Doctor Who_ Storm Harvest - Mike Tucker [10]
They approached the command area and Bisoncawl pressed his thick, clawed hand on to the security access panel, growling with impatience as the door ground open. He stepped through and something spitting and vicious clamped itself on to his shoulder.
He clawed it off in one swift movement, slamming it to the floor and pinning it there with a booted foot.
The service robot writhed and spat, tearing at the fabric of the commander’s boot. Bisoncawl drew his blaster and pumped three shots into the robot. With a metallic rattle it sparked and lay still. Bisoncawl swore under his breath.
A low chuckle drifted across the darkened control room.
‘Problems, Commander?’
Bisoncawl holstered his gun and saluted stiffly. The huge form of General Mottrack loomed over them. Even by Cythosi standards Mottrack was ugly. A veteran of a dozen campaigns, the general wore the evidence of battle like medals. One side of his face was a mass of scar tissue, one eye buried in deep folds of raw flesh, the other wide and staring, its burning red pupil never resting. The heavy bone of his forehead was pitted and bent, giving him a constant glower.
The red emergency lighting of the bridge glinted wetly off the oil on his battle fatigues and the huge plasma blaster that hung ominously at his side. Bavril had noticed that Mottrack’s hand Was never far from the butt of the blaster.
As usual Mottrack totally ignored Bavril. He leant close to his second-in-command. ‘Well, Commander,’ he growled, ‘I asked you a question.’
Bisoncawl returned his glare. ‘Nothing I can’t correct, sir, he said.
‘The protocols on the service robots seem to have been reset to defence posture. An oversight in maintenance, no doubt.’
‘No oversight, Commander. My orders.’ Mottrack kicked the remains of the service robot. ‘We had a security breach on one of the lower decks last night. Mottrack glared at Bavril. ‘The security team found no one, but I’m taking no chances. Besides, it will keep my scum of a crew focused on their duties.’
Bavril could tell Bisoncawl was struggling to contain a rising anger.
Am I to understand then, sir, that the protocols on all the maintenance 19
robots have been set to hostile?’
‘Yes, Commander, that is what you are to understand.’
Mottrack leaned closer, his breath hissing in Bisoncawl’s ear. ‘The phase one signal has been received. I need the crew to be at battle readiness. You will return to engineering and prepare the engines for warp jump.’
He straightened and turned back to his command position.
‘Dismissed,’ he said.
Bisoncawl saluted and turned.
‘Oh, and one more thing, Commander.’
‘Sir?’
‘I have released all the reserve service robots into the interdeck ducting, so be careful on your way back to engineering.’
Bavril groaned inwardly. He had no doubt as to who was responsible for the security alert. Peck. Now the Cythosi would be jumpy, and that would only mean more deaths among his own people.
He followed Bisoncawl from the bridge. Mottrack’s booming laugh was abruptly cut off by the command-deck door slamming shut behind them.
Ace squatted on the beach helping the gang of children rebuild the Doctor’s sandcastle. The straight lines of the City of the Exxilons had now been replaced by towers and turrets, by outbuildings and keeps. It even had a moat, fed from a small stream that bubbled down the beach from the jungle.
The Doctor had tried to get the kids to build the castle according to his original plans, but he was no match for half a dozen enthusiastic twelve-year-olds and had eventually gone into a sulk. Ace looked over to where he was paddling in the shallows, his checked trousers rolled up around his knees. She smiled inwardly. He was nearly a thousand years old and he could still act like a schoolboy. Reminding herself that making sandcastles wasn’t exactly the most adult of pastimes, Ace filled another bucket with sand.
The Doctor mooched through the waves wiggling his toes in the sand.
He could hear the screams