Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [26]
Grek blinked repeatedly and shivered as a strange sense of familiarity stole over him. The spines on his neck rose rapidly, like flower petals in time‐lapse.
‘I watched them come down,’ continued Maconsa. ‘And I’ve taken similar shrapnel out of three troops recently.’
Grek propped himself up on his elbow.
‘With all due respect, Maconsa, I have rather more pressing problems than interesting astronomical activity. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve lost touch with all our major cities. And Hovv…’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’ Maconsa sat down wearily and rubbed his jutting chin. ‘But Grek, I don’t think this is just a coincidence. I think the events are linked.’
Grek looked at the stone in his palm and half‐smiled. ‘What is it the Faith says? “When the ground turns over in its sleep and the rain turns to stone”?’
‘“Then the Keth shall come again”,’ whispered Maconsa.
‘“And come. And come”.’
They sat in silence for some time, the sound of the streaking rain outside the only interruption.
Grek suddenly shook himself from his reverie.
‘Where’s Ran?’ he said.
* * *
For the second time that day, Bernice found herself being frog‐marched. Ran, however, seemed less keen than her previous captors to prod her with the end of his rifle.
‘Thank you,’ she said, craning her neck to look round.
‘For what?’
‘Saving my life.’
Ran’s twitching face crinkled with laughter. ‘Don’t get too optimistic. You may be a rare one but I did find you in Cutch territory. You’re living on borrowed time.’
Bernice shrugged. ‘Borrowed time is better than no time at all.’
Ran peered at her closely as they tramped through the jungle towards the Ismetch encampment. ‘Our commander has another one like you.’
Bernice’s eyes lit up. ‘The Doctor?’
‘What?’
‘Is he called the Doctor?’
Ran frowned, his expression somewhere between puzzlement and delight. ‘You even have names for one another,’ he trilled. ‘How quaint.’
Bernice made a mental note never to patronize another lifeform if she ever got off Betrushia alive.
Ran lashed at an overhanging liana with his rifle. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know its name. Grek keeps it in a cage or something.’
Bernice stepped over a clump of wet, mossy plants and narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re not like the others are you? Like the “enemy”, I mean.’
Ran didn’t look up. ‘The Cutch are barbarians.’
Bernice frowned. ‘Cutch? Yes, they mentioned that. So you must be…’
Ran stopped suddenly and pulled himself up to his very impressive seven feet. ‘I am Ran of the Ismetch, Portrone to Commander Grek and hero of Dalurida Bridge.’
Bernice cocked an eyebrow witheringly. ‘Really?’
Ran laughed, a strange, whinnying laugh. ‘You must forgive me. I’ve been listening to the propaganda so long it’s become my second language.’
Bernice considered her next question carefully. She pulled aside a clump of spiky ferns. ‘And you’re at war?’
‘Of course we’re at war. For the Greater Glory of the Ismetch. My Country or my Soul. I took an oath.’
‘An oath to destroy the Cutch?’
Ran’s scalp retracted slightly which Bernice took for a nod. ‘But why?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Obviously not.’
Ran strode on, his breeches becoming soaked by the onslaught of the rain‐drenched undergrowth. ‘I would have thought you’d developed quite an insider’s knowledge of them by now. If what you told me was true.’
‘It is true. I was captured. I’m not a spy.’
‘Well, well. We’ll have to see.’
He cocked his head slightly, returning to his theme: ‘We are at war with the Cutch because they are racially inferior.’
Bernice sighed, feeling a rush of anger rise to her cheeks. ‘I see.’
‘They’re less intelligent. Devious. Filthy. Aggressive. And they breed like mammals.’ Ran looked at her and laughed. ‘No offence.’
Bernice stood still. ‘And you’re at war with them to keep them from… from infecting the Ismetch race?’
‘Keep moving,’ barked Ran suddenly. ‘Yes. That’s it essentially. Have you been listening to the broadcasts too?’
Bernice said nothing, concentrating