Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [27]
Ran came up behind her. ‘And now it’s all over. Fifteen years of conflict. Peace. Now we can all go home.’
Bernice looked at him closely. For a battle‐weary soldier, he didn’t sound awfully pleased about it.
‘There is one thing I’d like to know,’ she said at last.
‘Oh yes?’
‘What were you doing out here?’
Ran’s pale blue eyes regarded her steadily before breaking up into an erratic spasm of tics.
* * *
Imalgahite squinted through the twin barrels of the telescope towards the jungle. The crested helmet he had jammed onto his head sparkled with a coppery sheen in the fine rain.
Around him, the Cutch trench was almost knee‐high in muddy black water. He glared disgustedly at the rat‐like mammals swimming in V-shaped ripples through it, and leant his elbow against the duckboards propping up the trench wall.
A thin soldier with mangy, blackened scales sloshed through the water towards him and saluted. Imalgahite acknowledged him with a grunt.
‘Well?’
‘Nothing, sir. Utreh and the others have failed to report back.’
Imalgahite turned back to the twin telescopes and spoke in a low murmur: ‘So, unless they’ve gone over to the Ismetch, it’s safe to assume they’re dead.’
The soldier gazed down at the water lapping at his knees. ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
Utreh had been a good friend. The whole brigade had found Imalgahite’s orders to take the mammal female out into enemy territory bizarre. And now the inevitable had happened. Three good Cutch dead.
‘And if I know the Ismetch mentality,’ rumbled Imalgahite, ‘the mammal will have been taken back to their base – dead or alive.’
‘Sir?’
Imalgahite gazed levelly into the soldier’s eyes. It was a shame about Utreh, he reflected, but brave soldiers could find only glory in a premature death.
‘I made sure she was taken into Ismetch territory for a very good reason, soldier.’
He ducked into an alcove and pulled out a small, square box, its grilled front exposing a complex of wires and valves at its heart.
Carefully, Imalgahite plugged the machine into one of the speecher cables and then crouched down as a series of whistles and squeaks erupted from it. He turned three or four dials, his clawed fingers moving with surprising dexterity.
Finally, a single high‐pitched note bled into the rush of static. Imalgahite gave one last turn on the dial and the note rang out, high and pure. He turned to the thin soldier, a smile playing on his scaly features. ‘Can you get a fix on that?’ he said.
* * *
After an uneventful journey through a series of gloomy corridors, Ran passed Bernice into the custody of young Priss. Her twitching captor had, in any case, become totally uncommunicative as soon as they had entered the Ismetch base, no doubt embarrassed to be seen in the company of a mere mammal.
Priss, now getting quite used to talking animals, was more forthcoming, but his preferred dialogue seemed to consist of ‘Move!’ and ‘Shut up!’ for the most part.
At the door of the conference room, Priss looked about, his eyes glinting in the dismal light of the gas jets. ‘Don’t try anything. There’ll be trouble.’
Bernice set her jaw fiercely. ‘You’re dead right. What’re you going to do with me, anyway?’
‘Portrone Ran says you are to be restricted inside the conference chamber. The chamber is through this door. You must proceed.’
‘I am proceeding,’ she squawked as he pushed her through the doorway and slammed the door shut in her face.
She banged furiously on the door. ‘If you’d stop treating me like…’
‘Please don’t shout,’ cut in a soft voice. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
Bernice whirled round. Concealed by the shadows, his feet up on the table and his fedora over his eyes, sat a familiar figure.
‘Doctor!’
‘Yes,’ he drawled, sitting up and smiling. ‘In person. You know, I’m inordinately pleased to see you. Commander Grek seemed to think your chances of survival were extremely slim.’
‘They nearly were. But I was… er… rescued.’
‘Rescued? By whom?’
Bernice shrugged, trying to remember Ran’s pompous description of himself. ‘The first officer.