Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [6]
‘As I said,’ Maconsa sighed heavily, ‘this wasn’t just another war. This was the Cause. Everything the Pelaradators told us about the Cutch. About the menace they represented to our society, to our entire way of being. It all seemed so right. So obvious. Indisputable.’
He rubbed his face wearily, voice muffled by his sheathed claw. ‘How many more of these children do I have to stitch back together before something good comes of it? I’m sick. I’m sick of it all.’
Ran let his gaze wander around the darkened room. The orderlies were pulling the dead soldier off the table. His head cracked dully off the planked floor. It would only be a few minutes before the next screaming casualty was shunted into the infirmary.
‘But as our esteemed commander is forever fond of telling us,’ said Ran quietly, ‘the war is over.’
Maconsa rounded on him. ‘And this is what we’ve fought for? Fifteen years, Ran, fifteen years. We came out here to annihilate the Cutch. Now we’re sitting down to breakfast with them!’
‘That’s politics, I’m afraid.’
Maconsa thumped the wall. A lozenge of mud seeped out of the boards in response. ‘I did believe, you know. A surgeon, committed to nothing less than genocide.’
His voice became quieter, sadder, eventually descending to an inaudible grumble. ‘But what right did we have, Ran? All those millions slaughtered. For what? It’s all been so pointless. Disgraceful. I feel… unclean.’
Ran smiled, but his twitch made it seem more like a grimace. ‘At least the Pelaradator has learned a different tune. There aren’t many like Hovv left in government.’
‘That old warhorse. Has he been found yet?’
‘No.’ Ran stood up, brushing the dust off his uniform with his gloves. ‘Still missing. And the whole eighteenth brigade with him.’
Maconsa sucked in his scaly cheeks. ‘Silly bastard’s probably sulking because of the armistice.’ He cocked his head slightly as another thought struck him. ‘And Porsim?’
Ran shook his head, all his jauntiness deserting him. ‘Nothing. In fact, no word from Arason or Tusamavad either.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’
Ran began to pick his way through the bloodied, sweat‐soaked mattresses. ‘Who knows, Maconsa?’ He reached the entrance to the infirmary and looked back. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing.’
Maconsa looked up from his contemplation. ‘Hmmm?’
‘If there’s nothing from Porsim soon, I’ll be recommending that Grek ignores the possibility of an armistice and carries on with the war.’
‘For the Greater Glory?’
‘Well,’ Ran began to fade into the shadows. ‘For a few weeks at least.’
* * *
The Pelaradator had used his last day in office – for that was surely what this dark hour would prove to be – to send an appeal to the last of the military. If Tobess in the north and Grek, perhaps even old Hovv, in the east could bring their forces back to Porsim then it might not be too late.
But the transmitters were erratic at the best of times, he thought sadly, and there was no guarantee his plea would get through on time, if at all. Could it be true? Could it be them?
His gaze flicked to the shattered drawer and the detritus on the wood‐tiled floor. All at once he saw what he had been searching for. In amongst the debris, something was glinting, and carefully the Pelaradator bent down to retrieve it.
It was a painting in a tiny oval frame, the beautifully detailed brushwork seeming to glow in the half‐light. The picture showed his first litter and two of his surviving wives. He wanted to smile but his face felt tight with emotion. Instead he simply pressed the picture to his chest, feeling the frame snap as great, wracking sobs shuddered in his breast.
Save for the sound of his tears, the room was silent. The inferno in the city below raged soundlessly, unable to penetrate the thick plate glass of the office window. But then another sound crept into being, so faint at first that the Pelaradator thought he was imagining it.
It seemed to vibrate from some impossibly deep source, throbbing so that the old man’s jaw shook, like time’s own pendulum