Doctor Who_ Deep Blue - Mark Morris [74]
For a while after that things became a little blurred. The Brigadier remained kneeling on the floor, head bowed, trying to pull his emotions back on to an even keel while everything happened around him. He was vaguely aware of Yates taking charge, organising the men. At one point he saw the Doctor being carried out on a makeshift stretcher, his face waxy and composed, some kind of padding - a jacket perhaps - bound tightly against his shoulder to stem the bleeding. He heard Yates barking orders at Benton; heard the voice of the Australian girl too, but rather than words he heard only her emotions - the brashness of her anger, the strain of her shock, the muted tones of her concern.
It was she who finally came to him, crouching beside him, putting one hand on his arm as if feeling his biceps, the other on his back. The Brigadier had never been much of a one for physical contact, but now he felt absurdly grateful for the consideration she was showing him.
‘Are you all right, Brigadier?’ she asked gently, warily.
The tears had mostly run their course, but the Brigadier felt entirely drained of energy. It was as if he was viewing the world through thick gauze; he felt as if great areas of his mind were no longer his, but merely empty chambers waiting to be filled by whatever had cleared out his thoughts.
He nodded, however, and murmured, ‘There’s life in the old dog yet.’
She smiled and patted him on the back. ‘Come on then, old dog,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you out of here. Can you walk?’
The Brigadier would have found it too much of an indignity to say no, so he nodded again and forced himself to his feet.
He tried to convince himself that he was escorting her as much as she was supporting him as they shuffled out of the building. The fog was closing in again and he had to channel all his efforts, all his concentration, into remembering who and where he was, into putting one foot in front of the other.
After a while he felt his chest and shoulders itching again, but this time it was a pleasant itch; it seemed to send ripples of sensation, like pure energy, coursing through his body.
‘Xaranti,’ he murmured, lovingly.
‘What?’ asked Tegan.
The Brigadier felt a flash of irritation. ‘We are Xaranti,’ he told her.
The girl looked at him anxiously, and suddenly in his eyes she seemed so puny, hateful, pathetic. ‘No. You’re Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. You work for UNIT, remember?’
For a brief moment he was confused, felt as if his mind was struggling with itself, then the delicious itch flowed through him again, imbuing him with strength and confidence. ‘We are Xaranti,’ he repeated, snatching his arm from her grip.
‘And you...’ He stepped closer as if to strike her, then stopped. He sensed... sensed... yes. ‘You are Xaranti too.
The girl looked shocked. ‘No!’ she said, backing away from him.
He laughed. ‘Soon we will all be Xaranti.’
‘No!’ the girl said again, more venomously this time.
He was about to reply when he felt something in his mind: a tickle, a voice, an instinct, an idea, a compulsion. It was all of these and more, but wherever it had come from - and the Brigadier felt as though it had come as much from inside him, from his memories and knowledge, as from outside - the message was clear.
‘The Doctor,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘We must -’ He stopped abruptly; he was telling her too much. The human influence in her was still too strong. He pressed his teeth together in a tight grin. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide, searching.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘You’re not going to have the Doctor. He’s the only one who can help you.’
She turned and ran into the darkness. The Brigadier hissed his displeasure and followed. But his new-found energy burned off quickly, and after a minute or so he was panting again, sweat pouring off him. He struggled along, hands slapping the wall to maintain his balance, but the girl drew so far ahead that soon he could