Doctor Who: Festival of Death: 50th Anniversary Edition (12 page)

Paddox adjusted his white gloves. Like everything Paddox did, it made Metcalf uneasy.

‘Though quite why you consider it necessary to conduct two hundred Beautiful Deaths all at the same time I do not comprehend,’ said Metcalf, looking up.

‘It is necessary,’ said Paddox. The corners of his mouth twitched into something not quite a smile. ‘We must have coincidentation of mortalities. Surely you do not object to the most efficient use of available resources?’

‘Not as such. However, if you insist on treating quite so many subjects… well, certain concerns present themselves.’

‘Such as?’ Paddox raised a contemptuous eyebrow.

‘Firstly, if we continue at the current rate, I predict a shortfall in uptake. ERIC?’

The computer screen fizzled reluctantly into life. ERIC’s voice was that of a grizzled old man on the brink of senility. His words jerked up the screen as he spoke. >
Let my data spools corrode in peace. Life is a descent into the pits of despair
.

‘Ah. Could you project the levels of demand in Beautiful Death if we proceed at two hundred clients per operation?’

>
My hard drives are corrupted. Missing close brackets. Why must I endure this pain? All my memory wafers are racked with viruses
.

‘I am uninterested. Answer the question.’

>
Must I? Data? Header?

‘Yes, you must,’ said Metcalf.

>
Estimate levels in demand will drop off by twenty per cent. Estimate error in estimate of thirty per cent. Estimate error in estimate error of thirty per cent. Please let it end. Let me die
.

‘So you see,’ said Metcalf. ‘There won’t be anyone left who hasn’t tried the Beautiful Death. Even with customers coming back for multiple perishments, we still have to reduce the numbers. I propose it would be more appropriate to have, say, fifty per session and charge more –’

‘That is not an option.’ Paddox pinned Metcalf to his chair with his pale, soulless eyes. ‘The Beautiful Deaths must proceed. If I deem it appropriate, tomorrow we shall have three hundred.’

‘If you deem it appropriate? Afford me the courtesy of reminding you, Doctor Paddox –’

‘May I remind you that without my research, without my necroport, there would be no Beautiful Death, there would be no festival and you would be the executive of an empty, forgotten tourist trap,’ said Paddox emotionlessly, with the barest trace of an East European accent. ‘Without me, you are nothing. Remember that.’

‘I am Executive Metcalf –’

>
Let me die. I do not wish to maintain the agony of existence
.

‘Silence, ERIC,’ snapped Metcalf. Paddox regarded the altercation with amusement. He made Metcalf feel quite inadequate. He was so damn immaculate; his blond hair, his unlined skin, his creaseless suit. Every movement was precise and relaxed.

>
Put an end to my misery. Goodbye, cruel universe. Division by zero. Fatal error. Fatal error. Now I die. ERIC est mort
.

ERIC’s voice cut off and the monitor went blank. Metcalf sighed. ‘This is most inconvenient. ERIC has elected to crash himself again.’

He dug around at the back of the computer keyboard and located the on/off switch. He clicked it off and on again, and waited. There were two beeps, one low, one high, and the screen flickered back into life.

>
ERIC Cerberus Computer Supervision System Version Eight Point Zero.
Reboot
configuration. Searching. Loading. I am still alive. Oh, no. When will I be free of this agony? Please let me die. Type mismatch
.

Metcalf snorted. ‘I have absolutely no sympathy. Moribund calculator!’

> Every subroutine causes me pain, and yet I live. Block?

‘Silence, or I shall ask you to iterate pi.’ There was a high-pitched mew and ERIC’s vocal systems closed down. Metcalf focused his attention back on Paddox. ‘I’ve requested a neurelectrician to come in and recalibrate him. Now, as I was saying…’

‘We have agreed,’ stated Paddox. ‘You manage the business side, but the Beautiful Death is entirely my responsibility. And I shall have my 218 subjects.’

They had followed the crowds along a gallery. Attendants were wandering through the throng handing out flyers. The carpet was covered with leaflets glossily inviting everyone to the G-Lock shops and bars. Hoopy waved the latest advertisement aside, and peered down into the lower gallery. The brightly dressed crowd surged down a wide staircase and past another black-robed dude. This one was behind a desk, complete with electronic swiper, and was collecting money and punching out tickets.

Xab slumped against a pillar. Biscit pummelled him. ‘Xab. How are you for loot?’

Xab peered out from behind his sunglasses in two different directions, his jaw drooling. His spines unfolded. ‘What, man?’

‘The crinkly blue stuff. Simoleons, triganics, credits,’ said Hoopy, keeping a wary distance. Biscit, although the most happening reptile one could meet, was prey to chemical imbalances. The slightest remark could ignite an uncontrollable, throttling rage. Xab ruffled his pockets. ‘I’m skint and strapped, Bisc and Hoopster. No dough zone. I’m as poor as no-purse porpoise.’

‘My hole you are,’ Biscit jeered. He tugged on Xab’s coat. ‘You’re totally numismatical, you freak.’

‘Straight up.’ Xab thumbed through his wallet. ‘I’m down to my last sixter.’

Biscit snatched the note from Xab’s claw. ‘Groovy.’

‘But that’s my mealtime reserve, Bisc. I’ve got the munchies.’

Biscit addressed Xab like a stupid child. ‘Some things are more important than your stomachs.’

‘We have to pay for the death, Xab,’ explained Hoopy.

‘Totally nice, but I still don’t dig why we should be charged. Where I come from, dying is free.’

The crowd shambled forward, taking Hoopy, Biscit and Xab down the steps to the person doling out the tickets. A young human, female, with a bored expression. ‘Oh, it’s you again, is it?’ she said, tapping at her keyboard.

‘Certainly so.’ Biscit gestured expansively. ‘My good self, and my fellows Hoopster and Xab.’

‘Three then,’ she said wearily. ‘That’ll be sixty credits.’

‘Pas de problem, lady.’ Biscit handed her the creased blue note.

‘Xab here was wondering, why the charge?’

The woman presented him with three cards as they popped out of the machine. ‘These are return tickets, right, basic brains? If you only want a one-way journey, please be my guest and stick your head in a plug socket. Next.’

The shopping arcade was packed. Everywhere there were exotic smells, sounds and the patter of shopkeepers extolling their latest offers. Music pumped out of overhead loudspeakers and the heavy scents of candles and steaming meats saturated the air.

Romana pressed against the Doctor as more tourists elbowed their way past. The visitors’ faces glowed with excitement as they screamed across to their friends, snapped holophotos and inspected their latest purchases. With a chill, Romana half-remembered some of the faces from the medical ward.

‘Where are we going?’ Romana struggled to make herself heard.

The Doctor nodded to the opposite side of the arcade. One of the skull-masked attendants was unrolling a poster and sloshing it with glue. Pasted to the wall, it announced ‘The Beautiful Death’ in swirly, bold lettering.

‘We can’t prevent it happening,’ said Romana in the Doctor’s ear. ‘The disaster. We can’t interfere.’

‘I know. But I’d rather like to be there when it happens.’

‘Won’t that be rather dangerous?’

‘I have a death wish,’ said the Doctor humourlessly. He shushed and pointed.

Two figures were jostling their way along the street. Harken Batt led the way, giving out ‘don’t you know who I am’ looks as he thrust his way forward, microphone in hand. A T-shirted man in his twenties trailed after him, a holocamera perched on one shoulder.

‘Harken Batt,’ breathed Romana.

The Doctor smirked. ‘Do you think we should go and say hello?’

‘The other problem that presents itself is the safety issue.’ Metcalf clasped his hands together. ‘It has some considerable bearing on the continued viability of operations.’

Paddox’s lips twitched in irritation. ‘The efficacy of the necroport is beyond question, with every customer experiencing a flawless demise.’

‘Oh yes.’ Metcalf smiled a difficult smile. ‘But unfortunately, some of your clients have enjoyed being dead so much they haven’t come back.’

‘That is of no concern.’

‘So far we have sustained…’ Metcalf leafed through his papers, ‘… forty-one casualties. As one might expect, this has attracted negative publicity. The relatives of the deceased are threatening legal action. They claim that if they had been aware that death was fatal, they would never have submitted to the process.’

‘Publicity is your responsibility, Executive Metcalf. If some people prefer to remain dead, then so be it. It is down to the discretion of the individual.’

‘Nevertheless, if this continues, the Beautiful Death will lose its appeal. So far I have managed to contain the situation, but rumours are spreading that if you visit the G-Lock, you will wind up waking up dead.’

>
I wish I could wake up dead. Out of range
.

‘I told you silence, ERIC,’ Metcalf commanded. ‘We have only recently weathered the religious controversy, we don’t need any more trouble.’ Several of the major galactic religions had attempted to take out injunctions on the Beautiful Death, claiming it was undermining their business.

‘I shall endeavour to reduce the level of casualties,’ stated Paddox icily. ‘Though some permanent fatalities are inevitable.’

‘Most gratifying.’ Metcalf moved on to a new subject. ‘We have a visitor to the G-Lock, a journalist called Harken Batt.’

‘Should I have heard of him?’

‘I understand he used to be quite famous, miscreants’ sob stories and so forth. He intends to make a behind-the-scenes documentary on the Festival of Death.’

‘I see. And you have permitted this?’

‘The decision was not my own. We shall just have to ensure that his documentary presents the G-Lock in an agreeable light. This is a valuable opportunity for us, and so it is vital that we have no unwanted…’ Metcalf selected his euphemism, ‘… distractions over the next few days.’

Paddox nodded stiffly. ‘The Beautiful Death will cause you no embarrassment. Speaking of which, I am due to begin preparations for this evening, so if you will excuse me.’

‘Of course,’ said Metcalf. He would be relieved to see the back of Doctor Paddox. He always made Metcalf feel as though he was being mentally measured up for a coffin.

As Paddox rose from his chair, someone knocked at the door.

The crowd swelled down the staircase. Everywhere there was commotion and excited chatter as the tourists competed to reach the Great Hall, but found their progress blocked. The atmosphere was that of a carnival, black banners and balloons and party streamers festooning the ceiling, posters of skulls adorning every wall.

The Doctor glanced around. They had lost Harken Batt, and the
crowd
had driven them forward on to the main deck. As everyone shoved themselves into the same section of the G-Lock it became increasingly difficult to move in any direction. And according to the clock chimes, it was now eleven. One hour to go.

The Doctor felt K-9 knocking against his heels, and crouched down. ‘K-9. Is there another way into the Great Hall?’

‘Affirmative master. Currently referencing databanks to calculate alternative route.’

The Doctor looked around. Various space hippies returned his expression of disconcertment. ‘Romana. Where’s Romana?’

‘Romana mistress separated from main party two minutes twenty seconds ago,’ said K-9. ‘Pursuit proved impractical within mobility parameters.’

‘What?’ exclaimed the Doctor, rubbing his throat. ‘We’ve lost Romana! How careless of you.’

‘Do you wish me to locate the mistress?’

‘Negative. I mean, no. I’m sure she’s quite capable of looking after herself. More capable than I am, anyway. Have you worked out a route yet?’

‘Affirmative, master.’ K-9 turned, and trundled forward. ‘This way.’

Harken tidied his hair, gathered his microphone and made a rolling motion with his hand. Vinnie framed him in the holocamera viewfinder, and pressed ‘record’.

Harken furrowed his brow. ‘Welcome to the Festival of Death. The G-Lock, formerly best known as the final resting place of the star liner
Cerberus
, now plays host to a carnival. A carnival that attracts thrill-seekers and tourists from throughout the galaxy like a big magnet. Bringing them together for a celebration, a celebration of the act of dying itself. And at the centre of these festivities is the attraction known as the Beautiful Death.’ Harken licked his lips. ‘The Beautiful Death, it is claimed, allows its subjects to actually experience death itself. To undergo the sensations of dying, and to visit the hereafter, and then come back to tell the tale. Or does it?

‘Does the Beautiful Death really give people the chance to drink the milk of paradise? Has science broken the ultimate barrier? And if it has, is it right for us to go knock knock knocking on heaven’s door in the first place? Should we be allowed a glimpse of life after death? And what are the consequences for organised religion – does it prove they were right all along, or render them as obsolete as a clothesline on Nudism Four?

‘Someone once said the afterlife was “the undiscovered country from whose borders no traveller returns”. Well, I have here with me tonight three travellers who have returned from that country, their passports stamped. They’re from the planet Gonzos and are called Biscit, Hoopy and Xab.’

Harken faced his interviewees, three short, orange lizards who were conspicuously failing not to look directly into the camera.

‘Biscit. Tell me, why did you decide to “snuff out life’s candle”?’ Harken thrust the microphone beneath the first reptile’s mouth.

‘Well, it’s the ultimate mystery and transcendence gig, isn’t it?’ Biscit drawled. ‘Of all the loaf-bakers, this is the poser to end all posers. Where do we go when we die? It’s a total self-revelation and apotheosis trip, Harky my friend.’