Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [9]
He rolled his eyes like a Victorian side‐show owner.
‘Chameleonic what?’
‘It’s a problem inherent in the long‐term maintenance of one particular program on the exterior continua.’
‘Sorry I asked.’
‘No, no. It’s quite simple.’ The Doctor took one hand out of his pocket and tapped the console affectionately. A flat tablet had risen from the console and the Doctor prodded the screen, scrolling down a detailed depiction of the TARDIS exterior.
‘Police box, you see. Earth. Mid twentieth century. You know the drill,’ he continued, waving his hands effusively. ‘Anyway, after all these years in roughly the same form, the program deteriorates a little.’
Bernice fixed him with a worried frown. ‘Deteriorates?’
‘Things tend to… drop off.’
Bernice raised an eyebrow. The Doctor harrumphed. ‘Well, not so much drop off as disappear. Here today, gone yesterday as it were.’
‘And that’s chameleonic fluctuation?’
The Doctor nodded vigorously. ‘Lost the whole stacked roof once. Took ages to come back. And there was a sort of badge on the door panel. If all’s well, there should be again. Shall we go out and see?’
Bernice held up her hands. ‘Hang on, Doctor. Before we examine the paint‐job, I thought we might take a little trip.’
‘Why not?’ drawled the Doctor. ‘Where would you like to go?’
He began to fuss around the console, reeling off sights of universal interest which Bernice could scarcely make out let alone understand. She put a hand on his shoulder in an effort to stop the flow but he seemed to look through her towards the interior door.
‘Of course, we’d better consult Ace,’ he said. ‘She’ll only get sulky if we plan something without her.’
The Doctor moved off, his head full of possibilities. Bernice cleared her throat. ‘Ever heard of Massatoris?’
The Doctor stopped and turned, his brows frowning low over his eyes.
‘Massatoris? Massatoris… Nice place if I remember. Had some boots re‐soled there once. Why?’
‘And the Colonies? I’ve been doing some research into the Shovoran Empire. The Colonies have come up quite a few times. And I seem to have some vague recollection from when I was a kid. The eleventh colony was famous for something or other. I was wondering if we could take a look.’
The Doctor tapped his fingers against his teeth. ‘The eleventh colony of Massatoris? No, I can’t say it rings any bells. Have your tried the index file?’
He pointed to the console, his stiff shirt‐cuff creeping over his hand. ‘Look it up. Make a note of the co‐ordinates and we’ll have a shufty. Back in a tick.’
With that he was gone and Bernice crossed to the console. She blew air out of her cheeks noisily and began her work.
* * *
The Ismetch dug‐out resembled a huge bomb crater. An area of jungle a quarter of a mile in diameter had been cleared for it, and a network of tunnels bored into the soft, peaty soil. These had been strengthened by innumerable wooden and iron struts, making the whole base resemble the inside of a barrel.
The half‐moon shape of the trench faced the muddied, barbed‐wire‐strewn field and, beyond that, the dark immensity of the jungle. The trench was packed with exhausted soldiers, their rifles projecting over the lip of the ground like a flattened picket fence. Rain streaked down from the dismal grey sky, pelting off helmets and filling the excavation almost knee‐high with filthy brown water.
Grek kept his head down as he emerged from the jungle and bolted towards the dug‐out, dodging the bales of wire. He was down the ladder and wading through the water towards the entrance in seconds. Priss was waiting for him.
The young officer saluted but Grek ignored him and ran straight inside where it was quite dry and reasonably warm. He pulled off his tunic and scrambled about in search of a replacement. Moisture dripped from his warty hide.
Priss was hovering close by.
Grek turned to him sharply. ‘You’re in my way, Priss.’
Priss stopped slightly, his high crest almost brushing the trench roof.
Grek eyed his junior officer warily, pulled