Lethbridge-Stewart - The Man From Yesterday: A Doctor Who spin-off novel. by Nick Walters

Author:Nick Walters [Walters, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2018-05-02T22:00:00+00:00

Commander leth Brijj approached the fallen enemy vessel, his trusty first officer by his side, both with weapons drawn and primed. Behind them, a half-dozen gunners from the flagship followed in a broad linear formation, ready to provide back-up if needed. The flagship itself awaited beyond them, a crystalline cone on its side, ready for take-off on their return. Far above, in the pink-hued sky, the commander did not need to look up to know that a wing of his squadron circled overhead.

The pink-red thript grew long and stiff, up to Commander leth Brijj’s knees, its edges sharp like pampas grass, and it rustled and scraped loudly against the legs of their uniforms as they pushed their way towards the crashed Horde ship. It was broad daylight, so if there was anything still alive in the vicinity, it would be able to see them approach. The commander felt tense, like a coiled spring, ready to act instantly against any threat, and from the look on his furry face, his first officer felt the same.

The downed enemy ship lay with its nose buried in the ground, its broken-backed superstructure prone behind it, with pieces of its hull scattered around, flattening the thript. According to the life-sign scans, there were three Horde warriors still alive: two inside the ship, one outside. They dealt with the latter first. It was crawling away from the crash, the ebon zigzag of its serrated spine cutting a swathe through the field of thript like a shark’s fin in the ocean. It was injured, and clearly confused; there was nowhere for it to go, just the wide expanse of thript and mareeva. Why did it not stay with its ship? Was it trying to get into the mountains, from beyond which the second assault had come? Or just senselessly crawling away from the place of its defeat?

Motioning for silence, Commander leth Brijj indicated the stricken warrior, and beckoned his squad to follow him. But it was impossible to move quietly through the dry, abrasive thript, and the warrior, alerted by the sounds of their approach, reared up hissing in front of them, mandibles twitching frantically, foreclaws extended, razor-sharp tail swishing dangerously.

The commander dropped into a crouch and fired five rapid rounds of plasma bolts into the creature’s segmented abdomen. Further bolts, fired by his first officer and the gunners, slammed into other parts of the warrior’s body. There was a crackling, sizzling sound of burning chitin, and the warrior fell forwards like a tree; the commander had to skip nimbly aside to avoid it.

‘We’re trying to catch one of these, you know!’ the commander said, as he observed the charred and smoking remains of the warrior, then remembered that he had fired first. ‘Er, well done. That one was a bit too lively for my liking. Let’s have a lens at the ship.’ He corrected himself, remembering that they didn’t understand his vernacular, even when translated into their own language. ‘Let’s go and have a look inside the crashed ship.

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