Doctor Who: Combat Rock by Mick Lewis Page A

his subordinates. A clatter of safety catches being pulled back.
    Pulse rifles were shouldered. The leader scrutinised the unreadable faces in the crowd. To show any emotion was inviting death. Satisfied he had their complete attention, he gave the order to fire.
    The hot afternoon became abruptly hotter still, as fifteen pulse rifles sang together as one.
    Sabit watched the execution on a monitor fixed to the arm of his plush leather chair. He adjusted the volume and wriggled back into the leather like a child seeking the comfort of its mother’s body. A cup of hot, spiced tea steamed on the other arm of the chair.
    He watched the line of Papul locals fall into the dust of the market square. Seared clothes smoked lazily. The soldier filming the execution panned across the faces of the audience for the benefit of the President, to allow him to see for himself if there were anyone amongst the crowd who should be joining the heap of the seared. Now the cameraman focused on a large projection screen situated at the north end of the square, focused on Sabit’s giant features themselves as he began to address the populace in a recording he had made earlier that morning.
    ‘I, President Sabit of the Indoni Republic, entreat you, the law-abiding citizens of Papul, to betray those who would betray you. The OPG are not your friends. They are not sabotaging our utilities, and by definition, your utilities, to create a more beneficial society for you to live in. They just want to disrupt the Indoni attempts to bring you a better way of life. They want power and they don’t care if you die or suffer as a result of their cowardly actions. If you know anyone who is an agent of this despicable organization, reveal their identity to us now, so that Indoni people can live hand in hand in peace with their Papul friends. We will not tolerate sedition or any who would sympathise with those who commit it. Terrorism will not be suffered in a democratic society. I hope you will join me in defeating those who would threaten the right of every individual to enjoy a peaceful and secure lifestyle.’
    It was marvellous stuff of course. And would be beamed across the system and beyond, justifying the much-criticised Indoni ‘expansion’ into Papul as a peace-bringing crusade into a troubled land. Military presence had to be accounted for in the eyes of offworld hostility.
    Of course the video of the executions that had preceded the speech would never see the light of day outside his palace.
    But his loyal cameramen would most certainly be on the streets of Jayapul to record what would undoubtedly follow it
    – local civil unrest that would be sparked off by agents provocateurs in the President’s own employ, thus justifying even more the urgent need for the Indoni army’s stabilizing presence in an uncivilized, violent corner of Jenggel.
    A servant had entered his private rooms nervously. Sabit had been too preoccupied to hear him knock. He looked up with irritation, wondered what the fool would do if he ordered him disrobed and his buttocks beaten in front of his daughters.
    ‘I’m sorry President...’
    ‘Yes. What is it?’ He was too professional to allow irritation to show in his carefully controlled voice.
    ‘It... it’s your mother again, President. I’m afraid she’s very ill.’
    Sabit said nothing. He stared at the armchair screen, longing to be able to immerse himself in the pleasure of the day’s politics again, but family, always family, got in the way.
    ‘Remind my mother that I delivered a food container to her a few months ago. If she needs medicine now, it can be sent.’
    The servant fastened the top button of his tunic nervously, as if that humble act of propriety might somehow protect him from the lizard glare of Sabit’s dark, dark eyes. ‘She... she...’
    ‘Mmmm?’ Sabit prompted in a not unkind manner that the servant knew only too well belied the venom underneath.
    ‘She doesn’t want food or medicine,