Doctor Who_ Prime Time - Mike Tucker [64]
His captors said nothing to him, the pipes that linked them to the flesh bank dragging behind them like transparent tails.
Periodically they would stop and reconnect themselves to another junction box, the thick blood-like fluid pooling around their feet.
The Doctor wondered what could possibly have driven them to live like this, what warped instinct for survival had convinced them that living vampire-like off the fluids and organs of other life forms was better than death. He watched the scarred twisted hands fumbling with the heavy pipes and felt a sudden pang of sympathy. Then the face of the young man with no legs, hanging like some grotesque ornament, swam back into his mind and all trace of compassion vanished from his face.
These creatures were monsters, and it was his job to fight them.
A door loomed in the murky blackness. One of the creatures spun the locking wheel and it swung open. The Doctor stepped inside and the door was slammed shut.
The room was spartan with dark, dripping walls, and was lit by the flickering blue light of a television screen. Even on Scrantek there was no escape from that.
The door creaked open again and a man was bundled into the room, collapsing into a heap at the Doctor’s feet.
The Doctor knelt down and gently turned him over. The Master’s face was pale and drawn, the cruel line of the mouth bruised and bloody. Under the thin surgical robe the Doctor could see blood seeping from endless puncture marks.
The Master’s eyes flickered open.
‘Doctor. How nice to see you, in the flesh as it were. Your television exploits have been quite amusing.’
The Doctor caught hold of the Master’s arm, hauling him to his feet.
‘Here, there’s a bench. Sit down and I’ll take a look at you.’ The Master sat on the hard bench, wincing as the Doctor ran his hands over the needle wounds.
‘You know, Doctor, I really never took you for quite such a fool.’
‘Really, how so?’
‘Sticking your head into the lion’s den, to rescue me.’ The Master gave a coughing laugh. ‘If it wasn’t so tragic it would be funny’
The Doctor stood back from the bench and regarded his ancient enemy. ‘I assume you’ve seen everything that has been going on? That the Fleshsmiths have kept you informed?’
The Master nodded. ‘Every little scheme and idea, every pointless plan, every failure.’ He stared contemptuously at the Doctor. ‘If our positions had been reversed...’
‘Yes well lucky for you they weren’t.’ The Doctor began to rummage in his pockets. ‘Fortunately for you the Fleshsmiths have decided that I am more use to them than you are. They obviously have impeccable taste.’
With a cry of triumph he hauled out a box of sticking plasters and a tube of antiseptic cream. He waggled them in front of the Master. ‘Don’t want you getting infected, now do we?’
The Master swiped his hands aside. ‘You are an imbecile.’
The Doctor frowned. ‘I think I preferred you better as a jackal.’
Light suddenly flooded into the room and two Fleshsmiths shambled in. One of them thrust something into the Master’s arms. A black velvet suit.
‘You will wear this. The surgeon general wants you looking your best for the cameras.’
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘You run a dry-cleaning service? How very quaint. If you could just give my pullover a quick once over...’
‘You can laugh, Time Lord,’ hissed the shuffling figure,‘But when our DNA sequencer starts to unravel your central nervous system you will be able to do nothing but scream.’
The Fleshsmiths lurched back into the corridor. The Master looked up at the Doctor. ‘And for that, Doctor, I can vouch. Personally.’
Lukos sat in the gallery of Studio One watching with delight the show being played out in front of him. The board of governors were safely tucked away in the VIP suite once more. Lukos had made his excuses and left. He was always more at home here in the gallery, watching as the shows were put together. His shows.
Down in the studio, Saarl