Doctor Who_ Beyond the Sun - Matthew Jones [3]
Hard.
Her head connected with the bottom of the pool. Panic coursed through her just as pain shuddered through her body.
They were trying to drown her!
A dark shape was visible through the water. Emotionless eyes staring down at her. Her lungs flooded with the thick water. She tried to struggle against the figure above her in the water, but she couldn’t get any leverage. The grey-suited figure was strong. Not like flesh and blood at all, but like a machine. She relaxed, playing dead, keeping her breathing shallow. She forced herself not to blink – perhaps they would leave her alone. Through the water she could see its pale face staring impassively down at her. Patiently waiting for her to asphyxiate.
Even through the thick liquid she could see that its face was quite beautiful. After what felt an age the weight on her chest lifted slightly and then was gone. The dark shape hovered above her for a moment and then moved away. She exhaled slowly, breathing in the thick oxygen-rich liquid. Her attacker hadn’t known about the property of the Bloom water. They’d left her for dead.
She lay in the water wondering how long she should wait before daring to lift her head up.
After what felt like an hour, but could only have been a minute or possibly two, she broke the surface quietly.
Too soon.
The grey figures were still in the room, although, fortunately for her, they all had their backs to her. One of them – the female – dropped a small flapping bundle into the shallows near her. It floated on the surface, a ragbag of spindly, pink limbs. It was a moment before Kitzinger realized that it was the body of the newborn child.
Not caring about drawing attention to herself, she splashed over to the little girl. The Oolian child’s wings were open behind her in the water. Her beak was cracked and a dark-red mark ran across her broken neck. Her eyes were still closed. They had never opened.
Wouldn’t ever open now.
Kitzinger knelt over the child, shivering with cold and shaking with fury. A shadow fell across her. She looked up into the grey face of the female. Metal eyes staring out of its thin pale face. It began to speak, its face convulsing with the effort, as if it were not accustomed to doing so.
‘You . . .’ it stuttered, its voice scratchy and hoarse, ‘are our prisoner.’ Its teeth were thin and sharp. White triangles against the darkness of its mouth.
Kitzinger stared at it in confusion and horror. ‘Prisoner?’ she said. ‘What does that mean?’
1
AN INDOOR BOY
Emile Mars-Smith made his way down four levels of business class before he found the floor where the economy cabins were. His hands were full of greasy food cartons, so he’d jammed his boarding card with his cabin number on between his teeth. He tried to peer down his nose at the card, but the large black numbers were a blur, and the effort sent him uncomfortably cross-eyed.
Sighing, he set the strawberry yassi and the masala dosa he’d just purchased from the Kwik Kurry kiosk in the passenger lounge down on the floor and checked the number on the now damp card.
Coconut sauce had dripped out of the paper-thin dosa and was spreading down his arm. He licked the line of green sauce. It was surprisingly good. He found his cabin number.
14L. Should be about three corridors down.
His cabin was a few doors beyond a group of adolescent Vilmurians who were crawling about in the corridor, snapping abuse at each other and flicking their thick tails in irritation. They had marbled eyes and long crocodile mouths. These three wore razor-sharp black suits and were surrounded by empty bubblejack cans. Emile whispered apologetic excuse-me’s as he stepped over their scaly tails. The corridors of the ship were full of people looking for somewhere to sleep or to party. Passengers who hadn’t paid for cabins were supposed to sleep on the recliners in the lounges, but the snores of people from a couple of dozen different races led most travellers to search out more private places to set up camp for the long journey.