Doctor Who: The Blood Cell Read Free Page A

wise?’
    ‘Whatever you think best, Governor.’ Bentley kept her tone neutral. ‘It can be arranged. I can call his files up over the TransNet. It may take a little time.’
    Communications were appallingly slow here. The relay of TransNet satellites back to the System HomeWorld were erratic. In the early days there had been an idea that we could use the TransNet for near-live relays of entertainment programming, news and communications back with loved ones. Sadly, once The Prison had been set up we had discoveredthat the TransNet supplier had done a woeful job of the relay. Even the simplest communications were painfully slow. Prisoners just arrived here, often without us knowing who they were. Entertainment was sent in from the shuttles on old-fashioned hard copy (whoever said the data crystal was dead?), and what little news we received was either via extremely brief text bulletin or summaries burnt to hardcopy. In the beginning it had felt ever so isolating, but now we’d grown used to it. Almost to enjoy it. Prisoners and Guardians. We were all hermits together.
    Sensing she was dismissed, Bentley made to get up, her cup of tea half-finished. I waved her to remain seated. ‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘I can do it from my terminal.’ Sometimes I think she assumes I’m a hopeless old has-been, but I tapped the computer to wake it up. It responded sluggishly. The terminals they’ve fitted us with were supplied by the same contractor who put in the lamentable TransNet system. They’re awful. The icons swam slowly into view. I tapped the one for ‘Records’. And then tapped it again. And then finally accepted that the thing had frozen.
    Back home I’d been used to asking my tablet everything, constantly. Now I bothered with it barely once a day. I was forced to rely on my own wits. I was rather proud of that. The freedom it gave me. All the same, it would be nice if the systems worked just once.
    Bentley was standing, heading for the door. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I looked up the records for you,’ she offered gently.
    She really does think I’m past it. Ah well. There was another cup of tea in the pot, so I poured it. I’d not finished it when Bentley came back in with 428’s records hardcopied up into a folder. I settled down to read them thoroughly over the rest of the tea. After a few pages I stopped reading thoroughly and merely glanced, and then I pushed the folder aside, sickened.
    I picked up the cup, but the tea in it had gone cold. I couldn’t face that either.
    I realised Bentley was still in the room, watching me, curiously appraising my reaction. In many ways, she’s like one of the Custodians, silent and solid and grim. I’d never tell her this, of course. She has feelings, I’m sure she does. Somewhere. She’d feel terribly hurt.
    ‘You’ve read about the Doctor’s crimes?’ she asked.
    ‘Prisoner 428,’ I said firmly. He no longer deserved a name. Sickened, I pushed the folder over to her with distaste. ‘Take this away.’
    My tablet had rebooted and I used it to login to 428’s cell-cam. His was as spartan as all of our prisoner accommodation. Each box contained a shelf for sitting and sleeping. And a door. There were no windows because there was no view. Only Guardians were allowed to see the stars and space. Prisonerssimply got to see the walls and each other. Each cell was a regulation size, although those on Level 6 were perhaps a trifle smaller. And yet 428’s cell seemed cramped, as though the man filled the room.
    He paced the area, tugging away at the orange uniform, as though trying to pull it into something other than the shapeless garment it was. The orange was the only colour that the prisoners saw, and, as it was everywhere, they no longer noticed it.
    I stared at him in fascination. So this was the man, the man who had … I shook my head. His crimes hardly bore thinking about. I hated him. It was unprofessional of me to do so, but I hated