Doctor Who: Combat Rock Read Online Free PDF

with the boy. He dragged on his cigarette angrily and realized the girl he was with – what had she said her bloody name was? Oh yeah...
    Kety, not that it made any difference to him, he would have forgotten her by tomorrow – was saying something to him.
    ‘You Mafiaaa...’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Mafia number one,’ she hissed, gazing up at him with something like awe.
    ‘Yeah, whatever. Why d’ya think I’m Mafia?’
    ‘My friend say you Mafiaaa. Maybe bad man.’
    He grinned. ‘And you like bad men?’
    ‘Bad men pay well’ Her turn to grin.
    He caressed her bottom. ‘Depends.’
    She cocked her head on one side, and Pan could see Santi sitting dejectedly at the bar gazing at him. He chuckled and drew sensuously on his cigarette, just for her benefit.
    ‘I not understand.’ Kety helped herself to a cigarette from Pan’s pack. He considered cuffing her for her forwardness, then relaxed and grinned again. And hell, here he was actually lighting her cigarette. Perhaps he was more of a gentleman than he’d ever figured. Or perhaps he just liked whores.
    Bless ’em.
    ‘Depends how much and what I get for it.’ He smirked at Santi and put his arm around the prostitute.
    ‘You Mafiaaa...’ she repeated, scrunching up her nose in an expression half cute, half ugly.
    ‘Yeah,’ he said and dragged her towards the door, feeling Santi’s gaze on him all the way across the club. ‘I’m a bad man all right.
    Jayapul. The town that when it does sleep, always has bad dreams. Shanty town blues, and curfew misery. The Indoni army patrolled the filthy walkways and squares looking for sedition, or anything they didn’t like the look of. Power rifles slung on their backs, boots clacking demonstratively. Anyone with sense got out of their way.
    The streets were dark, the stars buried. A child cried somewhere in the stacked hutches the local Papul used for houses. One of the soldiers flipped his gun down off his shoulder, swung it towards the origin of the sound, playfully wondering what might ensue if he let loose a pulse into the grubby iron shed where he knew a family was cowering at that very moment. He smirked and did a little trot forwards, swinging the weapon clownishly. His friends watched him impassively, bored of the nightly routine. He’d kill something, that was for sure.
     
    Tonight it was a Hortog. Squealing red livestock belonging to some Papul farmer who’d probably brought it to the troubled island’s capital in the hope of trading it. The soldier saw it leashed up outside a shack that was tipping over into the river behind. He snorted with glee, sensing the animal’s fear. The creature was half the height of the soldier, covered with red fur. One long tusk reared up from its prominent snout. Its hooves clicked nervously as it strained against its leash, foretelling its own doom.
    The owner emerged from the dark of the falling-down shack. A native Papul, wearing only filthy shorts imported from Batu. He was terrified, but knew he must make some effort to save his beast – and the potential source of food for his family back in the jungle for at least two, three weeks.
    He said something in the Papul language, and placed his hands together in a universal gesture. The soldier turned to his companions as if silently conferring with them what he should do. They simply stood there looking bored. The soldier levelled his pulse rifle at the Hortog and sent a searing, lightning-coloured bolt between its eyes. It hit the dirt, kicking.
    The Papul looked up at the soldier, face inscrutable.
    Slowly he unclasped his hands. The soldier nodded at him slowly, as if moving his head to some silent music. Then he slung his weapon over his shoulder and ambled off, followed by the rest of the squad.
    Dawn. The beasts that welcomed the coming of the sun, did so now, and did so noisily.
    So noisily, they woke up Pan.
    His eyes flicked open. For a moment he thought he was back in the tattoo parlour. Now why in Whore’s