Part Two

But at Least You Can Run

Chapter Seven.

'I want something removed from me'

Beatrix was the eighth planet of the Minerva System, and, you could say, its heart but not a heart full of goodness and love. More like a satanic, mechanical heart, churning its way around the sun, its blasted surface masking what went on beneath. Beatrix boasted no equivalent to the Palace of Yquatine, the sticky jungles of Zolion, the crystal caverns of Ixtrice, the labyrinthine stone cities of the Anthaurk, or the endless ice plains of Oomingmak There was not a single remarkable feature on its airless, barren surface. But without Beatrix the Minerva System might well have fallen to the Anthaurk in the war. Beatrix was the industrial centre of the System, home of the best-equipped s.p.a.ceyards, the largest industrial concerns, the most intensive mining facilities, and innumerable factories churning out everything from weapons of ma.s.s destruction to radiation shielding. The economic argument was sound enough: if you were going to have one you were going to need the other.

Beatrix also boasted the harshest penal inst.i.tutions. a thriving black economy and a booming trade in prost.i.tution all species and tastes catered for, however depraved or bizarre. An ugly brutal world, its population almost entirely made up of factory workers, prisoners, prost.i.tutes, addicts. the lost, the desperate. the abusers and the abused. It was almost as if Yquatine. with its serenity, beauty, tolerance, learning. culture and breathtaking sea views, had somehow sp.a.w.ned a twisted, black-hearted twin.

Beatrix City was sunk into a crater left by some aeons-old meteor strike on the western hemisphere. Here lived the majority of the population, the families of the workers, and the lowlifes previously mentioned. The most expensive apartments were those that protruded above ground, around the rim of the crater. Sick, grubby daylight could be glimpsed through the windows of these dwellings. Below them, the levels descended for two thousand metres, becoming more seedy and dangerous the deeper you went.

Compa.s.sion had picked up all this from the Beatrix medianet. She knew it was a dangerous place. She also knew that there was someone here who could help her. She hoped.

She slunk along the subterranean streets of level D39, footsteps echoing on the dirty concrete, wondering if there was some way of making herself invisible. That would save her a lot of trouble. She came to what must once have been a retail area, but all the outlets were boarded up with sheets of metal, mad and threatening graffiti scrawled all over their surfaces in luminous green paint. In the centre a dented metal cowling ran down from the cobwebbed ceiling and below it was some sort of pit. Compa.s.sion walked over and leaned on the railing surrounding the pit, taking care not to put too much weight upon it, looking down into a deep, seemingly endless shaft. Water fell from some cracked pipe or other, a baleful, metronomic drip-dripdrip. Compa.s.sion smiled. The place reminded her of herself, of her insides.

She had a quick look inside her console chamber. All seemed well, apart from that cursed Randomiser.

Returning her gaze to outside, she stepped back from the railing, considering. The trouble was, she'd gone down ten levels too many. Petersen was on Level D29. But the lift had dropped past D29 and stopped at D39, from where it had refused to budge. She toyed with the idea of using the vortex to get back to D29, but she had no experience of short hops and she wasn't sure what the Randomiser would do. It had allowed her to get to Beatrix, but would it allow her to go anywhere else? It wouldn't matter, anyway, once she'd found Petersen.

She looked up the shaft. Sick, weak light some distance up, at the next level. More life signs. A foul-smelling breeze caressed her face. There was a ladder, rusty and grimy, but it looked st.u.r.dy enough. She leaned out and up, grabbed hold of lowest rung, and began to climb.

Ralf Petersen had been looking forward to this all day. Ever since he'd taken the message in his luxury Level A2 apartment that morning, he'd been suffused in a delicious glow of pleasurable antic.i.p.ation. That was how he'd put it to Lashana, his latest mistress, anyhow. Suffused. Rarely did a client offer such a large amount for what appeared to be a very simple piece of surgery.

He'd dressed, looking out of the picture window at the lights of the apartments on the other side of the crater wondering as always if anyone was looking back at him eaten a light breakfast prepared by the tall, blonde and smooth-skinned Lashana. and then repaired a faulty servo-unit in her ankle, which he'd damaged during the previous night's activities. Ralf Petersen preferred to take artificial lovers. He knew far too much about the human body to be able to like it or trust it, let alone love it. Knew far too well how biological processes determined temperament. He'd never been able to handle women, except in the crudest manner, and so Lashana and her kind had been his bedmates since his teens.

One day, he often promised himself, he'd get himself an artificial body. Not while he was still fit and fully functional, but when his body became old and ruled by a deteriorating mind and distressing bowel movements. Maybe he would start with a cybernetic arm or leg. or something to increase his stamina. Not that Lashana ever complained. She was programmed not to.

Anyhow, he checked his face in the mirror neat, short grey hair, trimmed moustache, a face of dignity and authority programmed Lashana with her daily duties, checked that his blaster and other weapons were fully charged and set off for his office down on level D29.

He'd set up on D29, dangerously close to the line separating what pa.s.sed for civilisation on Beatrix from anarchy, mainly because the rent was cheap, but also because no one ever came around asking awkward questions. His offices were s.p.a.cious, airy and always clean and tidy. He made sure of that. He enjoyed watching the surprise on his clients' faces as they came from the vandalism and oppression of the corridors of D29 into a fragrant, pastel-hued room with attendant pot plants and gentle music tinkling away in the background. It served a practical purpose, as well as amusing him. It helped his clients relax.

The first couple of appointments that day had been particularly uninspiring. A mineworker who'd wanted improvements to his respiratory tract a common one that, as Petersen ruthlessly undercut the official Beatrix Health Service fees. Then a professional brawler who'd wanted bionic implants and a holographic tattoo removed. Then an exotic dancer who wanted her middle breast enlarged. All mundane, the usual traffic of Petersen's trade. He'd booked them all in for surgery and downloaded their deposits briskly, almost impatiently. He'd had a quick lunch and now he sat awaiting his mystery client. The woman who'd given only her first name, Laura. The woman who'd offered him ten thousand credits for his services.

As the minutes ticked away he wondered if it was a trick.

He had enemies and maybe one of them had come for revenge. He wasn't particularly worried there was enough concealed weaponry in his office to instantly vaporise any would-be a.s.sa.s.sin. You had to be careful in Petersen's line of work.

At the appointed time, the intercom bleeped. Petersen kept no secretary, relying instead on automated systems. True, they broke down sometimes. but they'd never deliberately betray you or try to filch credits from your account.

Petersen leaned forward over his patinated softwood desk and pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton. He spoke. his voice a deep, rea.s.suring baritone. 'Ralf Petersen.'

The intercom crackled. 'Laura. I have an appointment.'

Petersen raised his eyebrows. Something about her voice. Not fear or trepidation, no it sounded as if she had something to hide. Petersen was used to this. 'Good afternoon, Laura. The door is open. You may enter.'

He imagined her pushing open the heavy security door, walking along the narrow corridor to the door of his office. He switched on the monitor. It showed the image of a red-haired woman in a black cloak. A leap of excitement. Something about this woman seemed special, out of the ordinary, quite apart from the enormous sum she was offering.

Scans revealed no concealed weapons, so Petersen pressed the b.u.t.ton that unlocked the door to his office. As it opened Petersen rose from his chair, as he always did. He extended his hand towards the pale-skinned woman who entered his office. 'Please, sit down.'

She sat. Petersen began the usual spiel, watching her. He couldn't help but be intrigued. Her eyes were dark. but he couldn't tell what colour they were. Were they brown? Dark green? Even purple? Interesting.

She held up a slender hand, interrupting his spiel. The nails were short, the fingers long. 'I know what you do.'

Her voice didn't sound Yquatine, it almost sounded Old Earth. An Empire agent? Petersen's pulse quickened.

'You perform surgery on those who pay you enough. Biomechanical enhancements. Cybernetic replacements. You have wide experience with many species. That is why I am here. I believe you can help me.'

Petersen steepled his hands under his chin. 'That depends on what you require of me.'

Laura's lips tensed, and her eyes flickered downwards, as if she was trying to make up her mind. Then she turned her dark gaze on him, and whispered. 'I want something removed from me.'

She was obviously trying to unsettle him. Petersen wasn't having any of it. 'What sort of something?'

'A growth.' She p.r.o.nounced the word as if it was the filthiest thing she could imagine. The word hung in the air between them. He could almost see it, shining, swelling, wrong wrong, ringed with scarlet, complaining flesh.

Petersen felt a twinge of pity for the woman. She must be ill, or crazy, or for some reason unable to go through the usual medical channels. He'd seen it all before, and never usually let it bother him. But this time... 'All right, I'll book you in for an examination.'

'There is no need for an examination. You will perform the surgery now.'

Petersen stifled a laugh. She was obviously crazy. 'How can I perform any surgery without examining you first?'

And then she had smiled for the first time a bright, breezy smile that contrasted wildly with her manner since she'd stepped into his office. 'I'll show you!'

So she did.

And Petersen screamed.

Less than half an hour later, Petersen had put together a medikit, donned a sterile cloak and gloves and was prepared to go inside Laura to perform the surgery. His hands where shaking and he badly needed a drink, but underneath his fear there was a sense of excitement. After the initial shock of seeing her head turn into a glowing white doorway, he had bombarded her with questions. Who was she? What was she? She'd refused to answer any of them. All he knew that was that she wanted something removed from inside her. Which meant going going inside her. He'd taken a bit of convincing, but when Laura had downloaded her ten thousand credits into his account he had decided to go along with her. He'd cancelled all his afternoon appointments and switched on the answer machine, and now he stood before her. inside her. He'd taken a bit of convincing, but when Laura had downloaded her ten thousand credits into his account he had decided to go along with her. He'd cancelled all his afternoon appointments and switched on the answer machine, and now he stood before her.

She had a slight frown above her eyes, searching his face. He'd seen the expression before, on countless clients. The fear, the need for rea.s.surance. 'You know what to do?' she said.

Petersen nodded. He hadn't felt this nervous, or this excited, for years. 'Yes, I know what to do.'

She smiled her breezy out-ofplace smile, and then her head opened out into a glowing white doorway.

Taking a deep breath. Petersen stepped forward.

There was a second or so of total disorientation, then a sickening lurch, like being in a plummeting lift. And then he was standing on solid ground. He looked wildly around, clutching his toolkit, fighting down the yell of fear that threatened to burst from him.

He was standing in a gloomy chamber, cool air pressing on his skin. Blue light flickered down from somewhere above, and below, through a metal grille, cloudlike matter broiled and churned. Directly in front of him, in the centre of the chamber. was a tall column of black, spiky machinery, rearing up into the dark, vaulted ceiling.

'Holy Mother of G.o.d,' he whispered. 'What are you, Laura?'

Her voice came from all around him, making him jump. 'Walk towards the console.'

The console. That thing in the middle of the chamber. Petersen's mind was whirling, trying to cope with what he'd stumbled upon. He wasn't shy to admit that this was totally beyond his experience. His mind settled on one thing: she had to be artificial. An artificial woman. But what what an artificial woman! Made Lashana look a shop-window mannequin. And he was right inside her. Whatever happened, he had to hold on to Laura, help her, explore her depths. As he fumbled in his toolkit for his laser scalpel, he realised that this was what he'd been born for, what his whole life had been leading up to. an artificial woman! Made Lashana look a shop-window mannequin. And he was right inside her. Whatever happened, he had to hold on to Laura, help her, explore her depths. As he fumbled in his toolkit for his laser scalpel, he realised that this was what he'd been born for, what his whole life had been leading up to.

'The black rectangular extrusion. Remove it!'

Petersen looked down at the console. There was the black box Laura had spoken of. Lights pulsed dimly under the blackness. Not exactly the glistening cancerous growth he'd imagined. But it had the same aura of incongruity. He could tell it wasn't meant to be part of her.

He activated the laser scalpel. and made the first incision.

A shriek of pain made him stop. He looked up at the vaulted ceiling. 'What is it?'

Her voice was thick, distorted. 'It... hurts.'

He waved a hand. 'Maybe... painkillers?'

There was a distant rumble. 'Painkillers are no good to me! Continue.'

Trying his best to keep a steady hand, Petersen reapplied the scalpel.

This time the scream was deafening, and the floor shook beneath him. He fell, dropping the scalpel. It slid through the grating to be swallowed up by the stuff below.

Suddenly. Petersen was scared. He was out of his depth, out of anyone's depth. An image of Lashana flashed into his mind, her plastic face smiling. 'Let me out. I'm not going on.'

Laura's voice was huge and terrifying. 'You must continue!'

He let out a strangled, terrified cry. 'I can't my scalpel!'

'Get it out of me! Get it out!'

The whole chamber was shaking, and Petersen clung to the grating, screaming. 'Let me go!'

Her voice rose to a crescendo, a wordless tumult of sound which blocked out his own yells. The floor tilted beneath him. Petersen felt himself falling, falling, towards something dark and ma.s.sive and churning, sparks flying and pistons pumping with a deafening screech of tortured metal.

There was a sickening crunch and suddenly Petersen couldn't feel anything below his waist. He spun round, in time to see a black hammerhead thundering towards his head. He let in a breath to scream, and

Compa.s.sion stood in the pastel-tinted office, staring at the mess on the floor that had once been a man.

She hadn't wanted to kill Petersen. She hadn't even known she was doing it. When he'd tried to remove the Randomiser, the pain had consumed her, sent her mad, and she'd taken Petersen deep within herself. Down somewhere beneath her great dark heart there was a gear chamber busy with ma.s.sive cogged wheels and gleaming shafts. She didn't know what it was for, not yet.

She let herself out of the office, and wandered around the filthy streets of Beatrix City, feeling numb. She'd killed a man. She'd almost killed Fitz. She recalled his face, mouth open wide as he fought for air. No, she hadn't meant to do it! The Randomiser hurt her, wasn't part of her, she had to be rid of it.

As she slipped along the slimy walkways of the lower levels of Beatrix City she realised that none of it would have happened if the Doctor hadn't inserted the Randomiser in her. The Doctor had hurt her, perverted her new nature, made her kill.

She pressed herself against a cold concrete wall. water dripping on to her skin her outer plasmic sh.e.l.l.

She couldn't believe he had meant to do that. After all they had been through, it just didn't make sense. She calmed herself, concentrated on the moment. Useless to submit to fear and despair. She was she should he beyond such emotions. Logic should be her guiding principle now. And logic told her that she was stuck with the Randomiser for the time being Any attempt to remove it ended in disaster. Maybe, then, there was a way to work with the Randomiser bond with the circuit. so that it activated only when she wanted it to. Maybe. She needed to test her abilities, grow stronger. She needed some sort of project.

There was one that immediately suggested itself. In some fifty days, Yquatine would be invaded, and totally destroyed. The Doctor and Lou Lombardo had spoken of the reptilian species, the Anthaurk, as the aggressors. Perhaps, then, it would be a good idea to try to prevent the attack. Alter the timelines, save a planet. The Doctor would approve. She could do it, she was sure. She was Compa.s.sion, more than human, more than a TARDIS. She could do anything.

Chapter Eight.

'You said Yquatine is gonna be... destroyed'

Fitz woke with a b.a.s.t.a.r.d behind his eyes. He opened them to see... feet. Everything was too bright and there were feet everywhere, walking up and down a stone wall. Wait must be lying down. Wall must really be ground. Now then, these feet: brown, shapely female feet in strappy sandals. Nice. Hairy male feet in strappy sandals. Not nice. Booted feet, feet in weird things that looked like miniature s.p.a.ceships. Hooves, even. Fitz stared dumbly at this slapping, tip-tapping, trotting procession, waiting for his brain to catch up. The sight of a pair of bare brown female legs brought him nearer to his senses and he raised himself up on one elbow, wincing as a fiery pain sparked down his spine. His mouth was dry and his face felt as if it had been kneaded kneaded. He ran his hands through his hair. It was matted and dusty. He realised gloomily that he was at the start of one mother of a hangover which would only get worse as the day progressed.

He sat up, looked around. He was sitting on a low stone bench. Must have slept there all night. That explained the pains in his hips, back and shoulders. The bench was on a wide walkway at the edge of a large area of open parkland, with the usual fountains and statues and stuff. How he'd got here G.o.d alone knew. The last thing he remembered was joining in a singsong with a group of drunken tourists at Il-Eruk's Tavern. He'd sung the song about the turnip fish. And hadn't he tried to chat up that blue-skinned woman? And hadn't he thrown up? He looked down at his white silk shirt. It looked clean, but suspiciously rumpled. The image of himself. naked, splashing in a fountain with the blue-skinned lovely flashed into his mind. He allowed himself a smirk of satisfaction. Must have been a good night, then.

He squinted across the park towards a group of lithe reptiles playing some sort of game which involved throwing a hooting ball over a silver net. Yeah, a good night. If only he wasn't stranded on a planet that was going to be totally destroyed.

Much later, Fitz was back at Il-Eruk's, spitting feathers. It was mid-afternoon, and the place was shady and deserted, pleasingly cool. There were hardly any other customers, just a couple of dedicated alcoholics and a couple mauling each other in a dark corner.

Fitz walked up to the counter, and slapped down his remaining coins. 'What will that get me?'

Il-Eruk c.o.c.ked his head to one side, spread his arms and lisped, 'Precious little.'

Fitz's stomach growled. He felt as hollow as a punctured football. Food was probably a better idea than booze. 'Have you got anything I can eat?'

Il-Eruk clicked his claws against the top of the bar. 'I have selection of pies?'

Fitz nodded. 'That'll do.'

'What would sir prefer? Cheese and '

Fitz cut him short. 'Anything. I'm very hungry.'

Il-Eruk brought Fitz a pasty. The porky face of Lou Lombardo leered out at Fitz from the wrapper. Fitz's heart sank at this unwelcome reminder of his temporal troubles. He scoffed the pasty eagerly, as Il-Eruk watched.

'Bad day?'

Fitz nodded. 'You can say that again.'