'Yeah,' said Archibald.

'You got to kill someone,' Dashiel told him. 'And Joss did that blue one. It's my turn, innit?'

He aimed the gun.

'All this bother,' tutted Mrs Wingsworth.

Martha grabbed the tray behind her, hurled all the cheese and pineapple on sticks at Dashiel and made a break for the door. But as Dashiel swatted at the descending nibbles, Jocelyn pounced from behind him, wrestling Martha to the ground. Martha fought back, biting and kicking where she could, but Jocelyn was tougher and more vicious. Her hairy face was coarse like an old toothbrush as she pinned Martha to the floor.

'All right!' admitted Martha, winded.

Jocelyn nodded, smiled and clambered off her. Martha, prone on the plush carpet, the empty silver tray face down beside her, looked up into Dashiel's eyes as he stood over her. The gun was pointed in her face. He hesitated, savouring the moment. Martha sat up, leaning on her elbows, refusing to show fear.

'Go on then,' she said bitterly.

'Yeah,' he said.

'Don't!' cried Archibald. But Dashiel had already squeezed the trigger.

And Martha grabbed the empty silver tray and held it between her and the gun. Furious pink light hit the tray so hard she nearly let it go, but, despite the heat searing her fingers, she hung on for dear life. And then the blast of light was over.

She lowered the tray, her hands shaking from the onslaught, her fingers raw with pain.

'Drat,' said Dashiel and raised his gun again. Jocelyn seemed to reach out a paw to stop him, a strange look on her face. He swatted her paw away and Jocelyn lost her balance, toppling over and hitting the floor hard. Steam curled up from her unmoving body.

'Huh?' said Dashiel.

'Your shot, dear,' said Mrs Wingsworth from over by the door. 'It bounced off Martha's shield and hit your friend.' She tutted again. 'It was only a glancing blow, but I think it was enough.'

Martha stared at Jocelyn's dead body, aware now of an acrid, bonfire stink. She looked up at Dashiel. He seemed frozen where he stood. She felt awful for him. She knew she couldn't wait.

As Dashiel fell to his knees beside Jocelyn's body, Martha got quickly to her feet and made a dash for the door. She still had the tray in her raw and throbbing hands.

'Dash,' she heard Archibald say behind her.

'Get after 'er,' said Dashiel quietly.

'Is Joss—'

'Get after 'er!' Dashiel yelled.

Not thinking where she was going or what she had just done, Martha raced through the ballroom towards the staircase. She took the stairs two at a time, but she knew she couldn't outrun Archibald. The pirates were wiry, tough and strong, and she had nowhere to escape to. She ran down the corridor knowing it was useless. The door to the engine room was still blocked with the cold scrambled egg, and there was no sign of the Doctor.

She turned round. Archibald stood at the end of the corridor, cradling his gun. He pointed it at her, then lowered it again.

'Don't like this,' he told her.

'You don't have to do what he tells you,' said Martha.

'They do stuff if I don't,' he said, making his way slowly towards her.

'But you know it isn't right,' said Martha. She glanced back at the doorway of cold scrambled egg, hoping against hope that the Doctor would step through it. When she turned to Archibald again he was stood right up close to her, his cat-food breath hot and stinky in her face.

'Well then,' she said, with the same sexy voice she'd tried on him before.

'Yeah,' said Archibald nervously. He glanced down at her. 'I liked those.'

She looked down. In her hands, the silver tray was laden with cheese and pineapple sticks.

'Take one,' she said.

Archibald grinned at her and reached out. She hit him hard in the face with the tray. He dropped his gun, staggered back and she kicked him with all her might. Archibald fell back but caught her foot and brought her down with him. They scrabbled on the floor, Martha biting and kicking for her life. Archibald didn't fight back, and she knew he was confused. Maybe he didn't fancy her exactly but she'd got something over him. And she'd use that. She'd use that to escape.

She felt a sudden hot pain in her gut and then she could not breathe. Looking down, she saw the dagger Archibald had thrust into her stomach.

'Ak,' she said to him, all that she could manage.

And she died.

SEVEN

They dared not meet his gaze; not the pirates, not the Balumin prisoners, not even Mrs Wingsworth, who hovered in the doorway. The Doctor stood, tall and still in the centre of the cocktail lounge, the look in his eyes holding them transfixed and terrified.

'I want to see her body,' he said quietly.

The Balumin prisoners murmured with concern but none would dare come forward. Archie looked like he wanted to say something, but Dash got there first. If there was going to be trouble, thought the Doctor, Dash was the one in charge.

'Er,' he said to the Doctor. 'You can't.'

The Doctor turned to look at him. Dash stepped back, involuntarily, then seemed to remember he still had his heavy gun. He raised it a little, though it seemed less to threaten the Doctor than to make Dash himself feel more at ease.

'Can't?' said the Doctor softly. Dash tried to say something and faltered under the dark brown, staring eyes. He could only shrug and shake his head.

'She's gone, dear,' said Mrs Wingsworth from the other side of the cocktail lounge. She sounded awkward, like she was not used to speaking kindly.

'Gone,' the Doctor repeated as he turned to her. 'I see.'

'It's what happens,' said Mrs Wingsworth, again not quite making it sound as comforting as perhaps she'd hoped.

'Yeah,' agreed Dash, grateful for an ally.

The Doctor nodded. He could think myriad complex thoughts at once, and a small part of his brain acknowledged that the protocols for deaths in space were much like deaths at sea. Martha's body would have been discreetly, respectfully put overboard to minimise any concern from or risk of disease to those remaining. She would be out there, floating in the darkness, calm and cold and lonely.

Another part of his brain already knew that he would find her, however long it took. He could already see the look on Francine's face when he brought her daughter home, could already feel the Jones family's tide of grief and anger. They would blame him for her death – and they would be right to. Once it would never have occurred to him to brave something like that if he could avoid it. But he knew that Martha would have wanted him to take her back to them, and because of that he would face whatever came.

There were just a couple of things here to sort out first.

He shrugged, smiled and tried to convince those watching him that the storm had passed. 'Anyway,' he said. 'Can't stand idly about all day, can we? Gotta find the captain of this starship and have a little word. Get things back on track, make sure you all live happily ever after.' But the pirates and passengers did not seem convinced: the horror and grief must have still showed in his eyes. 'Oh well,' he said, 'please yourselves.'

Yet as he turned to leave the cocktail lounge, Dash stood in his way. He wielded his heavy gun awkwardly, not quite sure where he should be pointing it.

'He'll shoot you, dear,' said Mrs Wingsworth from over by the wall. 'It's rather tiresome.'

'You're our prisoner,' said Dash, as if embarrassed at having to point it out. 'You do what we say.'

The Doctor jutted out his jaw. 'Or what?' he said. 'You really don't want to try my patience, Dash.'

Dash's paws tightened round the trigger of his gun. 'That a threat?' he growled.

The Doctor grinned at him. 'Course not. But look at it this way. I'm the only one who can sort this mess out for you.'