Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [3]
There was a brief burst of gunfire somewhere in the distance. Grek looked over his shoulder. When he turned back, Liso was emerging from the trench. Immediately, a tiny knot of fear and anger began to writhe in his stomach.
Liso’s black uniform was pristine and his serrated crest swept in an unusual, graceful curve from his one good poison‐bottle‐blue eye. A handsome man, Grek had always thought, but dangerous.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Liso as he swung himself off the ladder onto the surface. He saluted with a gloved claw and then allowed the gesture to fade into an abstract stroking of his empty socket.
Grek had seen the Cutch bullet which had destroyed Liso’s eye, and had nursed him back to health through long months in the field infirmary. They had been good friends then and young Liso had admired Grek to the exclusion of all others. But that had been in the early days of the war when Grek had a reputation, a string of victories to his credit and the Pelaradator’s star pinned to his chest.
Grek acknowledged Liso with a slight nod. The younger man rocked his jaw slightly, as though nervous, and again traced a line over the powder‐burnt socket of his empty eye.
Grek looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Found something to do with young Priss yet, Mister Liso?’
‘I was informed, sir, that you had refused to give him further instructions.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘With respect, sir…’
Grek’s claws were shaking behind his back. ‘Look, Liso…’ He shivered as a fresh curtain of rain pelted down from the jungle canopy. ‘It’s dangerous out there. Still. In spite of everything. And I’m not about to risk a good soldier’s life on some pointless exercise just to keep him occupied.’
‘But, sir, the war…’
‘The war is over, Mister.’
Liso’s handsome features twisted with anger. ‘No, sir. It’s not over. Not by a long way.’
‘The Pelaradator is pushing for an armistice, Liso, and I agree with him. I just want to go home. Home to Porsim. With my skin and my men as intact as possible. Is that so terrible?’
Liso was pacing about, almost stamping the sodden ground in his anger. The rain sizzled around them, sending fresh clouds of steam into the hazy air.
‘Sir, until we receive orders from Porsim…’
‘Lilo,’ Grek cut in with a trace of irritation, ‘it’s over. Face it, son. Fifteen years of war. Over. It may not have worked out quite as we’d planned…’
Liso snorted. Grek ignored him.
‘…or as we’d hoped, but surely it’s better to have peace.’
‘Peace!’ spat Liso. ‘A diplomat’s peace is no peace at all! How can we trust the Cutch to keep their word? They’re beneath our contempt, sir, surely you can see that? Surely you know that? The only victory lies in their total annihilation!’
Grek smiled slightly. ‘You sound like Hovv.’
Liso’s gaze hardened. ‘At least he knew how to command.’
Grek’s claw lashed out and cracked Liso across the face. The young man stepped back, genuinely shocked, for all his bravado.
Grek’s features darkened, his voice dropping to a grave, dangerous whisper:
‘I’ve been out in these jungles thirteen years, Mister Liso, and that’s a lot longer than you. I’ve seen half my friends slaughtered in this bloody war, and God knows how many troops. The last thing I need is for a swaggering little prig like you to question my authority.’
Grek’s breath seemed to seethe from between his clenched teeth. ‘We’re going to do as we’re told. Mop up any Cutch resistance. Tie up loose ends. And then we’re all going home.’
Distant shells crumped in the electric silence. Liso stood straight and still, his expression unreadable.
‘That’s if we have a home to go to, sir.’
He saluted stiffly, turned and descended the ladder into the dug‐out.
* * *
The old man with the spiny grey crest paddled his claws over the polished blond wood of the desk, sheaves of stiff paper rustling under his nails. Some documents fell over the side onto the carpet. He cursed. It had to be here somewhere.
Pulling at one