Doctor Who: Big Finish - Short Trips [023] - Defining Patterns by Ian Farrington

Author:Ian Farrington
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science-Fiction - Doctor Who
Publisher: Big Finish
Published: 2008-03-02T22:15:58+00:00

The Great Escapes

Simon Guerrier

An adventure of Lucie Miller

‘But that’s just mad,’ says Lucie. ‘I’ve had my last ever cup of tea!’

They cannot find any of the foodstuffs she asked for – they do not exist on our world. So, as is the custom with the last meal of the condemned, they provide the best that they are able, a mix of luridly coloured dishes to brighten our dull grey cell. Despite the lack of whatever tea is, Lucie keenly rifles through the small plates and mars, more interested in them than we are. Albumen and I exchange looks, both weary and afraid. But neither of us tells her how it’s unseemly to mix iqar cakes with umli. It doesn’t matter any more; we can break all the rules we like.

‘Come on,’ she says, her mouth full. ‘You’ve got to keep your strength up. This blue stuff’s really weird – sort of fizzy on your gums.’

So Albumen tucks in with false enthusiasm, always the performer. I am offered the plate of arvil grass, with which one cleanses one’s palate after dining. He is mocking me, even now. Lucie must see my ear-holes flaring with distaste.

‘Go on,’ she says, baring many teeth. It is not meant to be a predatory expression – she hopes to reassure me. ‘This one’s fantastic,’ she says of the poached umli, ‘like humus mixed up with banana!’

‘I have little appetite,’ I say. I never do when I’m nervous. ‘And I’m not sure it’s all pollotarian.’ I’m not sure Lucie understands the word, but she doesn’t get a chance to say so.

‘He’s always been delicate,’ chides Albumen, wolfing down the cakes with his tentacles. It’s stupid to blame him for any of this, yet I’m practically shaking with rage. My last hours drawing breath and I have to spend them with him!

‘Pedestrian,’ I say, addressing him by rank. He ignores me and carries on eating. We’re in a tiny, echoey cell and he pretends he hadn’t heard me. I know I’m being just as pathetic but I can’t help it; I have to make him see. ‘They’re going to kill us in the morning.’

‘Duh!’ he says, reaching for the tree-fruit, ‘so let’s make the best of it while we can.’

‘This,’ agrees Lucie, passing him corns wrapped in shrub-leaves, ‘is sort of Worcester sauce and Custard Creams!’ Her eyes widen – which in most creatures means that they’re frightened, whereas Lucie is enjoying herself. ‘Do you think I could get the recipe?’ she says. Her late friend the Doctor was another fast talker, so perhaps it’s just how they are. ‘My Auntie Pat loves anything really stinky,’ she continues.

‘She puts horseradish on chocolate digestives, and eats gherkins and pickles and that. Anyway,’ she says, smiling up at me, ‘no they’re not. Not if we don’t let ’em.’

And then from her sleeve she produces a key.

Lucie can’t run like we can and the long-legged tin machines catch up with us before we’re out of the building. We fight but it’s obviously hopeless.

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