Doctor Who_ Sleepy - Kate Orman [41]
CHRIS!
He pushed himself up. The clearing spun around him. He was light-headed, light as a feather, empty of everything. He staggered forward, the undergrowth biting at his ankles, and fell against the wall of one of the ancient houses.
Impact. Shrapnel. Wreckage. Raining down all around.
He could smell the burning. Had been able to smell it for days. The fragrant wood, catching alight. The spices and the flowers and the searing flesh.
No-one else was here. He was the first, then.
CHRIS!
He made it across the open space a few steps at a time.
Sometimes he closed his eyes to help him keep his balance.
CHRIS! CHRIS!
‘Please,’ he gasped. ‘I’m here, I’m here.’
Impact. Shrapnel. Wreckage. Raining down all around.
He fell down before he made it to the temple. Dragged himself the last few feet.
CHRIS!
He lay on the steps, let his head sink down. Night-cold stone against his cheek. Dawn brilliance pushing behind his closed eyelids.
CHRIS! CHRIS!
He jerked once, against the smooth edges of the stone.
Screamed into the empty air. ‘I’m here! For Goddess’ sake, I’m here! I’m here!’
Impact. Shrapnel. Wreckage. Raining down all around.
Then he slid into delirium. Waiting for the Turtle.
Part Two
Hit and Missions
In the Queen’s temple
The young men are screaming
Their voices like the rain.
And I, her stonemason,
Write the word ‘Why?’ in the bricks.
The young men are screaming
In the Queen’s temple,
Their voices like the rain.
She never asks them for anything
But they bring her roses and souls.
And I, her stonemason,
Write the word ‘Why?’ in the bricks.
The smell of burning cedarwood reaches me, Cinnamon and rosewater.
I can never quite get it out of my clothes.
Their voices like the rain,
The young men are screaming
In the Queen’s temple.
If she read the poem I’ve chipped into her chapel Perhaps I’d be the candle burning on her altar.
In the Queen’s temple
The young men are screaming
Calling her name.
And I, her stonemason,
Write the word ‘Why?’ in the bricks.
(Yemayan poem, c. 1500 BCE. Reproduced with permission from Summerfield, Bernice S., An Eye for Wisdom: Repetitive Poems of the Early Ikkaban Period. Youkali Press, 2315.)
9 White
I can see the landing field now. It’s just a big clearing with some burn marks left by the colony ship, like huge black footprints. The pilot’s switched off the spotlights. It’s dawn.
The Yemayans aren’t doing anything stupid. There are no bodies scurrying about below us; they’re all neatly tucked away inside their habitat dome, as instructed. There are several additional domes, however; they’ll have to be cleared out before we can get started.
Of course, the sensors are recording all of this detail. But I always find it useful to add my personal impressions.
The troopers are straining at the leash as we spiral in gently for a landing, just enthusiastic enough to show their devotion to duty. There are only thirty of them, a fast response team. It’s a small colony, it won’t take much to keep it under control.
The troopers know I’m keeping an eye on them. I won’t be leaving the ship until the area is secure. Well, not in person. I have a lieutenant with each of the four groups.
You’ll have to check the personnel records to discover the lieutenants’ names. To me, they are just labelled in colours: Red, Black, Yellow, Turquoise. The fewer details, even something as essential as a name, the better. The smaller the amount of contact we have off-duty, the better. If they passed me in the corridor, they wouldn’t salute. And I wouldn’t report them.
But I know that the details don’t make any difference.
Underneath, we are all the same. It doesn’t matter whether we are Dogon or Japanese, straight or gay, mod or retro. The labels don’t matter. I don’t know what countries my lieutenants are from, what they eat for dinner, what they call Christmas. We’re all the same underneath.
Touchdown.
The four groups explode from the belly of the Olpiron. I sit on the bridge, watching a tactical display with one part