Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [13]
Ace stood there now, dressed simply in T-shirt and chinos, gazing at the far‐off sun which never seemed to rise. Her bare feet luxuriated in the cold water.
The Doctor popped his head around the door and cleared his throat. ‘I thought I’d find you here. Having fun?’
She smiled languidly. ‘Mmm,’ she mumbled, her long, chestnut hair fluttering in the breeze.
The Doctor took a deep breath of the invigorating air and approached, hands behind his back, the tide sizzling around his shoes.
‘Benny has an urge…’ he began.
‘She should see a doctor.’
The Doctor laughed lightly. ‘She has. She wants us to visit a little planet called Massatoris. Likeable sort of place. Oceans. Forests. Culture. That sort of thing.’
Ace continued to gaze at the eternal sunrise, her face composed but unreadable.
The Doctor looked out towards the sea too, narrowing his eyes at the glare from the pinkish waves. ‘People to do. Things to see. And some sort of colony which means absolutely nothing to me. Professor Summerfield, on the other hand, is quite intrigued by it. Coming?’
He extended his arm so Ace could take it. She smiled and nodded but refused his crooked elbow.
‘I’ll see you in the console room. Just want to stay here a bit longer.’
The Doctor let his arm drop. The smile faded slowly from his lips. ‘Nothing wrong is there?’
Ace shook her head, her hair wafting across her eyes. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
The Doctor smoothed down his cravat, nodded, and walked up the beach in silence. He closed the Eighth Door behind him and felt momentarily stifled by the change in atmosphere.
Walking back towards the console room, the Doctor’s brow rumpled in concern. He didn’t like this at all. Ace accepting an idea of his without a single murmur of discontent. Without one bon mot of Spacefleet‐honed wit. No, no, no. Something was up.
Bernice was beaming triumphantly as he walked slowly into the room.
‘I’ve found it. Massatoris. Shall I read off the co‐ordinates?’ she chirped.
The Doctor took his place beside her and nodded silently.
Bernice began to reel off a list of figures and the Doctor keyed them into the console almost without thinking.
It won’t be long now.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Bernice.
The Doctor turned to her blankly and then smiled and nodded, his hand straying to the dematerialization lever. ‘Massatoris, here we come.’
* * *
Ran and Liso crouched low over the table, their tiny ears clamped to the speecher sets. A mass of tangled cables, like wiry offal, spilled from the machinery in front of them. Valves flashed intermittently.
The operator seated by them was small and young, inwardly quaking in the presence of his superior officers. Liso, in particular, seemed to loom over him, his feral smell oppressing the operator’s senses. He leaned closer to the machine.
‘Ask them to repeat,’ he barked.
The operator put his own speecher to his ear and pulled a brass tulip‐shaped device closer to his snout.
‘Say again. Say again, Porsim.’
There was a soft rush of static, like the crashing of an electric tide.
‘Say again.’
Ran leant back slightly, his face twitching convulsively. ‘Try once more,’ he ordered.
‘Porsim. Come in. Come in, Porsim.’ The operator strained to hear a reply, his bright eyes glancing nervously about.
There was more static then, out of the rush of interference, a small, tinny, frightened voice.
‘They have come. No time. They have come at last.’
There was a distant dull thud, more static and, finally, silence.
Liso grabbed the speecher and bellowed into it: ‘Porsim? Come in! Come in, damn you!’
Ran bent forward and clicked off the transmitter with a gloved finger. ‘It’s no good, Liso. We’ve done all we could.’
Liso exhaled angrily and flung the instrument onto the table. The operator flinched visibly and tried to busy himself.
Ran clapped a hand on his fellow officer’s shoulder. ‘That’s it then. No communication with the capital. Nor Tusamavad.’
‘Tusamavad too?’ Liso’s voice was a strangled, disbelieving whisper.
Ran nodded.