Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [85]
‘Going to blow?’ chuckled De Hooch. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean we’ve got a couple of days if we’re lucky. There’s some kind of instability…’
‘You’ll have to do better than that.’ He traced a stunted finger over her eyes and mouth.
Bernice shuddered. ‘It’s true. Whatever your plans for this planet, they’ll mean nothing. You’ve got to get out of here.’
De Hooch cocked his head. ‘And that would suit you and your Doctor friend very well, wouldn’t it? No, no. This planet will succumb completely to the will of Saint Anthony. And when we’ve finished with it, it will rest comfortably in absolution: a burning cinder in space. And your Doctor and his friend will be there to enjoy the show, one way or another.’
‘Where is he then?’ asked Bernice. ‘The Doctor? Where is he?’
De Hooch frowned. ‘He has… temporarily eluded me.’
Bernice managed to smile but it hurt, the band across her head pressing into her flesh.
If the Doctor was on the loose then there was still a fighting chance.
* * *
In the power room, the acne‐scarred Chapterman pulled the goggles over his eyes and advanced towards the banks of consoles which hummed with power. The shields around the artificial sun glowed in the half‐dark as he fed information into the machinery. When the order from the Magna came through, he would be ready.
The complex instrumentation which channelled the sun’s power through the ship had been the invention of the Magna’s father and was kept running through the diligence and loyalty of many Chaptermen. It gave light and heat to the entire seminary as well as raw power to the greatest of the Chapter’s gifts: Saint Anthony’s Fire itself.
Magna Yong, in a work of quite astonishing ingenuity, had devised a method of focusing the sun’s power into the colossal weapon now at his disposal. It could be used purely for the purging of unbelievers or as a gigantic weapon, penetrating the ship’s hull and blasting out into space. Such was its strength, it had been known to destroy whole moons. The destruction of a paltry ring system was very small fry.
For Acne‐Scars, though, the greatest pleasure came in the autos‐da‐fé. It was sweet indeed to see the heathens’ pathetic faces twisted into silent screams in that great crimson column.
A tiny light winked on the panel before him. The Chapterman made a final adjustment to his goggles and pulled down two sets of steel levers.
The sun began to burn.
* * *
In the great hall of the cathedral, Yong was once again seated on the throne, the giant cross in his hands. He rubbed an eyelid wearily. It wasn’t his eyelid, of course, but someone else’s which he kept in a little wooden box to poke in moments of stress.
It was nice to have the Doctor around, putting up the semblance of fight. Yong had meant what he said about missing the glory days of his crusade. Days when he had to hack his way through the heathens with a broadsword. Perhaps Saint Anthony might have other tasks ahead for him. Time would tell.
He motioned to Chapterman Jones and the massive ritual began again. Pot‐bellied supplicants, their skin lathered in sweat, began to haul the cages inside. At a word from Yong, the chanting and the pounding of the gong began to echo throughout the incense‐filled vault.
Yong eyed the usual crop of gibbering fools who filled the cages: a very few of the survivors of Massatoris mingled with the remains of the Cutch and Ismetch garrisons.
In the first cage, manacled together, were Grek, Liso and Imalgahite, united as never before.
Yong stood up. ‘Hear me! O, fragile and unworthy animals!’
‘Wait!’ bellowed Grek. ‘Listen to us. It’s vital!’
Chapterman Jones, all eyes and foam‐flecked mouth, dashed up to the cage and cracked his whip against Grek’s claw. The Ismetch leader darted back, clutching his seared flesh.
‘Listen to him!’ continued Imalgahite defiantly. ‘Whoever you are. This planet is dying. If you don’t believe us look –’
‘Silence!’ roared Yong.
‘Look outside. Use your eyes!’ yelled Imalgahite.