Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [28]
The Doctor tapped his fingers against his chin. ‘Ah, yes. The man with the twitching lids. I’ve seen him about.’
Bernice sank wearily into a chair, rubbing a knot of muscle which had developed in her shoulder. ‘What are our chances of getting out of this bloody swamp?’
The Doctor fiddled with the buttons of his filthy waistcoat. ‘That depends. Seems to be a particularly vicious civil war taking place.’
‘Genocidal more like,’ murmured Bernice, ‘if you believe the rhetoric old Twitchy was coming out with.’
The Doctor sighed. ‘Same old story. Everywhere you go. An unreasoning, irrational hatred of other races.’
‘Mind you,’ she smiled, ‘they may not be far wrong about the Cutch. They did send me off into the jungle to be executed.’
The Doctor looked up. ‘Did they indeed?’
‘Yes. They thought I was an enemy spy or something.’
‘Mmm. Same thing this end.’
‘But they also said the war was almost over. Twitchy said so, too.’
The Doctor brushed a lock of mud‐caked hair from his eyes. ‘There’s a lot going on here that doesn’t make sense. Remember those readings I took in the TARDIS?’
Bernice nodded. ‘Funny, you said.’
‘Indeed. Since we arrived there’s been another tremor. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.’
Bernice got up and laid a gentle hand on the Doctor’s arm. ‘Just for once, couldn’t we leave these people to sort it out for themselves?’ I mean, it’s war. And unless you’ve got any heavy artillery up your sleeve, there’s probably very little we can do to help, one way or the other.’
The Doctor’s face rumpled, and he smiled. ‘Perhaps you’re right. We could find a way out and go back for Ace. See how she’s getting along.’
He stood up and made a vain attempt to brush the dried mud from the remains of his suit. ‘There’s one thing that bothers me, though. You say the… the Cutch isn’t it? The Cutch sent you out into the jungle to be executed.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But why? Why not do it right there?’
Bernice shrugged, pulling her coat closer around her against the chill. Recessed in the left lapel, a tiny brass and crystal stud glittered and winked quietly.
* * *
‘All right,’ said Grek, swinging round to face his officers. ‘I want opinions. Where do we go from here?’
He was looking quite impressive, his tunic freshly sponged by a couple of press‐ganged orderlies. Liso, however, still managed to look more alert and confident, even stooping slightly to prevent his crest from brushing the low ceiling. Ran stood next to him, one claw behind his back in his familiar fashion and Maconsa, head sunk on chest, was almost standing to attention. Priss, ever eager, had his chest pushed out as though he were expecting a medal.
‘The female mammal isn’t saying anything,’ said Ran. ‘If she’s a spy then she’s a very good one.’
Liso snorted contemptuously. ‘Kill them. Kill them both, that’s what I say. Filthy animals. They’re not the issue here.’
Grek glanced sideways at him. ‘And what is?’
‘There’s no question of ending hostilities now, sir. No armistice to sign. No peace.’
Grek inclined his head a little. ‘Yes, well, if you could put your glee to one side for a moment, Portrone, perhaps you could address the question: why?’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Porsim, mister. Tusamavad. Why haven’t we heard from them? What the hell is going on out there?’
Ran cleared his throat. ‘A cursory study of the facts, sir, shows that something is systematically cutting off all our links with the major conurbations.’
Grek looked at them all and heaved a desperate sigh. ‘So what do we do?’
Unexpectedly, Priss piped up, his voice cracking with nervousness: ‘If I may be so bold, sir.’
The others looked at him in surprise.
‘Go on, Priss.’
‘If they don’t contact us, why don’t we go to them?’
Liso flexed his gloved claws in irritation. ‘Go to them? What are you suggesting, boy?’
Priss glanced about anxiously. ‘An expedition, Portrone. A dirigible. Perhaps two or three. They could be over Porsim in a day or so. And we’re bound to find out what the problem is. One way or another.’
There was a thoughtful pause in the dug