Doctor Who_ Storm Harvest - Mike Tucker [77]
Her delighted smile faded as she turned her eyes to the sky. Out on the horizon clouds boiled, a tumbling mass of black and purple, coiling into huge angry shapes. She shivered at the display of malevolent nature, and with a cold chill finally realised how vulnerable their position was. The first fingers of wind tugged at her hair.
Rajiid was suddenly at her side, following her eyes and catching her thought.
‘MacKenzie says we’re nearly there. The Dreekans chose a high spot so that they would be well protected.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s nowhere on the island much higher than this.’
He cocked his head to one side and looked at her quizzically ‘Once we find Garrett, do you have a plan to get the weapon off him?’
Ace hefted the machete in her hands.
‘No. We’ll just busk it,’ she said.
The Doctor trotted up the ramp of the Cythosi shuttle, dwarfed by Bisoncawl. It was cool and dark inside the ship and it took several seconds for the Doctor’s eyes to become accustomed to the gloom.
The interior was bleak and functional, no concession made to comfort. Equipment was crammed into every available space, control 148
positions and gun emplacements barely big enough to contain the bulk of their Cythosi operators. Patches of oily vapour coiled through the service areas leaving a slick deposit over the walls and ceiling. The smell was musty – like the lion house in a zoo.
A hatch slid open with a hiss and the Doctor followed Bisoncawl into the command area. Mottrack dominated the room, his control chair high above the rest of the crew Bisoncawl crossed to him and saluted stiffly, waiting for the general to acknowledge him.
The Doctor peered around the control room with interest. Despite himself he was impressed. The Cythosi were advanced in many areas.
There were smatterings of technology that he recognised in among the machines that he didn’t. The creatures didn’t mind taking the lead from other civilisations, it appeared.
Here too, clouds of vapour drifted through the dim light. As one of them came close to the Doctor’s face he stuck his head forward and took a tentative sniff.
The vapour caught at the back of his throat and he began to cough violently. Bisoncawl shot him an angry look and the Doctor hauled his handkerchief from his pocket, covering his mouth.
He realised that he was being watched. He turned. The figure was too small to be a Cythosi. To his surprise a human stepped from the shadows. Thin, emaciated; fear looming large in his eyes. He watched the Doctor nervously.
‘Good afternoon,’ the Doctor smiled.
The figure nearly smiled back but one of the Cythosi operatives reached out casually and cuffed it savagely with a gauntleted claw.
‘Get out of here.’
The human vanished into the bowels of the ship. The operative glowered at the Doctor. The Doctor held his gaze, his face hard.
Perhaps the Cythosi weren’t so advanced after all.
‘Doctor.’ Mottrack’s voice rang across the room. ‘Will you join me, please?’
The Doctor crossed to the Cythosi general. Mottrack’s face split into a smile that had far too many teeth to be friendly. He indicated a chair on the other side of the control dais, and turned to Bisoncawl.
‘Thank you, Commander, that will be all,’ he said.
Bisoncawl nodded and, with a glance at the Doctor, crossed to his own console. The Doctor struggled into the huge chair, dwarfed by its size, his feet dangling off the floor like a schoolboy’s.
Mottrack stabbed at a control and the air around the control dais shimmered and darkened, solidifying to a smoky glass consistency.
‘A little privacy, Doctor,’ Mottrack purred.
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‘Very cosy, I’m sure.’
‘I thought it was time that you and I had a little chat.’
‘Yes.’ The Doctor’s face flickered into a half smile. He’d rather hoped the general would want to see him. There were gaps that needed filling in.
Mottrack leant back in his chair. ‘Can I offer you any refreshment, Doctor?’
The Doctor nodded, and Mottrack pulled a thick bottle from an alcove in his desk.
Two glasses clattered on to the table-top and Mottrack poured a generous