Doctor Who BBC872 - To the Slaughter

‘That paint!’ An embarrassing penny dropped in Fitz’s mind. He cleared his
throat. ‘Th. . . Let’s take your questions in order.’
‘No, wait.’ She sighed, put her hands on her hips and looked very, very
depressed. ‘I get it. That’s all we need. Another bloody art student.’
Fitz frowned at her. ‘Eh?’
‘When’d you sneak on board then? The convention on Umbriel?’
‘Uh. . . Maybe.’ He paused, studied his hand. ‘Paint, huh. So I’m not going
to die, then.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ said the woman briskly. ‘Depends on what mood
Halcyon’s in. The last thing he needs right now is some desperate groupie
stowing away in a pathetic attempt to foist himself upon his staff.’
‘I don’t want to go anywhere near his staff, thanks,’ muttered Fitz. ‘Anyway,
you’re taking this very calmly, aren’t you? I could be a dangerous saboteur, a
deadly assassin. . . an old preserver, even!’
She gave him a look sharp enough to pop balloons. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Fitz. Fitz Kreiner. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’
‘No. Where are you from?’
He shrugged. ‘Around.’
‘You can’t have been on board Falsh’s station. . . ?’
‘Can’t I?’
‘Were you?’
Fitz could feel the conversational undercurrents dragging him out of his
depth but swam on bravely. ‘Perhaps you underestimate me,’ he said. He had
to play for time – Trix might be around somewhere, just raring to come to his
rescue.
‘Sook?’ A hushed, oddly fragile voice sounded from outside.
The woman reacted almost as violently as when she’d first noticed Fitz. ‘I’m
in here, Halcyon.’
Fitz heard a new set of footsteps approaching, slow, soft and steady, punctuated
with the swaggering dandy tap of a cane.
Fitz bit his lip. ‘What are you going to do to me?’
‘It’s no good, Kreiner. You’re just going to have to confess.’ She advanced on
him, raising her voice. ‘It’s hopeless pretending. There’s art student written
all over you.’ The woman’s face softened in a smile. ‘And for God’s sake mind
out with that hand. If you get paint on Halcyon’s Louis Quinze he’ll have you
shot.
Fitz looked rueful. ‘Not quite the reception I was hoping for, Miss. . . Sook?’
‘Salsa Sook. Halcyon’s private assistant.’
Fitz did his best to look jealous. ‘You have my dream job.’
‘Dreams are romantic notions, Kreiner.’ Sook’s grey eyes were fixed on his
own. ‘You see an opportunity, you take it.’
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