Doctor Who_ Prime Time - Mike Tucker [61]
He crossed to one of the hanging figures. It was a young man, his arms neatly amputated. An elaborate harness wound around his torso, with chains and pipes snaking into his chest.
A Fleshsmith pushed past the Doctor and inserted a needle into one of the pipes. The man gave a gasp of pain and his eyes snapped open.
He looked at the Doctor in anguish, his mouth trying to get words past the pipe that wound into his gut. Then his eyes flickered shut again and he slumped into his harness.
The Doctor turned in disgust and rage. The surgeon general was being attended by two of his aides, who were disconnecting the pipes that coiled from under his robes and reattaching them to one of the throbbing junction boxes. Thick black fluid splattered across the floor.
The surgeon general looked at him. ‘You don’t approve?’
‘Approve?’ The Doctor’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘What possible reason could this place have? What possible motive?’
‘Life,’ said the FIeshsmith bluntly. ‘It is our means of staying alive.’
‘Why?’
‘You have seen this planet. You know what conditions are like on the surface.’
The Doctor said nothing.
‘We were once a civilised species, Doctor. Fine artists, great builders. We built a civilisation unrivalled in this galaxy, a masterpiece of elegance and beauty.’ The surgeon general crossed to one of the hanging bodies and ran a scarred hand over its face. ‘We were beautiful and the destruction of our world was nothing more than a tragic accident.’
He looked at the Doctor, his human eye gleaming with anger. ‘Our world was destroyed by natural disaster, not by war, not by our own hand. The universe itself decided we were to die, turned the soil to ash, made our people sterile. But we fought back, fought against the universe itself.’
‘And that justifies this?’• The Doctor waved his hands at the bodies hanging around him. ‘What possible justification could you possibly have for this?’
‘We didn’t want it to be this way, Doctor. As our people died so we used their bodies to prolong life for the rest of us...
spare part surgery, transplants, prostheses. Soon there were no bodies left to use and so we started to look elsewhere.’
The Fleshsmith stared proudly around the chamber. ‘We became masters of flesh, masters of surgery. The creatures here are not dead, they are preserved, alive, and we can utilise their organs, their brains, to revitalise us. We have achieved almost perpetual life, but we constantly need new bodies, new flesh to keep our race alive.’
He picked at the skin on his forearm. It flaked away leaving a weeping sore. ‘We break down so quickly these days. The atmosphere becomes ever more corrosive. The nebula. so beautiful, so deadly. By plugging into this repository of flesh we can adapt ourselves to any environment, any atmosphere.’
The Doctor hung his head. ‘I can’t allow this.’
‘You are going to help put an end to it. Submit to us and all this...’ The surgeon general gestured expansively,‘... could be redundant.’
The Doctor’s arms were suddenly grasped by robed figures.
‘You are to become a vital part of our make up, Doctor. A regenerative ability. An end to our decay.’
The Doctor struggled to get free but the grip that held him was like iron. He felt something pressed to his arm and a sudden searing pain. He cried out and dropped to the floor, clutching his arm.
A small metal dart protruded through skin and cloth, his jacket was already staining with blood. The surgeon general held up a gnarled control box.
‘You will behave, Doctor.’ He twisted a dial and the Doctor writhed in agony as wave upon wave of searing pain flooded through him.
‘The pain is powerful enough to keep the Zzinbriizi in line, so please, do as you are told.’
The pain faded, leaving the Doctor panting on the blood-caked gravel. The surgeon general began to shuffle through the bodies. ‘You will follow me to the forge, Doctor.’
Two of the Fleshsmiths dragged the Doctor to his feet. His eyes were harsh and grey. The surgeon general fingered the controls on the box. ‘You have no choice, Doctor.