Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [29]
He clapped a claw on the young reptile’s shoulder and moved towards the speecher, which still lay on his bunk. ‘I’ll organize it at once.’
‘Permission to speak, sir…’ began Maconsa.
Grek eyes him warily, knowing the uncomfortable facts he was about to draw to his fellow officers’ attention.
‘Denied,’ he said simply.
‘Grek…’
‘Permission denied, Maconsa. I want you back in the infirmary. Priss, I’m putting you in charge of the search for General Hovv.’
‘Sir!’ cried Priss delightedly.
‘And Liso…’ Grek paused a moment, regarding his one‐eyed nemesis with measured calm. ‘Liso, I want you to take command of the expedition to Porsim.’
Liso’s good eye blazed in fury. ‘But you can’t pack me off to Porsim now!’ he bellowed. ‘I’m needed here!’
‘You will do exactly as you’re ordered, Portrone.’
‘I will not!’ Liso marched up to Grek, his thin lips curling into a snarl. ‘It’s obvious you want me out of the way. You’re afraid.’
‘Afraid?’ laughed Grek. ‘Afraid of what? Of you? A child?’
Liso’s claws flew out into angry fists. ‘No! You’re afraid of the truth. Because you know the men have no respect for you any more. They look to me for leadership, Grek. Try and deny it. Go on! Try!’
In one sudden movement, Grek’s claw flew to his shoulder‐holster, pulling out his pistol and training it on Liso. The barrel came to rest inches from Liso’s enraged face.
‘I should hate to have to blow out the other eye, Liso,’ hissed Grek. ‘Now, until further notice, I am still in command here. You will report for embarkation at once or I’ll shoot you down where you stand.’
The other officers stood stock‐still. Priss could feel cold sweat trickling down the knobbly ridge of his spine. Grek cocked the gun, his hand, surprisingly, rock‐steady.
Liso’s hand stole to his face, caressing his empty socket. Then he spun on his heel and stalked from the room.
After a moment, Ran and Priss followed him in silence.
Grek uncocked the pistol and blew out a grateful sigh. ‘Well. Thank God that’s over.’
Maconsa grimaced. ‘Is it, Grek? Is it?’
Grek tossed the gun onto his bunk. ‘I’ve already told you, Maconsa. I can’t have your superstitious rubbish spreading to the men. Morale is low enough as it is. How you can –’
‘Listen!’
Grek strained to hear. ‘What?’
‘There. Outside. It’s the same sound.’
Grek shrugged but then, just at the edge of his hearing, made out a strange, low, whispering.
‘Come on!’ barked Maconsa, shifting his hulk with surprising speed towards the dug‐out entrance.
Grek ran after him into the trench. The rain had stopped but the sky was still a bleary gun‐metal grey.
Maconsa looked up in anticipation. ‘Here they come!’
In a rush, like a sudden, drenching rain shower, a hail of meteorites slammed into the ground all around them. Maconsa and Grek ducked back into the entrance for shelter.
For a few moments, the air was alive with missiles, thudding into the jungle and the wet, muddy ground. Grek put his claws on his hips and blinked. ‘I think I’ll have a word with the Doctor,’ he said at last.
* * *
Utreh opened his eyes. The constant chattering of the living jungle around him filtered gradually into his brain. He could taste mud in his mouth.
Above him, the sky was a greasy palette of cloud and mist.
He flexed a leg and then tried to haul himself onto one elbow. He gasped in pain.
Ran’s bullet had passed straight through his side. There was a lot of blood staining his uniform but nothing vital seemed to have been touched. His comrades, however, had not been so lucky. They lay where they had fallen, limbs already stiffening, clouds of flies busily at work on their flesh.
Utreh gritted his teeth and shunted himself into a sitting position, his breath coming in painful grunts.
Wherever that dirty mammal female had got to, she would pay for this outrage. The Cutch did not forget.
Now, if he could only make his way back to the encampment, everything would be all right. His side felt like it was on