull as reflective as polished chrome, its solar sails like the wings of a colossal butterfly, there was hardly a person alive who hadn’t heard its name, which was synonymous with wealth and luxury. The Pride of Deimos. And there it was, gliding in towards Chelsea 426.
Jake watched as it passed by the viewing windows of room 237, hardly daring to breathe. On its deck he saw dozens, perhaps hundreds of guests, standing under the shimmering blue haze of the force fields. The men were dressed in dinner jackets and bow ties, the women in ball gowns; the kind of people Jake had only ever seen in photographs and films. The Pride of Deimos was a very different place to the colony he thought of as home.
When the ship had finally passed, banking sharply at the south west corner of the colony, Jake sighed and stepped down from the window, making sure to wipe away his fingerprints from the glass. He picked up his dog-eared copy of Cowley’s Almanac of Spacecraft and gazed down at the picture that filled almost two whole pages: a panoramic photograph of the Pride of Deimos. He’d seen that picture countless times, and read every single bit of information about
the ship. He knew its length and breadth, the size of its engines and the maximum number of crew and passengers it could hold. Cowley’s Almanac was the most cherished book in his small collection, hence its curled corners and its creased spine, and he had read every entry, time and time again. Closing the book and tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans he tiptoed out of Room 237, checking that the coast was clear before stepping into the corridor.
He closed the door as quietly as he could, but was no more than five steps away from it when a voice behind him said, ‘She really is quite a beauty, isn’t she?’
He turned to see the Doctor.
‘I’m sorry. . .?’ he asked.
‘The Pride of Deimos,’ said the Doctor. ‘Quite impressive. If you like that sort of thing. Me. . . I’ve always preferred a bit of mess. Never could get used to the whole five-star thing. Far too posh for me.’
‘Oh, yeah, right,’ said Jake.
Together, Jake and the Doctor took the elevator down to the lobby. As they stepped out through the doors they were greeted by an angry-looking Mr and Mrs Carstairs.
‘And what time do you call this?’ asked Jake’s father. ‘Your sister’s just about finished polishing those tables. By herself, might I add.’
‘Sorry, Dad,’ said Jake. ‘Slept late.’
Before Mr Carstairs could scold his son any further, Vienna walked out into the lobby.
‘All done!’ she said, and then, turning to her brother, ‘No thanks to you!’
‘I said I’m sorry. . .’ said Jake sulkily.
‘Anyway,’ said Vienna, ‘can we go now? Can we? Can we?’
‘Well I suppose so,’ said Mrs Carstairs.
‘Going anywhere nice?’ asked the Doctor.
‘We’re going to the Flower Show!’ said Vienna. ‘Wallace gave us tickets! You too, Jake!’
‘Oh, whoop-di-doo,’ said Jake.
‘So you don’t want to go, then?’
‘I didn’t say that, did I?’
‘Anyway,’ said Vienna, now turning to the Doctor, ‘we’ve got a spare ticket because Dad can’t come. Did you want it?’
Mrs Carstairs pursed her lips and snapped her head in Vienna’s direction, but her daughter paid her no attention.
The Taking of Chelsea 426 Page 4
