Doctor Who: Combat Rock by Mick Lewis Page B

President. She simply wants to see you. She said it... it might be for the last time.’
    ‘Did she?’ Sabit hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen. He straightened the right cuff of his embroidered tunic.
    ‘Send her food. And send her medicine. And also make sure I’m not disturbed again.’
    He scanned the faces of the Papul crowd on the small screen for any possible signs of sedition, or maybe even for disapproval.
    Late afternoon in Jayapul, and Sabit’s predictions were fulfilled. Indoni-managed factories were attacked and burned down. Rocks were hurled at Indoni army barracks. A policeman was brutally beaten up on his way home to join his wife. Indoni journalists reported the news faithfully. What they didn’t report were the episodes of vicious retaliation against the ‘acts of terrorism’ that ensued. Papul men and women were torn from their homes, their businesses, summarily executed in the streets, tortured, raped, brutalised.
    The executioners’ pulse rifles were to do a lot more searing before the evening began to fall and curtain the scenes of carnage.
    Sabit’s democracy was efficient and all-encompassing: the Papuls would be protected whether they liked it or not.
     
    The creaking of boards was constant, an unnoticed backdrop to Father Pieter’s life, he’d grown so accustomed to the sound.
    The small Papul shanty town of Agat was situated on the fetid south-coast swamps of the island and its streets consisted entirely of wooden walkways raised above the tides.
    Throughout the day, the clunking of planks as bare feet rocked them in their fastenings combined with the musical chattering of the locals to form a distinctive cacophony that was all Agat’s.
    But today Father Pieter was actually listening to the boards, and hoping each creak announced the imminent arrival of Father Tomas. Staring through the grimy window of his wooden cottage, he saw only local Papul people, however, and the occasional Indoni trader. He forced his attention back to his report; Father Tomas would not be coming today. Would be be coming ever?
    He pushed the thought away. He trusted in his God, and God would bring his friend home safely. He re-read what he had already written. He had listened to Sabit’s broadcast earlier that day, and heard about the supposed riots in Jayapul on a tinny radio he possessed (there were no viewing monitors in this back-of-beyond place). Father Pieter was intelligent and informed enough to be able to see through the hype to the humanitarian crisis that screamed behind the Presidential cover-up.
    Father Pieter was not only a missionary sent by his Church to this Godforsaken spot to preach Christianity; he was also here to garner information about possible crimes against humanity in an outpost where the Papuls actually felt isolated enough from Indoni rule to be able to talk freely. And he had gained more than enough evidence so far for his Church to pass on a bruising indictment of Sabit’s practices. Earth authorities would be forced into taking more action, whether in the form of heavier sanctions or even a resumption of military intervention.
    Where are you Tomas?
    He couldn’t concentrate. He felt edgy, vulnerable. Alone.
    He was, after all, not just the only missionary in Agat, but the only person from Earth as well.
     
    A hunchbacked beast was watching from across the walkway directly outside his window.
    He started and dropped his pen.
    Then he laughed softly, leaning back in his chair. It was only Bagire, the large, tame Horrakbill bird that hopped regularly around the dirty town, its grotesquely oversized beak nuzzling at passers-by. It lifted its head and stared him in the eye. His grin faded.
    He was so tired of being alone.
    The first hut puffed into flame as the beam of energy pointed like a finger from the hovering cruiser, touched it briefly, and then withdrew.
    The silvery, albeit battle-stained and filthy cruiser looked completely incongruous against the backdrop of green