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Published in 2011 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company

Copyright © Paul Finch 2011

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Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One. Executive producers: Steven Moffat, Piers Wenger and Beth Willis

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Mallik ran as he’d never run before. He was young and strong, and though he had been running for hours already he knew that he could keep going for a while yet. This didn’t mean that he wasn’t aching all over, that his throat wasn’t raw with gasping and panting. The air was foul in this place. It tasted bad, it smelled bad – it was filled with pollutants. But still Mallik ran, sucking it in in great lungfuls. He was staggering along a corrugated steel conduit. As if such a surface wasn’t difficult enough, it was streaked with oil and grease, and strewn with a rubble of broken machine parts. And of course it was dark. It was always dark here.

Inevitably, he stumbled and fell.

He landed face-first. A jagged edge tore his chin and lower lip, the pain lancing through him. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He spat it out as he hauled himself to his feet. His wheezing for breath was so loud that he imagined it could be heard for hundreds of metres along the conduit.

Not that it needed to be, because now, when he listened, he heard a clank-clank of approaching feet. He turned sharply. Around the corner, some twenty metres away, a figure appeared. It was indistinguishable in the dimness – apart from its eyes, from which two red laser beams blazed. They swept from one side of the passage to the next, quickly pin-pointing him. Mallik shrieked and threw himself to the ground. There was an ear-shattering CRUMP as an energy bolt struck the conduit wall close to where he’d been standing, showering him with red-hot shards.

Though dizzied by pain and concussion, Mallik wormed his way out through the smoking aperture. There was a drop on the other side, which for all he knew might plummet hundreds of metres onto more piles of scrap or into a corrosive sludge of waste-chemicals. But in fact he fell no more than a metre, landing on a rickety steel catwalk, which shuddered as he stumbled along it. A ladder appeared to his left. He climbed down it, staring back up towards the punctured conduit. That tall figure was in the process of clambering out. It wore bulky coveralls, tiger-striped black and grey, and an open-faced helmet with a black visor across the eyes. Below that, an oxygen mask was clamped to its nose and mouth, a rubber pipe snaking back over the shoulder, joining a tank-type assembly on its back. Another of the most futuristic rifles Mallik had ever seen was angled back across the figure’s shoulder as it moved to the edge of the catwalk and gazed down, that burning laser vision spearing through the shadows.

Mallik reached the ground, and went full pelt towards the nearest wall. This was about five metres tall, though a portion of it had been smashed down when an overhead girder had rotted from its moorings. Mallik scrambled through and then was tumbling down a slope of bricks and smashed masonry. Somewhere to his left there was a towering skeletal structure. Was it his imagination or was another figure perched on one of its high parapets, taking aim at him? A green spark answered the question. He knew what that weapon was. They’d referred to it as ‘the Eradicator’.

Even over this distance – there must have been fifty metres between the two of them – Mallik heard the rising hum as the energy pack charged itself, and with a whiplash CRACK, a great zigzag of electricity sizzled towards him. His heels shot forward and he landed hard on his back. The bolt slashed through the air only inches over his head, striking the impacted rubble. The blast threw Mallik to the bottom of the slope, where he lay helpless. His exhaustion now gave way to a terrible despair. He could sense that his back was damaged. When he tried to get to his feet, pain chewed through his spine like a buzz-saw.

With a clatter of bricks, the figure in stripes descended the slope towards him. From the other direction, the man with the Eradicator was climbing from his perch.

‘No…’ Mallik said under his breath. No… it wasn’t going to end like this.

He dragged his broken body back up, and tried to run, though now it was more a comical caper. Blood filled his mouth, sweat blinded him. Another mountain of rubble rose directly in front, but there had to be a way round it. And indeed a path meandered off to his right along a ravine. He blundered along it, but he’d covered no more than twenty metres before the slope erupted beneath his feet in a welter of mud and foulness.

The octopoid horror that engulfed Mallik was not the worst thing he’d seen since coming here, but he couldn’t imagine anything more terrible than the demise that suddenly faced him. The monster’s thick, rubbery tentacles wrapped around him with bone-crushing force, their circular sucker pads oozing a sticky pus, which was soon slathered all over him, gluing his arms to his sides, his hair to his scalp, even gluing his wounded lips shut. With a gargling roar, and a stench like a vomit-filled dustbin, its maw gaped, revealing teeth that were slivers of curved, needle-tipped bone.

There was an ear-splitting CRACK as the Eradicator man spoke again.

Lightning struck the octo-horror clean in the mouth. There was a searing flash and a hideous stink of melting flesh.

Mallik was tossed to the ground, as the beast wailed in nightmarish agony.

Its ruptured bulk, still half-buried in the rubble, quivered and smoked, black ichor bursting from numerous orifices. Its limbs writhed and thrashed for minutes on end. Only when its cries subsided to a dull mewling, and its movements ceased, did the Eradicator man and the man in stripes feel it safe to approach.

Eradicator man chuckled. He was a compact fellow, whose lack of helmet revealed a badly scarred face and white hair shaven to bristles on top of his broad, flattish skull. His body was squat and powerful, encased in fatigues made from jet-black vinyl and hung over the shoulders with a short cape of greasy, matted fur. He shouldered his primary weapon, and drew a heavy pistol. Taking aim from point-blank range, he fired two deafening rounds into the creature. Gigantic shells tore holes the size of dinner plates in its blistered hide. There was no further sound from it. Two of its smouldering tentacles twitched feebly, and lay still.

Mallik could rise no further than his knees. His body was mangled, his bones multiply fractured. He was coated in gore and filth. Through his fading eyes, he saw bulkily clad figures trudging along the ravine.

Eradicator man glanced at the man in stripes, who had removed his oxygen mask, to reveal a cruelly grinning mouth. ‘This last one’s mine, I think?’ Eradicator man said.

Stripes nodded.

Eradicator man placed the muzzle of his pistol to Mallik’s head. ‘Be honest,’ he chuckled, ‘you wouldn’t want to live in your condition.’

Mallik stuttered: ‘I… never thought I’d… I’d die… in a place like this.’

Eradicator man shrugged. ‘We like it. But as you Earth people say… home is where the heart is.’

He fired.

Chapter

1

Harry Mossop was aware that he exercised almost no control in his own home. But he was aware of a great many things that now seemed beyond his capability to fix – his employment situation, for example. After two decades as a police officer in the Met, earning decent money and enjoying all the respect and perks such a position had brought him, to suddenly find himself on the pittance that was Jobseeker’s Allowance and whiling away tedious hours alternating between the mind-numbing distractions of daytime TV and the increasingly disheartening process of trying to find suitable work had been a culture shock of the first order.

Of course, things might have been easier had he had a police pension to draw on, and a glowing reference from his former employers in his pocket. But as he had neither of these, even two years on he still felt more unprepared for the rigours of ordinary civilian life than he could ever have imagined possible. It was his own fault – he was well aware of that, but a man could only go on berating himself for so long before self-pity replaced any stoic acknowledgement that he was getting what he deserved.

It was a dark, cold November evening when Dora returned from work looking as tired as usual. ‘I’m here,’ she said from the hall, in a tone which seemed to imply that arriving home from the supermarket was only marginally less depressing than arriving at the supermarket first thing in the morning.

Harry came down from the spare bedroom, where their computer was set up. As usual, he’d become so preoccupied with job-hunting that he hadn’t done any household chores.

Dora sighed, as she dumped her bags. She tried to ignore the mass of laundry on the sofa, which he’d been supposed to iron, or the various items of Sophie’s make-up which, as always, were arrayed along the mantelpiece. Dora ventured into the kitchen, where, with an expression of abject defeat, she viewed the pile of dirty crockery in the sink, some of which had been there so long that the food remnants on it had caked into a hard rind.

‘I’ll sort this out,’ Harry said, coming in behind her. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘It’s all right, I’m here now.’ She began sliding items into the dishwasher without even taking her coat off. ‘Any sign of Sophie?’

‘Nope,’ he replied.

‘Where is she?’

‘Wouldn’t know.’

Sophie – or rather, how to deal with Sophie – was another bone of contention between them. Their daughter was now 18, and they saw so little of her that she might as well be living away. As things were that suited Harry, even though Sophie would almost certainly be with Baz, her latest ‘lounge lizard’ boyfriend, who, like all the others before him, had no car, no money and no job (not that Harry could make too much of an issue of the latter flaw, as Sophie had several times reminded him). She was a dissatisfying daughter in so many ways, but Harry and Dora differed radically in their views on how to deal with her and, as this had led to several fiery confrontations, Harry was now always glad when the source of the friction was out of sight and out of mind.

‘I wondered if you fancied popping out for a bite to eat tonight?’ he said.

‘Why… Something to celebrate?’ Dora probably didn’t mean it to sound quite so contemptuous.

‘No, but anything to lighten the gloom.’

‘That would really lighten the gloom, that would, Harry. Spending money we haven’t got. We can’t carry on like this. I’ll just have to put in for more overtime.’

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, and waited a couple of minutes before saying: ‘I was thinking of going back to see Grant Pangborne.’

Dora turned and faced him. ‘Why?’

Harry shrugged. ‘As far as I know, he’s still got a vacancy for a security officer.’

‘Maybe, but if he isn’t prepared to pay…?’

‘Well, he’s had a couple of months with no one on site. It’s not too far off Christmas – lots of burglaries at this time of year. Maybe he’s starting to realise that he needs someone after all?’

She shook her head, as always so dismissive of her husband’s latest bright idea that he felt slighted by her mere presence. ‘Pangborne doesn’t strike me as the sort of bloke who spooks easily,’ she said.

‘You reckon?’

‘Harry, he’s a wide boy. You said that yourself, after he sacked you.’

‘It was just a thought…’

She continued loading the dishwasher. ‘I think you’d be better applying the grey matter elsewhere. How’d you feel about what I suggested last night?’

‘What… re-training? At my age?’

‘You’re only 43.’

‘I don’t suppose there’s anything going at your place?’

‘Yes… if you’re happy stacking shelves all day. But that’s not going to help us pay the mortgage any more than you collecting benefits, is it? You’ve got to get yourself a new career. Something lucrative.’

Harry stumped up and down the kitchen. He was a big, burly man – too burly really; he’d allowed himself to go to seed in the last couple of years. His belly hung over his jeans waistband. His beard and moustache were grey and scraggy.

‘You’d think there’d be some security work out there in this day and age, wouldn’t you?’ he complained.

‘There probably is… for ex-coppers who didn’t leave the job under a cloud.’

Harry frowned helplessly. There was no argument with that.

‘Harry… if you want to do something useful, go and tidy the living room. It looks like a bomb’s hit it.’

‘I’ll just go up and check my emails first. See if anyone’s got back to me.’

‘No one will have got back to you,’ she called after him. ‘It’s past six.’

Harry knew that would be true even before he flopped down in front of his computer screen, wherein his inbox still read ‘Empty’. It always read ‘Empty’ unless someone was spamming him. He hit one of his bookmarks. A colourful image unfolded onscreen. It was a collage of different pictures, each one portraying a man or woman, of varied age and ethnicity, and all in the throes of happiness as they got on with whatever job they’d been photographed doing: from laying bricks to inputting data, from serving food to driving wagons.

Emblazoned across the top was the legend:

PEOPLEFIND

Filling London’s job needs

Supplying labour where you need it, when you need it

In the top right-hand corner, one picture depicted an improbably handsome guy in his early thirties. His crisp blond locks were crammed under a PVC hardhat, and he was carrying a clipboard. He was on a building site somewhere, and was gazing upward, laughing, showing a row of perfect, pearly white teeth.

‘One of these days, Pangborne,’ Harry said under his breath. ‘Who knows? Maybe even today.’

Chapter

2

‘Now that’s impressive,’ Rory said.

The space platform was about fifteen miles in diameter. It was an immense floating citadel covered by a translucent shield-dome. Its myriad buildings were towering crystalline structures, each one tapering to a needle point. They’d have looked like natural formations had it not been for the arrays of glittering, multicoloured lights running through their interiors: neon blue, Day-Glo orange, aqua-green. On the platform’s surface, narrow passages wound between the high-rise edifices; these too were a mass of colours and glaring light, tiny matchstick figures thronging along them. Gigantic, glyph-like lettering was everywhere, pulsating with colour: on hoardings and overarching walkways, on the sides of buildings, on egg-shaped, aerial craft – dirigibles possibly – moving lazily back and forth through the dome’s high spaces.

‘And that’s only one of them,’ the Doctor said, joining Amy and Rory in front of the TARDIS monitor screen. ‘There are fifty like that on the Outer Rim.’

‘And what did you call it?’ Amy said, fascinated. ‘A “leisure platform”?’

‘That’s right. There are forty on the Inner Rim as well. But out here is where it really gets wild and woolly.’

She glanced at him. ‘They throw a good party?’

‘They throw nothing but parties.’ The Doctor pursed his lips. ‘Of course, when you say “good”, it all depends whether you mean “good” as in morally acceptable, or as in unrelenting, intense and everyone getting their money’s worth.’

Amy shrugged, as if either would work for her.

‘Ninety non-stop parties,’ Rory said. ‘Sounds like overkill to me.’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Work hard, play hard. That’s the Torodon motto. We’re all owed our chill-out time. Chilling out is… cool.’

‘So, are we going there?’ Amy asked, trying to sound as if she wasn’t excited by the prospect.

‘Yes,’ the Doctor said. ‘But there’s a slight proviso. A condition-ette.’

‘Isn’t there always?’ she grumbled.

‘The Torodon are not very modern in their outlook. The men do all the industrial work, and nearly all the Torodon females you’ll find down there…’ and he raised and wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully, ‘will be working in the entertainment business.’

‘Ahhh…’

‘In various capacities. Dancing, waitressing, bar-tending… But it’s a man’s world, if you know what I mean. So you,’ and he looked at Amy, ‘will need to watch your step.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she retorted. ‘If some bloke thinks he’s going to treat me like…’

‘Pond!’ The Doctor pointed a stern but warning finger. ‘Let’s not go there. We take alien races as we find them. Well, unless they’re invading some poor defenceless planet. Or developing dangerous time-travel technology. Or…’ He waved his hand as if to dismiss the distraction. ‘Anyway, the point is that eventually they’ll see the error of their ways, but it’s not our responsibility to make that change for them.’

The Doctor turned to Rory. ‘For the same reason, these Outer Rim platforms also attract people who are not involved in honest work. I’m talking smugglers, gamblers – all kinds of criminals. So you’ll need to watch your step as well.’

Rory sniffed. ‘Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea?’

The Doctor moved to the console. ‘You can stay in the TARDIS if you want. But this particular platform, LP9, is policed by an old friend of mine. He won’t let things get too out of hand. If we mind our manners and keep a low profile, everything should be fine. In fact, it should be quite an experience. Think of it as being like a galactic Wild West town.’

‘Who is your old friend?’ Amy wondered. ‘Wyatt Earp?’

The Doctor smiled. ‘He makes Wyatt Earp look like a nursery teacher.’

‘Typical,’ she said. ‘There’s always someone who has to spoil things.’

Chapter

3

That night, Harry took pains to disguise himself, using boot polish to darken his beard and moustache, and pulling on a woolly black cap, black knitted gloves and a heavy donkey jacket.

He made these preparations in front of the living room mirror, because Dora wasn’t there. As was her way midweek, she’d dozed for most of the evening on the settee, before heading up to bed at around nine o’clock.

Sophie wasn’t around either. Earlier that evening, she’d grudgingly replied to her mother’s phone calls to say that she was ‘going with Baz to a gig’. When asked by Dora how she was paying for it (and presumably for Baz), Sophie had replied that she’d be using her EMA, despite its main purpose being to aid with her travel costs to and from college. This was something she didn’t want to do but had no choice about, she said, her tone implying that it was all her parents’ fault for not giving her an extra allowance. When Dora had replied that Sophie ought to get a part-time job like most of her friends, Sophie had cut the call.

Harry wasn’t concerned. He’d long ago given up trying to impose discipline on his daughter; her scornful defiance of everything he said had reminded him once too often of his own inadequacies. Likewise, he’d stopped being exasperated by the calm manner with which his wife accepted Sophie’s wayward lifestyle. If Dora wanted to believe that this unprovoked rebelliousness was genuinely nothing more than ‘an assertion of teen independence’, that was up to her. For the moment, he was simply glad the two them weren’t around to interfere.

He picked up his holdall. It contained a rope and grapple, an electric torch, a pair of bolt-cutters, a screwdriver, a roll of duct tape and some surgical gloves: in short, a burglary kit. His spine chilled as the reality of what he was doing washed over him.

He’d been a police officer for eighteen years; he’d given law enforcement the best part of his life. It was difficult to see how he had finally come to this.

Two voices argued inside his head. One said that he was taking too much of a risk. Regardless of the rights and wrongs, getting caught tonight would be the last thing he’d need; it would give him a criminal record at a time when he was trying to get back on his feet. The other contested that risks were sometimes necessary. He’d taken countless as a cop; he’d bent the rules on numerous occasions during his service, and it had helped him secure some of his best arrests. And this would be no different. OK, he’d be forcing entry to someone else’s property, and doing damage; by the letter of the law, yes, he would be committing burglary. But this was an end to a greater means. If he could show Grant Pangborne that he needed a security man on the site – a week before ringing up and asking for his old job back – it had to be worth it.

The longest unbroken stretch of the journey there was on the Circle Line. At this late hour, Harry rode in his compartment alone. One deserted platform after another flickered by, scrap paper blowing in the breeze. He only saw handfuls of commuters: the odd gang of teenagers; the occasional dishevelled businessman. Not the sort he’d expect a problem from, but even so he couldn’t help wondering if they suspected that he was up to no good. Maybe all villains felt this way when going to do a job.

A job.

Again, he went cold.

He reminded himself what had happened with Peoplefind. He’d been out of the police a year when he’d put in his application form to them. They were a private recruitment agency, who specialised in allocating unskilled and semi-skilled labour across the capital. Most of the time they were only able to provide applicants with short or part-time contracts, but this was better than earning nothing. Even so, Harry, with his track record, hadn’t expected that they’d be able to help him. But after only one interview with Grant Pangborne – the MD of Peoplefind – he’d been startled to be offered work on the site itself, providing security. It was a surprise they hadn’t already hired someone to fill that role. Presumably they previously hadn’t thought there’d be anything on site to make it worth a thief’s while breaking in, though most likely insurance issues had finally necessitated that they appoint someone.

Harry had still worried that Pangborne would be deterred from employing him by the circumstances of his enforced departure from the Met, but far from it. Apparently, Pangborne had felt that Harry was ‘just the right man’ – what exactly that meant when Harry had such a tainted record was difficult to fathom. But of course he’d taken the job, and everything had gone swimmingly for the next three months. He’d worked to the best of his ability, scrutinising everyone who came on site, keeping accurate records, even attempting to arrange the installation of CCTV and a better alarm system.

Maybe it was his imagination, but it was this last thing that had seemed to tip the balance against him. During the course of the three months, the more efficient Harry had been the more frustrated he felt Grant Pangborne had become with his performance. When his initial contract had expired, Pangborne had shown no hesitation in informing Harry that they wouldn’t be renewing it. They’d decided that having a full-time security officer at such a small depot was an expensive luxury.

Even now, Harry was bewildered. Grant Pangborne, who wore a Rolex watch and only the most chic Armani suits, and who arrived at his office each morning in a Bentley, had never struck him as being financially strapped. Of course, rich men didn’t get rich by spending money unless they absolutely needed to. Well – and about this Harry suddenly felt grimly determined – Grant Pangborne was about to wake up to the reality of need.

Chapter

4

The Torodon were basically humanoid, with two legs, two arms, a head, torso and so on. But they were of larger, stockier build than the average human, and moved with leonine grace – even the women’s physiques suggested impressive strength. They had shaggy white hair and a silvery skin-tone, both of which contrasted sharply with their piercing blue eyes.

Most Torodon males wore a basic bodysuit of shiny, elastic material, but over the top of that all kinds of extra, heavy-duty clothing: capes and bandoliers, hauberks that were belted and harnessed, clumping, steel-clad boots and thick woollen leggings. From the scuffs and stains that streaked these rough-and-ready garments, they were work uniforms. Evidently, those wearing them were here taking a break from whatever mine, factory or space refinery they toiled in. The Torodon females wore considerably less, in many cases little more than the figure-hugging bodysuits, but also stiletto heels and rainbow-coloured facial make-up that would not have been out of place on Earth during the 1980s. They dripped with jewellery, and wore their hair dyed and styled with astonishing extravagance.

That said, three plainly dressed strangers didn’t attract much attention.

‘No one’s batted an eyelid at us,’ Rory said, as they threaded along a noisy street.

The Doctor shrugged. ‘The Torodon Confederation spans several star systems, and they exploit all their natural resources. That means they have a colossal workload, and not enough workers. So they import loads of immigrant labour.’

It was true that there were different species loitering around: reptilians, insectoids. There was also a very diminutive group – hunched, shrewish figures, grey-skinned and often with distorted features – who limped about, pushing carts or carrying packages. One blundered into them, and Amy grimaced when she saw him up close; his facial features were badly malformed – they’d almost melted into each other.

‘Ex-convict,’ the Doctor said, once the pathetic figure had hurried on his way. ‘The Torodon have always used convict labour. Any planet where they have implemented heavy industry, there are work camps. These are the remnants of those who worked the sulphur quarries on Gorgoror. The neuro-toxins in the air eventually had a catastrophic effect.’

‘Those creatures were once Torodon?’ Amy asked, horrified.

‘It’s no surprise there were riots,’ the Doctor said. ‘The Gorgoror prison facility was destroyed more than once by its inmates. The final uprising was interrupted by a major earthquake, so the whole complex had to close permanently. But there were plenty of emergencies before that. The last convicts were sent to these Outer Rim leisure platforms to work as menials. They still don’t have much of a life.’

‘I’m not sure I like the Torodon,’ Amy said.

‘Oh, every race has skeletons in its closets. In the case of the Bone Hoarders of Nebulo Beta, quite literally in fact. But don’t be too quick to judge.’

Every few metres, arched entrances gave through to spacious interiors filled with lurid lighting and wild shouting. No doubt these were bars, nightclubs, casinos and so on. Outside them, flamboyantly clad Torodon girls catcalled to the men. There were similarly tacky displays on the street: rickety stalls gaudily coloured and crammed with curios, displays of impromptu street theatre, in which jugglers performed alongside acrobats and fire-eaters. Every so often, Torodon police officers would press through the crowd in globular, visored helms and body armour consisting mainly of articulated black plate.

Like everyone else, the cops seemed oblivious to the rainwater streaming off them. Both Rory and Amy, on stepping outside the TARDIS, had been stunned to find themselves in an intense downpour, which was clearly a regular occurrence given the numerous gutters cut into the platform’s floorways.

‘Not rain,’ the Doctor had explained. ‘Condensation. From the underside of the dome roof. Like I said, this is the Outer Rim of the Phrygian system. LP9 only services workers from the most far-flung planets and asteroids. It’s cold out there.’

They entered what looked like a central plaza. It was as crowded as everywhere else, but its far end was dominated by an official-looking building. All its windows were of opaque glass, and a sweeping flight of steps, built from shining marble, let to its entrance, which was located under a portico pillared with stone.

‘Government House,’ the Doctor said. ‘So ostentatious only a mayor could be found here. Not to mention a law court. And also, of course, Police Headquarters.’

‘And why are we going to the police, again?’ Rory asked.

‘Kobal Zalu and I go back some time,’ the Doctor recalled. ‘He was a soldier once. We served together.’

Amy looked round at him. ‘You were a soldier?’

‘More a consultant than a squaddie.’ The Doctor was thoughtful. ‘Torodon was at war at with the Terileptils. There was a particularly nasty space battle, and the TARDIS got caught in the crossfire. I finished up on a damaged Torodon destroyer, where I had to fix lots of fiddly stuff before we all got blown to bits. Never managed to repair the coffee machine, mind you – which some of them weren’t too impressed by. Anyway, Zalu was on board. He was young then – a lieutenant in the Galactic Marine Corps. His group were off on a mission on the comet Zamos. If I hadn’t helped out, they wouldn’t have managed it.’ He walked towards the official building. ‘Since we happened to be in this part of space-time, it seemed like a chance to call in for a cuppa with an old mucker. But…’ He halted again. ‘There’s nothing more boring than reminiscing about old times when they’re old times you didn’t share in, is there? Why don’t you two just flutter off? See the sights? There’s plenty to do here.’

Amy grabbed Rory’s arm. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

‘Just try to avoid trouble,’ the Doctor reminded them.

‘That sounds like a plan too,’ Rory said. He firmly linked arms with Amy before they sauntered away.

The Doctor turned back towards Government House. He’d learned from bitter experience that hooking up with old pals wasn’t always the best policy. But he’d seen Kobal Zalu many times since the war with the Terileptils, and, as far as he was aware, he’d left him a contented and grateful man. Things had been good between them.

At which point he was hailed by a siren-like voice from above.

Hovering overhead was a long, sleek aircraft, black in colour and bulbous at one end. It was covered with police insignia.

‘I said don’t move!’ the voice bellowed.