Chapter 12: Confrontation

Rough hands pushed Clara into a chair. As her arms were held down, someone used padded restraints to bind her wrists to the arm rests, then bound her ankles to the chair legs.

"Don't want you stumbling around blind," Clyde Moon said. "You could do yourself an injury. I'll be in consultation with the Doctor, then we'll get right back to you. Now don't go away! Doctor?"

Clara could hear two pairs of bare feet quietly walk away through a thick carpet. The sound was quickly gone. Nearby, she could hear the sound of breathing.

"Is everyone okay? Is everyone here?" Clara said.

"I'm here," she heard Sophie say. Her voice came from her left.

"Me too," said Hans. His voice came from behind.

"So am I," said Rebecca. Also from behind.

"I need to pee," said Nils, to her right.

Everyone chuckled at that. It quickly died down.

"Who else is in here?" Clara called out. There was no answer. "Hey, I can hear you breathing, somewhere in front of me and to my left. Who else is here?"

Instead of an answer, she heard the sound of music start up, from the same direction as the breathing. It sounded like a game. Whoever it was, they were clearly ignoring her.

"Right. Be that way," she muttered, mostly to herself. She tried testing the bindings. They were relatively gentle—kinder than a rope or zip-tie—but unyielding.

Now that they were in a room with light, things were no longer completely dark—the effect was more of a mid-level gray. When the Doctor and Clyde Moon walked away from her earlier, she could just make out slightly darker gray shapes moving against a general gray background. Even in very bright light, Clara suspected it wouldn't be much better, just lighter shades of gray. As Clyde had said, linx on standby made for an effective blindfold.

It had never occurred to Clara, when she walked into that linx boutique all those months ago, that her linx could be used against her. And judging from the reactions of her friends, that thought had never crossed their minds either. Things like this simply didn't happen. Not on Neuesonne.

Her linx were quite comfortable, designed to be worn continuously, and in fact the recommendation at the time was to not attempt to remove them herself, but to leave removal to the professionals. Now she wondered, what it would take to get them out of her eyes? She didn't think to ask at the time. Could they be removed like ordinary twenty-first century contacts, or was there more to it?

Clara went on the alert when she heard a faint, "Thank you, Doctor." She strained to hear. Yes, at least one person, maybe two, were walking towards her. Then she perceived two gray shapes moving. Once the shapes stopped, it was nearly impossible to distinguish them from the background.

"Well?" Clara heard the Doctor say.

"I'm a man of my word," Clyde Moon replied. Clara rolled her eyes at that, then wondered if anyone looking at her could tell she had rolled her eyes.

Clara heard something click. She blinked away tears in the sudden light as her eyes slowly adjusted. She was tied to a dining room chair, facing away from a large table, in spacious hotel suite with off-white carpeting. In a similar design to the Grand Germania, floor to ceiling windows and a sliding door opened out onto a wide balcony, with a view of New Berlin's nighttime skyline.

Off to one side on Clara's left, a man wearing a gold chain was seated on an off-white sofa, playing a game on a hand-held device. He was positioned so that he could easily keep an eye on her and her companions. Directly in front stood Clyde Moon and the Doctor.

"Welcome to the Plaza!" Clyde said with a smile. He waved to the man with the gold chain. "Butch, release our honored guest."

Butch put down his game device, then picked up a pair of garden pruning shears from a side table. He walked up to Clara and gleefully held out the shears for her to examine. "Hold still," he said with a sneer. "Be a real shame if I cut off a finger instead of the restraints."

"Where did those shears come from?" Clara said. It looked just like a pair her mother used in her garden. She asked mostly as a way to cover her nervousness. As Butch leaned over her, she turned her head away and tried to not breathe. His body exuded a rancid mix of cheap cologne and old sweat. Clearly, he wasn't concerned about hygiene. Butch ignored her distress as he began to snip the restraints.

Clyde's eyebrows flicked in astonishment. "I'm surprised you even know what they are," he said. "Believe it or not, there are planets even more backwards than this place. You'd be surprised how many colonies were started by people with fantasies of an idealistic, agrarian past; fairy tales they'd tell themselves about the good old days. Most of those colonies failed for obvious reasons, but sometimes you find gems like those hand shears. It's a nine hundred year old design. Not at all safe by modern standards, but that's rather the point. Just the sight of them alone can be useful for, let us say, encouraging people to be more forthcoming."

Clara suppressed a shutter at the idea as Butch finished. He stepped back as she stood up. She pointed to Nils. "He needs to pee," she said simply.

Clyde jerked his head at Butch. "Get him a bottle."

Butch looked very put out, but slowly wandered off in search of a bottle, taking his time. Clyde, meanwhile, waved to Clara to join him and the Doctor, who had stood quietly the whole time, not saying a word, simply observing.

Clara took two steps forward and stopped. She waved back at her friends. "What about them?"

"Their health depends on your good behavior," Clyde replied with a sneer. "For now, they stay put. Follow me."

They began walking towards the balcony doors. "Did you know those doctors kept me in isolation another two weeks after you were so publicly released?" Clyde complained to Clara. "Two weeks! The nerve!"

Clara did know. She hid a smile. "Well, you were the person most in contact with Elizabeth," she reminded him.

Clyde waved dismissively. He paused at the sliding door. "None of that matters now." He turned to face both Clara and the Doctor with a grin. "In fiction, this is the part where the so-called bad guy reveals his evil plans of galactic domination or whatever. Then the good guy—the person I'm sure you imagine yourself to be, Clara, intervenes at the last second to save the day! Is that about the size of it? Do you think you're the heroine of your own story?"

"Yes," Clara replied with more certainty than she felt.

"How about you, Doctor?" Clyde said.

"Me?" replied the Doctor. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just here as an observer and advisor." He pointed to Clara. "She's the one in charge."

"Doctor!" Clara said, shocked and disappointed at the Doctor's dismissive answer.

"Yes, Clara?" the Doctor said with a raised gray eyebrow as he looked at her expectantly.

"Why don't you tell Clyde Moon who you are?"

"Where's the fun in that?" The Doctor looked at Clyde. "Do carry on. I believe you were about to show us something?"

Clyde smiled, slid open the door and led the way onto the balcony. A machine sat on the balcony, a sort of blue nozzle shape on top of a large, plastic tank. A hose connected from the tank to the nozzle.

"What is that thing?" Clara asked, pointing at the odd contraption.

"It's nothing more than a fogging machine, normally used for disinfecting hospitals. I have one on top of every building I own," Clyde said proudly. "And even a few I don't. Your Grand Germania, for example, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Doctor, what can you tell us about the current state of galactic society?"

The Doctor rubbed his chin. "Well, apart from largely independent settlements like Neuesonne, this is a time of immense wealth inequality. The ruling class own pretty much everything, hording vast wealth that they couldn't hope to spend in a thousand years. The top few hundred families, give or take, are worth more than the bottom of half the galaxy's entire population numbering in the trillions. They own the courts and the politicians who bend the rules to their favor. Much of the galaxy lives in abject poverty."

Clyde beamed and pointed at the Doctor. "Exactly right! It is my intention to break the ruling class, forcing a redistribution."

Clara frowned. She felt more than a little confused. "I thought you were just in it for the money!"

Clyde laughed. "Of course I'm in it for the money! In this arena, money is the only weapon, and you need a big weapon to go after the ruling class. My personal fortune, as large as it is, hardly rises to the level of petty cash compared to them! It's not enough on its own. But tonight will be the start—the pebble that starts the avalanche that will bring them down. At last, my father and grandfather will be avenged!"

"Oh?" said Clara. "Is that what this is about? Some sort of multi-generational revenge thing? For a moment there I thought you actually wanted to help the galaxy!"

Clyde looked offended. "Little girl, this will help the galaxy, but it also takes a willingness to do what needs to be done. Can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Ha! That expression is so archaic I'll bet you've never heard it!"

Clara rolled her eyes. "And what 'eggs' do you intend to break?"

"Neuesonne of course!" Clyde beamed. "And I'm afraid that includes you," he added insincerely. "Neuesonne is one of a few planets that includes an automatic citizen life insurance policy as part of its social safety net, along with a universal basic income and all that other stuff."

Clara shook her head. "What? What does any of that—"

"Have to do with it?" Clyde finished. "I'm glad you asked. Governments like to play it safe, and the Neuesonne government is paranoid about the possibility of pandemics. What if a significant percentage of the population dies all at once? That's a cash flow problem, so governments like this one have galactic insurance policies."

"But governments can print money!"

Clyde shook his head. "That's true of large governments, but Neuesonne is small. There are complicated galactic banking rules that prevent them from simply printing money—not if they want to maintain their excellent credit rating. Those same rules require them to maintain policies."

At Clara's puzzled expression, Clyde sighed. "I can see you're not getting it. What happens if the entire population dies out? All but one, that is?"

Clara felt a cold chill. "With you as the sole survivor? That's genocide!" she exclaimed.

"That's business," Clyde shot back. "As the only survivor of a planetary pandemic, and as someone who can prove in a galactic court I have a substantial claim here because of all the properties I own prior to said pandemic, I become the sole owner of an entire planet, complete with ready-to-move-in infrastructure. And guess who becomes the beneficiary of all those life insurance payments?"

"You're no better than the Vananisi!" Clara shouted, fists clenched, shocked and furious at the very idea. "And it's completely crazy! You wouldn't be the beneficiary of all those policies!"

Clyde laughed. "Darling, it's a contract, and contracts can be anything agreed to by the signing parties. You haven't read the fine print. In the event of a pandemic where no surviving family members can be found, the proceeds are to be equally divided among the surviving population. And if there's only one survivor…."

Clyde gave Clara an evil smile. "And that's not the end of it. I've had experts do a lot of number crunching. The insurance company underwriting Neuesonne is overextended. Even a small surge in payouts—say, one point six billion policy payments—will trigger a crisis. It will force them to call in loans, sell assets and other investments. Within months, what starts small will cascade into a crash of the entire galactic financial system, ruining the ruling class that run the whole shooting match. It will force reforms that will make the galaxy a better place for everyone, and all it will cost is the population of one, obscure planet few have ever heard of."

"You're talking about one point six billion people!" Clara raged.

Clyde waved his hand dismissively. "That's a rounding error, compared to the number of lives that will be improved."

"Your life will be improved in particular," said the Doctor. "If your scheme works as advertised, it will make you very rich indeed. Possibly the richest man in the galaxy."

Clyde shrugged. "Only because the ruling class will be brought down, but still not the richest in history. But consider this: we pay teachers to teach, and builders to build. Why not pay the guy who saves the galaxy?"

The Doctor nodded his head. "It's an interesting plan. Very bold. It won't work of course."

Clyde glared at the Doctor. "What do you mean, it won't work?"

The Doctor waved a hand. "Oh, to be sure it will make you richer than you are now. Not as rich as you imagine, but still quite wealthy. And it will cause great financial hardship among the merely super rich. Maybe a few million of them, even tens of millions, will go bankrupt. But the ruling class rich will hardly notice. The people you'll really harm are the ones you claim you want to save—the trillions of teaming poor."

Clyde snorted at that. "You'll forgive me if I prefer to believe the analysis of a team of financial experts over some old guy shooting from the hip."

Clara closed her eyes and shook her head in frustration. She turned her attention to the Doctor. "Well?" she said.

"Well what, Clara?" the Doctor said in return. Apart from making his one observation, he seemed strangely unmoved. Cold, even.

"Do something!" she shouted with a frustrated wave of her hands.

"What would you have me do, Clara? Remember, this is your show."

Clyde Moon frowned as he looked back and forth between Clara and the Doctor, before giving the Doctor a hard stare. "Just who the hell does she think you are?"

"Who am I? Oh, well, since you asked nicely," the Doctor said with a modest shrug. He straightened, and suddenly his quiet demeanor became very imposing.

"I am the Doctor. I'm over two thousand years old. I'm a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous. I am a traveler; a wanderer of all time and space. I am the oncoming storm. I am a Dalek's worst nightmare, the bane of the Cybermen, the scourge of the Sontarans, the silencer of the Silence, the blight of the Zygons, the calamity of the Weeping Angels. Entire armies have turned and fled at the mere mention of my name. I am the man that stops the monsters. That is who I am."

"Now that's more like it!" Clara said gleefully. She did a hop of excitement and clapped her hands together as Clyde looked taken aback and fearful. "That's the Doctor I know!"

The Doctor turned his head to look at Clara. "But sometimes, Clara," the Doctor said quietly, "my hands are tied. Remember what I said? This is your show. Today I'm an observer. I will not interfere."

Clyde turned triumphant at the look of shock on Clara's face.

"What?" Clara shouted as she turned her wrath towards the Doctor. "Billions of lives are at stake!"

"Yes, you're quite right," agreed the Doctor. "Billions will die, but there are times when I dare not interfere in the course of history. This, I'm afraid, is one of those times."

"But you can stop him!" Clara insisted. She pointed at the strange device on the balcony. "What about that thing? Can't you do something about that?"

Clyde began to laugh. "Silly girl! Did you think I would be telling you all this, only to have you stop it at the last second? This isn't that story. Tell her, Doctor."

Clara looked at the Doctor with rounded eyes. "Tell me what?"

The Doctor slowly shook his head. "The Vananisi nano plague. It's already been dispersed."