Doctor Who_ To The Slaughter Part 23

' Him? Him? ' '

Trix found the Doctor in the largest room in the place, with the best and biggest view. Somehow she'd hoped he'd have pulled off a one-man A-Team, and rigged up a bazooka from bric-a-brac lying around the place. But it seemed he he was the one lying around, sprawled on the floor beside an eerily glowing wall. Had Torvin attacked him too? Was he was the one lying around, sprawled on the floor beside an eerily glowing wall. Had Torvin attacked him too? Was he 'Doctor,' she began slowly, 'if you're dead '

'Dead?' He craned his neck to look up at her. 'No. Looking for a trigger point or some form of start-up mechanism, anyway.'

Her head hurt too much to try to decipher what he was banging on about.

'How'd you get on?' He sat up properly, suddenly concerned. 'And what happened to your face? Where's Torvin?'

128.

Trix was distracted for a moment by a gleaming point of silver light swooshing away from the podule, dwindling to star-size and then swallowed up by the blackness. 'There he goes,' she said. 'He didn't like your plan with the barricade. Thought he'd find an escape capsule instead.' She stared out into s.p.a.ce. 'He's bailed out on us.'

'Escape capsule!' The Doctor smacked his palm against his forehead. 'I wish I'd thought of that.' He jumped up. 'Perhaps we should go and look for another.'

'Too late,' said Trix woozily. 'Forgot to say. That thing's coming. Coming this way.'

'Ah.' The Doctor crossed to the big boardroom table that dominated the room. It was actually not plastic teak or something. 'Help me with this.

Perhaps we can block the doorway.'

'Then what?'

'Try to reason with the alien.'

Trix groaned as she gripped the side of the table and heaved with all her strength. 'That's our plan? Talk to it nicely and hope it goes away?'

The heavy menacing footfalls sounded again from outside.

'Hide!' hissed the Doctor.

They both ducked under the table.

The footfalls stopped outside.

Then the creature stalked inside the boardroom.

Trix held her breath and shut her eyes for horrible, agonising seconds that seemed to stretch on forever.

She heard a hiss, and felt a waft of fishy breath over her face.

Her eyes snapped back open to find the alien crouched beside the table, staring in. It pulled out its stubby gun and pushed it into her hair.

Falsh clapped his hands. The Agent had arrived and the agitators were waiting for him. It was all kicking off in there now. He wasn't sure quite how how three of his problems had come together so obligingly to be dealt with. . . three of his problems had come together so obligingly to be dealt with. . .

But now he could begin.

Falsh stabbed a finger at the virtual switch and got things rolling.

The Doctor kicked out with his foot, knocked the alien's gun hand away. A blast fired off, incinerating one of the antique chairs close beside her. Then Trix felt herself being hauled from beneath the table, the Doctor's hands under her arms.

The alien had jumped up, was bringing its gun to bear on them again.

'Down!' the Doctor cried, diving to the floor.

129.

But Trix was already running for the door. Maybe there was was another escape capsule. They could shove it in and send it away. Or if it killed the Doctor then Trix could jump ship herself another escape capsule. They could shove it in and send it away. Or if it killed the Doctor then Trix could jump ship herself She stopped. She couldn't see properly, strange patterns were shrouding her sight. Unearthly colours, distorted shapes she couldn't even begin to describe, crowded in on her vision.

'Doctor?' she called.

Trix heard heavy footsteps staggering closer. She got on her hands and knees, tried to crawl away, but cracked her skull on the wall. The patterns were engulfing her now, reaching in, filling the dark sockets behind her eyes and swirling through her mind. The alien was coming closer but it was all right, here in the bright darkness with the colours, and the shapes, you could watch them like big cotton wool clouds blowing past a sunset. You could lose yourself in them and it was all right to lose yourself in them and. . .

Falsh stared through the translation visor at the three figures in the room, stopped in their tracks, like statues. He took a long, gloating look.

In an hour, he'd have them all.

He pulled off the visor. The room was starting to spin about him, and he was feeling kind of sick. He'd been warned not to wear the thing too long, but he'd have to have a word with the boys about fixing that up. Have them work on the resolution too. And that stupid light that flashed on and off when the receiver was within range of a signal. That was needlessly retro.

Falsh tore open the sterile solution they'd given him and dipped his fingers inside. The tips tingled in the cool liquid.

Slowly the flickering, pulsating paint began to ebb away into the solution, leaving bright little trails and sparkles as it dissolved.

The Doctor was holding on.

His fingers were clamped around the thick wood of the table, so hard he could feel the bones getting ready to snap. That was good, that kept him focused, kept his mind a fraction ahead of the obliterating swirl of colour.

He was holding on to the thought that Trix was still alive, and she needed him to get her out of this. And he was holding on to Fitz, poor stranded Fitz who had to be in heaven-knew-what kind of trouble by now.

He was d.a.m.ned if he was going to let either of them go.

Slowly, the colours started to drain away, like someone had pulled out a plug from behind his eyes. He fought against the flow, designed, he knew, to wash him away into helpless darkness. He was holding on.

130.

And finally he could open his eyes and trust what they saw.

The alien was right in front of him, its cold, heavy-set face inches from his own. It was waxen, a statue, robbed of its will. Welts in the cheeks, dark blood trickling from the gills suggested it had harmed itself, fighting to hold on to consciousness. But its dead fish-eyes surveyed him sadly, the battle lost.

But a battle against what? The Doctor rubbed his eyes they felt sweaty, itchy, like someone was brushing the back of them with a feather and looked for Trix. She was slumped against the door, eyes wide. The walls had quietened back down to slow, glowing patterns now they'd shown what they could really do.

'P-A-I-N,' the Doctor breathed. 'Dots the eyes. Then cross the T.'

He looked at the blank paint tins and wondered. Was there some sentient energy in the paint with the power to control minds? Was that the ultimate weapon? It had been there, of course, glittering like the riming ice at the Inst.i.tute, blackened by the same blast that had wiped out whatever experiment had taken place there. . .

'So what are you doing here in a partially constructed luxury podule, I wonder?' said the Doctor.

'I came to meet Falsh,' the alien replied sluggishly, as if the question had been addressed to him. 'This is our rendezvous point.'

The Doctor blinked. 'Is it indeed?'

'Yes,' it rasped. 'I suspected you of being representatives of rival concerns and sought to eliminate you.'

'That's extremely candid of you.' The Doctor snapped his fingers in front of its face. Nothing. 'Who are you, exactly?'

'I represent the Icthal. We invested in Falsh's Weapons Research Inst.i.tute on Carme. We sought to purchase a weapon with sufficient destructive capability to protect our sector of the galaxy from further human expansion.'

'What form was this weapon going to take?'

'Unknown.'

'But with a serious destructive capability. . . ' the Doctor mused. It couldn't be the paint, then, if that simply exercised a form of mental control over whoever was watching, leaving its admirers open to suggestion. 'So. You believe Falsh is holding out on you?'

'He insists the weapon is destroyed. We do not believe him.' The chilling voice was entirely free of emotion. 'We believe he seeks to sell the weapon to other powers for greater profits.'

'Paranoid. But probably right.' A thought struck him. 'Did you have any dealings with Arnauld Klimt, the director at the Inst.i.tute?'

'No.'

131.

'Oh well. Just a thought.' He looked at the alien. 'Now then, I think I'll tell you you a thing or two. . . ' a thing or two. . . '

The Icthal slowly c.o.c.ked its head to one side.

Fitz was trailing Tinya through the labyrinthine pa.s.sages of the stadium. He'd spied on her throughout her failed photocall from a safe distance distance was one thing this place didn't lack in the slightest. If Halcyon had turned up, Fitz would have seized the moment and confronted Tinya what have you what have you done with my mates? done with my mates? As it was, Halcyon hadn't and Fitz had bottled it. As it was, Halcyon hadn't and Fitz had bottled it.

So now he was following her Fitz Krei, Private Eye in the hope of finding her lair. In the hope it would be the very place where the Doctor and Trix were locked up (they weren't dead. No way were they dead). In the hope he might be able to get a signed statement from Halcyon saying Fitz was a genius artist, not to be harmed in any way and to be aided in the pursuit of his goals the safe return of his friends.

Typically, the plan went all to h.e.l.l when two little Chinese types with chefs'

hats came rushing out from a corridor and blocked his path, yelling and screaming.

'They're coming for us!' one wailed.

'Help us, help us,' gabbled the other.

'What is it?' said Fitz, nervously.

'Chiggocks!' shouted the first.

Fitz saw the two men were being implacably pursued by a strange, bald animal. Headless, toothless, it shuffled along at quite a lick on its four trotters, its big bull's b.u.m wiggling, its plucked chicken body pale and puckered.

'Where'd it come from,' asked Fitz, 'the zoo?'

'The pantry!' said the first chef. 'It was supposed to walk into the oven but it's trashed the kitchen instead!'

'Now it wants to get us!' added the second.

The chiggock quickened its pace. One of the chefs tried to hide behind Fitz.

The animal piled into Fitz's legs, knocking his feet from under him. He fell to the floor, and the chef tumbled down with him.

'Get off me!' Fitz yelled, both to the bizarre animal and the floundering chef. 'This is daft, can't you get it back in its cage or something?'

'No cage,' babbled the chef still standing. 'No brain, no feelings, no trouble.

No cage!'

The untamed chiggock wasn't done. It delivered a cheeky kick to Fitz's shin.

'Why me? I wasn't trying to cook you!' Fitz said crossly. ' Ow! Ow! ' The thing got him again. Fitz got hastily to his feet. The chiggock reared up on its hind legs and put two trotters around his thigh. ' The thing got him again. Fitz got hastily to his feet. The chiggock reared up on its hind legs and put two trotters around his thigh.

'Get it off me!' he protested, trying to shake his leg free.

132.

One of the chefs got on the thing's back, trying to restrain it. He wound up riding it like a rodeo star as it backed away from Fitz and headed back towards the kitchen, its unwilling rider yelling for help, his mate scurrying off after it.

Fitz winced at the sound of a whole load of pots and pans crashing down from somewhere on high.

'Not my problem,' he told himself, and continued his pursuit of Tinya, with a slight limp.

Where the h.e.l.l was she now? Clearly all the clamour had failed to bring her running. He'd lost her. Lost his best chance so far of getting back the Doctor and Trix.

'Fab,' he muttered, slapping his hand miserably against the wall. He felt lonely and forgotten, a little man in a big, alien world. Sook had gone all weird on him. And while Halcyon should have been going to pieces, he had sounded oddly a.s.sured on Tinya's little wrist gadget. . .

At least he had the TARDIS. Maybe he would go there now, sit in comforting surroundings and think out what he could do. . .

He felt for the key in his breast pocket.

It wasn't there.

He'd lost it. Must have fallen out when he'd fallen in that fight with the chiggock back in the corridor. . .

He retraced his steps. He could tell by the scuffmarks on the white tiles that this was where it had happened. No key. There was still a lot of clunking and clonking going on in the kitchen. Maybe one of the chefs had picked it up.

'h.e.l.lo?' he called, moving cautiously along the pa.s.sage. 'Got that thing under control? Or under the grill, for that matter?'

The short answer was no.

Fitz stared in horror at the carnage in the kitchen. One of the chefs was sitting up on a worktop, knees bunched up to his chest, rocking back and forth in a state of shock beside a big pan that had caught fire. The orange flames were licking higher and higher.

His mate was lying on the floor. About ten chiggocks were gathered around the man's head. They were bringing their trotters down on it in a dull, mechanical motion, like his skull was a big nut they were trying to crack. From the b.l.o.o.d.y mess they'd made of his face, they weren't far off succeeding.

Fitz felt his stomach churn, turned and ran. He had to find someone. Had to get help.

A silver disc wafted gently out from a side corridor to his right. Maybe someone had wanted something lifting. He took off in the direction it had come from: the dressing rooms. One door stood ajar, and his heart leaped at the sound of voices close by.