Doctor Who: In the Blood

by Jenny T. Colgan

  Donna hadn’t yet decided which was best, top or bottom bunk, and was feeling rather nervous about it. The Doctor had been delighted, which meant she should probably let him have the top. Where they were headed was deep into the jungle, and this was the best way through.

  They were sitting in the grand dining car, with its regency striped wallpaper and hardwood tables, and a waiter in tails had taken their cocktail orders. Donna had glanced around, hoping vaguely that perhaps James Bond would be sitting at a table in the corner, possibly thinking how he hadn’t met a red-headed Bond girl for absolutely ages, and he would be drinking his cocktail, feeling lonely and wishing someone would actually walk into the dangerously swaying carriage, and then she’d walk down the aisle, and possibly be pushed up against him with one sudden motion of the carriage as it turned a corner, and he’d throw out his arm to steady her and . . .

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Um . . . I’m thinking about how to solve this. Obviously.’ said Donna, quickly. She took a sip of her martini. It was perfect. ‘I mean, why can’t they just shut down the internet? Just stop it happening?’

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘If it’s civil disorder and violence you’re trying to avoid, shutting down the internet is absolutely the last thing you should do. They’d be fighting in the streets in ten seconds flat.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Absolutely. I think repressed violence is probably better than actual violence for now.’

  ‘Really? But if we know it’s going to kill people . . .’

  ‘Why do you think they still let people eat sugar? We know it kills them.’

  ‘Yes, but this is killing people right now.’

  ‘Donna, there’s a smoking carriage on this train.’

  Donna fell silent and took another sip of her martini. ‘Well, there you go. You asked what I was thinking and there it is. I told Gramps about it. I hope he listens.’

  The Doctor smiled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Donna, if anyone’s immune, it’s Wilf.’

  Donna blinked. ‘Do you think?’

  ‘There isn’t an ounce of aggression in him, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘But people can be immune?’ said Donna, interested now, sitting up.

  ‘Oh well, maybe not immune exactly, but not everyone will get it, yeah. Just by dialling with your anger online, working on your better self, trying to eliminate your faults and listening to your conscience . . . You know, good manners?’

  Donna blinked. ‘Wow, you sound like an old book.’

  ‘I know,’ said the Doctor, pushing up his glasses and staring out of the window. ‘I’m wildly out of fashion. They renamed basic species empathy as “political correctness gone mad”, and the world’s never been the same since. Dunno why.’

  Donna nodded. ‘Yeah, everyone’s got to “say things straight” to you these days.’ She thought about it. ‘I dunno why either.’ She looked over at him. His head was leaning on the window, still gazing out at the extraordinary passing scenery. ‘Are you immune?’

  The Doctor took a sip of his Old Fashioned. He didn’t say anything for a while.

  ‘Why do you think I need the two hearts?’ he said finally.

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  The train thundered on into the night, through the dark valleys of Southern Brazil, the mountain peaks great points in the night, blocking out triangles of stars. There were blackout blinds on the cabin window, but by unspoken agreement they’d left them open to look out on the night as the great engine rattled along, the carriage gently swaying.

  It was still very dark in the small panelled room. Donna realised she didn’t think she had the faintest possibility of managing to get to sleep in this. It felt suddenly very peculiar trying to sleep with someone else – a lanky big alien, no less – in the same room. She turned over in the dark, pondering.

  ‘Do you sleep?’ she shouted up eventually.

  ‘Through all this shouting? Wouldn’t have thought so,’ returned the voice. ‘Want some Toblerone?’

  ‘I’ve brushed my teeth already! Haven’t you?’

  There was no answer. But there was a quiet tinny rustle of Toblerone being unwrapped.

  Donna sighed. ‘Chuck us a bit, then.’

  ‘I thought you’d brushed your teeth.’

  ‘Teeth can be rebrushed.’

  ‘Not those teeth. Don’t you dare.’

  Donna thought she could feel him smile in the darkness, and smiled quietly to herself in response. If she could heal after Lee . . .

  Well. At least the Doctor would never meet that troublesome woman again. She couldn’t bear him sad. They would both recover from The Library, she knew, in time. There was a whole universe out there, of fun, of excitement. All they had to do first was fix the entire world’s internet, and then they’d be off again and fine, and everything would be fun and normal again, i.e. terrifying and completely abnormal.

  She lay back and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again.

  ‘What is it now?’ said the Doctor, as if he’d heard her eyelids open. Which he probably had.

  ‘It’s no use,’ said Donna. ‘My teeth are all sticky. I’m not going to be able to fall asleep. I remember at school, right, they dropped a tooth into a cup of fizzy drink, and Mrs Higgins said, now children this is what will happen to you if you don’t . . ..’

  She paused. Slow steady breathing came from the top bunk.

  ‘Are you pretending to be asleep?’ she said crossly.

  There was the very mildest of tiny snores.

  When the banging came, Donna shot up in bed, completely disorientated, adrenalin pulsing through her veins. She was in her pyjamas not knowing what bed, what country, what planet she was on. All she knew was that the room was shaking, and that she thought she’d heard a great noise – or had it been a dream?

  Lightly, the figure of the Doctor landed next to her.

  The banging was at the door. It did not sound friendly.

  ‘I’ll press for the attendant,’ she said, stupidly, her voice sounding heavy as she attempted to shake herself awake.

  ‘Come in?’ the Doctor was saying. ‘Although I don’t recall ordering room service . . . You, Donna?’

  ‘No,’ said Donna, awake finally. ‘Although I wish I had . . . Do you think they’ll make us a coffee?’

  The door banged open. Standing there was the huge man they’d last seen in a tiny smelly room in West London, picking up computers as if they were feathers. He blocked the light from the corridor. Donna quickly glanced in case there was anything in the tiny cabin she could use as a weapon. There was some leftover tin foil, but that was about it.

  He was still wearing dark glasses, even though it was the dead of night as far as Donna could tell.

  ‘Someone’s going to hear you,’ blurted out Donna. As she spoke the train gave a huge hoot as it went into a long tunnel. The window became completely black and the noise levels extraordinary. Nobody could hear anything.

  ‘I thought you said you were the police,’ said the Doctor. ‘What is this, Interpol?’

  The man stared at them for a moment. ‘Yeah, that’s right, I’m the police.’

  ‘You’re not the police!’ said Donna.

  ‘Oh yeah, because you are?’ the man grunted. He came in and sat down on the lower bunk.

  ‘Get out of my bed!’ shouted Donna.

  The man shot her a glance. ‘Or what? You’re going to report me to Internal Affairs?’ The direction of his gaze changed, as if he were no longer interested in her. ‘So,’ he said. ‘This is all very helpful, well done, etcetera.’

  He was addressing the Doctor, who had folded his arms impatiently.

  ‘And far enough now, don’t you think?’

  The Doctor blinked.

  ‘I appreciate an enthusiastic amateur as much as anyone, but I think it’s time you let the professionals take over . . . and tell me why you’re on the tr
ail.’

  ‘Amateurs?’ said the Doctor.

  ‘It’s true, we don’t take cash,’ said Donna.

  ‘You’re appalling at going undercover,’ said the man.

  ‘Actually, normally I’m brilliant at it,’ said the Doctor. ‘I’m quite the master of facial disguise. And my ship is pretty impenetrable too. But somebody gave my ship away to some baristas—’

  ‘It was very good coffee,’ said Donna.

  ‘—So now I’m . . . yes. Not exactly travelling incognito.’

  The train was still rocketing through the tunnel, the wind shrieking past the window at a tremendous pace.

  ‘But I think you’re getting close, don’t you?’

  The Doctor stared straight ahead.

  ‘She told you, didn’t she?’ said the man.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘She told you. Where to find whoever’s behind this. Because there’s something very badly up with the computers. And the people who spend a lot of time on them. But it’s not some spotty hacker in a back room in Seoul or Dakar or Palo Alto, is it?’

  The Doctor shook his head. ‘No.’

  The man nodded. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Oh please, let’s just get on. I’ve wasted enough time. A lot of time. Do you know how many of my people are dead?’

  ‘Your people?’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Other policemen?’ said Donna.

  ‘Donna, he’s not a policeman!’ said the Doctor.

  The man ignored her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Our people. Our customers. There are . . . many vested interests at work here. All that repressed anger . . . that rage; that fury at modern society . . .’ He paused, breathing slowly and steadily, the same relaxed set to his features. ‘It belongs to us. And we want it back.’

  And he did a very surprising thing. He handed over his business card.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  The Doctor looked at the man’s card, astounded.

  ‘You’re in the media business?’

  ‘It’s quite cutthroat.’

  ‘And what are you doing?’

  ‘The media is dying, Doctor. Dying all around us. The traditional ways of getting the news – they’re gone. The internet is eating all of it. And regurgitating it up in little bullet points and fake memes and fake news reports and conspiracy theories and a constant swirling mass of rumour and fuss and fear. So our job now – those left with jobs – is to provide consumers with everything they need to get upset about.’

  The Doctor blinked and held up his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘What? Who cares! People are getting killed!’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Our readers.’ He leaned forward. ‘And it’s multibillion-dollar business. You know what happens to us if people stop getting angry and upset at the things on the internet? If they stop commenting on newspaper articles in case they die? We die. My media outlet dies.’

  ‘This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Donna.

  ‘Have you never clicked on a link that suggests your country machine-guns migrants? Or takes children away from fat parents? Or that women should stay at home and look after their children?’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  ‘Have you ever got upset about them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you ever commented on them?’

  Donna shrugged. ‘Isn’t it . . . isn’t it kind of for losers?’

  ‘Losers give us clicks, which gives us money . . . They comment and click all the time, and build views up and advertising rates up, and that’s how it all works.’

  ‘So your business plan is based on upsetting already unhappy people?’ said Donna, aghast.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Like, you know, Zumba.’

  ‘And you’re telling me your employer would actually hurt people to stop this?’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Have you met many media barons?’ said the man.

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘So,’ said the man. ‘We want the same thing. To stop this. It seems to make more sense now if we join up? Before I thought you were just useless. But now I figure you’re getting somewhere.’

  ‘Where’s Ji Woo?’

  ‘Who?’

  The Doctor and Donna exchanged glances.

  ‘She didn’t even tell you her name?’ said Donna.

  ‘That woman in Korea?’ said the man, his face twisting. ‘She was the real criminal. Ji Woo sanctioned things you wouldn’t believe.’

  The Doctor blinked. ‘Where is she?’

  The man looked at him and shrugged. ‘I have my orders.’

  The Doctor stood up. ‘Then you have your answer as to whether we can work together. Get out. Get out now!’

  He approached the man, who stood up. He was huge.

  ‘I wonder if you’ll talk easier than Ji Woo would,’ he mused. He looked at Donna. ‘I bet she would.’

  ‘I wouldn’t!’ said Donna, her chin jutting out. ‘I would,’ she hissed sotto voce to the Doctor. ‘You have to know that I would absolutely tell anyone anything under torture. Like, anything.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘So if you were thinking, maybe she can have a little bit of torture whilst I think of a clever thing to get us out of this, I absolutely need to tell you that no, even a little bit of torture will not be all right.’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah I get it, Donna.’ He straightened up to the man. ‘I really suggest you leave now.’

  ‘I’m just here,’ said the man. ‘On public property. It’s my perfect right to be here.’

  ‘Journalists!’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s our cabin. You don’t have any right to be in here at all!’

  The man tapped underneath his shirt. There was the outline of a gun holster. ‘Oh, I have “rights”.’

  They stood there, glaring at each other. The neighbouring cabins had finally realised something was happening, and had come out, yawning and in nightshirts, to see what was going on.

  ‘Go back to bed, it’s nothing,’ the Doctor told them.

  ‘He’s got a gun!’ screamed one woman in Portuguese, staring at the huge man.

  ‘Why’s he wearing those sunglasses?’ said another. ‘And the earpiece!’

  The huge man slowly turned his head to face the person who had spoken. Someone else made a noise.

  The steward from the end of the carriage emerged, looking anxious. ‘Sir? Sir, I must ask everyone to return to—’

  ‘But he’s got a gun!’

  Everyone started clamouring and shouting and trying to push their way past in the narrow corridor, except they were going both ways and there wasn’t enough room. People started to panic. The man thrust his way through the now very crowded, very narrow corridor, the Doctor pursuing him.

  When he got to the end, the man simply shoved the short steward, who had bravely stood in front of him, out of the way. Immediately the smaller man fell heavily against the side door, banging his head on the glass with a sickening sound, and sliding gracelessly down to the ground.

  His colleague, a young girl in a white shirt and black skirt, saw this happen and began to scream and run towards the front of the train, jumping at the man’s arm to try and grab his gun. The man shook her off with horrible force, and ran through the adjoining carriage towards the front of the train, with the Doctor in hot pursuit.

  Between the carriages, the wind blew fiercely and the noise was incredible as the train shot on, into a dawn they could now see rising over the dramatically beautiful mountains. The carriages bounced over the track.

  The Doctor looked at the man. He wasn’t remotely concerned, simply picking his way over the coupling as if walking through a field. He touched his earpiece again.

  ‘Aha,’ said the Doctor. ‘Ah! Why didn’t I realise? I am so thick! Of course I know who you are . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Who else would you send? Oi!’ he shouted. ‘I know you!’

&n
bsp; The man didn’t even turn round. They were in the very front carriage of the train, which meant the only place to go was the main steam engine at the front, that gave the train its special status as one of the great rail journeys of the world. He pulled the handle and fell into the engine room, the Doctor grabbing it behind him and tumbling back in.

  ‘How are the sound fields of Cadmia this time of year . . .?’ the Doctor was yelling.

  The engine room was open to the elements. A large man, covered in soot, stood looking at them. Beyond him was the driver’s panel itself. The driver turned round, anxiously. The Doctor was conscious that he looked out of breath and dishevelled, whereas the other man looked exactly as he had before.

  ‘I’m security,’ said the man, with his usual calm, touching his earpiece. ‘This person here is an escaped fugitive. Help me seize him!’

  ‘Yes, and like all escaped fugitives I take a lot of long luxurious steam train excursions,’ said the Doctor, aware he sounded frenzied and overexcited. ‘Quick, please, help me disarm this man. He’s incredibly dangerous.’

  The engineer and the driver looked at one another anxiously, clearly doubting who to trust.

  They hesitated only for a split second, but it was all the Doctor needed. He raised his elbow, and with one swift movement knocked off the other man’s dark wraparound sunglasses.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  This was, in retrospect, a terrible mistake.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Four

  The man’s strange, owl-like yellow eyes took in the carriage, blinking. The engineer picked up his spade and went for him, as if a spider had just crawled in. But the train driver’s reaction was worse: his head twisted right round, he inadvertently took his hand off the dead man’s handle, just as his foot instinctively pressed harder on the accelerator in fright.

  The ancient engines made the most appalling noise as they tried to do two things at once. The driver, with a look of utter horror on his face and still unable to tear his eyes away from the yellow-eyed man, tried to push the handle back, but it swung uselessly, completely unable to connect with a train that was now bucking forwards like a runaway horse.