Doctor Who: Engines of War

Doctor Who: Engines of War by George Mann Read Free Book Online

Book: Doctor Who: Engines of War by George Mann Read Free Book Online
Authors: George Mann
down the road, his head bowed.
    ‘Well, Time Lord who used to be called the Doctor,’ she called after him. ‘You’re going the wrong way.’
    The temperature had dropped with the fading light as the afternoon slowly turned to dusk. Thankfully, Cinder’s compact backpack had not been damaged during her fall from the escarpment, and she was able to wrap herself in the warm, hand-knitted jumper she carried with her for the purpose.
    Night never fell entirely on Moldox. The light from the Tantalus Eye kept the planet enshrouded in an eerie twilight. Cinder had never known any different, of course, and the thought of utter darkness, impenetrable black, filled her with dread. In her experience, the darkness harboured the monsters. At least on Moldox, you could see them coming.
    They had taken a path through the ruins rather than keep to the roads. It meant scrabbling over broken lintels and walls and taking a more circuitous route, but it was harder for the Daleks to move about in the ruins, and if they took to the air they were easier to spot.
    They’d seen only one further patrol as they’d trudged the first five miles through a landscape of broken habitation domes and civic buildings: two Daleks and two Gliders, skimming over the rooftops, looking for signs of life below. The Doctor had pulled Cinder into a temporary shelter in the archway of a shattered doorway as they’d passed overhead. They’d waited there for a further ten minutes, just to ensure the patrol was not doubling back.
    She’d told the Doctor they had a quick stop-off to make en route, and they were approaching it now – the last known location of the rebel camp. It was a motley assortment of tents, lash-ups and temporary structures built from the debris of fallen buildings. From above, it was designed to look like any other waste-strewn field, but from down here it resembled the encampment of a marching army, nestled amongst the splintered structures that had once formed a square or recreational park.
    Around thirty men, women and children, all dressed in scavenged rags, milled around cleaning weapons, cooking food and tending to each other’s wounds. This was the only family that Cinder had known since the age of 7. This was the sum total of the human resistance movement, and, as far as she knew, the last of the free people of Moldox – the ones who had chosen to fight back against the Daleks and had been strong enough and light enough on their feet to survive.
    ‘What is this place?’ said the Doctor. ‘I thought you were taking me to Andoc.’
    ‘An dor ,’ corrected Cinder. ‘And I am . This is the stop I told you about. I need to collect some things.’
    ‘This is where you live?’ said the Doctor.
    Cinder shook her head. ‘Not for more than a couple of days. We have to keep moving if we want to stay ahead of the Daleks. But yes, this is it. This is my life. These are my people.’
    The Doctor said nothing, but simply stood, regarding the place with his old, watery eyes.
    ‘Come on,’ said Cinder. ‘I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary. I just need to throw a couple of things into my backpack.’
    She led him through the makeshift hamlet, drawing open stares from the people they passed.
    ‘Don’t mind them,’ said Cinder, her voice low. ‘It’s rare enough we find another living human to join our little gang. Imagine what they’d think if they knew you were a Time Lord?’ She grinned, deciding not to add that they would probably lynch him, given the opportunity.
    ‘Cinder!’
    Damn it! She recognised the voice. She kept her head down. Coyne was the last person she needed to run into now. She’d hoped to slip away without having to see him, without facing the guilt of leaving him here – of leaving them all here – while she ran away with a stranger in a blue box. What she was doing wasn’t brave. She knew that deep down, but she’d grown so tired of the ceaseless running, of scratching out an existence

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