Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [23]
And projecting from the remains, at the ends of those blackened, stick-like limbs, her hands and feet were almost untouched by the fire. Light gleamed from the gold of her wedding ring.
I turned away, and I am not ashamed to say that it was the stench of cooked flesh that caused me to be violently ill.
Interlude
AF235/2/3/12
V-ON, BRD-ABLE, WPU = 231.2
VERBAL INPUT, SAVE AND COMPRESS
MILITARY LOG FILE EPSILON
CODE GREEN FIVE
ENABLE
Rocky slope of a mountain, looking down. Plain spread out for some miles.
No cover to speak of.
Some kind of experiment's going on. It must be important, 'cos every time they do it, they post sentries. Lot of singing, then a big sheet of some dark material appears. Could be some kind of transmat portal. Could be a lot of things.
Bit of a flap a few days back. One of the large three-legged rat-things that infest the foothills wandered into the area. The sentries tried to get it, but ended up panicking it. I saw it run for the dark sheet. It vanished, like I thought it might. That's why I shooed it in that direction.
The sentries aren't native to this area, that's the interesting thing. They all came over from beyond the mountains I'm going to try and follow them back when they pack up shop.
This planet is about as strange as they come. The icecap covers the entire surface, and is supported by the tops of the mountain ranges. Everything lives under the ice. The light from what I guess is the sun is weak, and the ice spreads it out so it looks like half the sky is glowing. It's like living inside a table-tennis ball. There are small creatures that actually live upside down on the interior of the ice shield. They're like big helium balloons on skates.
No intelligence to speak of. A well-aimed arrow can puncture their skin and bring them down into your arms Roasted slowly over a fire, they taste of chocolate.
I used to like chocolate.
I used to like a lot of things.
Oh, hell.
DISABLE.
2331/34/FF PIP.
Chapter 4
In which the Doctor pours oil on troubled waters and Holmes goes to the dogs.
'It's a rum business, and no mistake,' Inspector MacDonald sighed, running a hand through his lank blond hair.
We were sitting in the Tank: a private bar located in the basement of Scotland Yard. It was a dismal place, enlivened only by sketches of criminals tom from the Newgate Calendar and attached to the wall. Despite its unwelcoming appearance it was full to bursting. Three years ago the Irish Republican Brotherhood had bombed the nearby CID offices, demolishing a public house and injuring a number of policemen. Sordid the Tank may have been, but at least it was safe.
MacDonald, the Doctor and I sat at a small table beside a damp brick wall. I recognized one or two other occupants of the Tank from Holmes's dealings with Scotland Yard: Inspectors Lestrade and Abberline were grumbling over their pints by the bar, Walter Dew was arguing with the barman, and a sharp-faced sergeant named Cribb, whom I knew Holmes had a great deal of respect for, nursed a small whisky at a nearby table. I thought I could smell food, but nobody seemed to be eating.
'And what's "rum" about it?' the Doctor murmured, sipping at a sarsaparilla.
'I'm sure that Mr Sherlock Holmes would have a word or two on the subject,' MacDonald said, 'but I confess myself puzzled. Inspector Bradstreet called the Yard in on the suspicion of murder, but I'll be blessed if I can see how such a crime could have been engineered.'
'Bradstreet,' I snapped, 'is an imbecile!'
"There's some that would agree with you there,' Mac replied. 'He's been shuffled from pillar to post these past few years, for nobody wants to work with him. He started off at Bow Street, then transferred to B Division, and then on to M, where you met him today. Word is he's in line for the Yard.'
'But he can't possibly suspect -'
'A woman goes up in flames in a room with no fireplace, and you two are the only witnesses. And neither she nor either