Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead Part 16

'Make a wish,' he said.

PART TWO: Detonation

18.

Men and women mixed spices and stirred pots of curried goat over open fires. Artisans carved up abandoned tyres to make thonged footwear and hats for foul weather. Hawkers sold bracelets and necklaces, circles of silver jangling on their arms while musicians played strange lowvoiced instruments under skeletal trees.

'I've never been to New York before,' said Vincent. 'How about you?'

'Never been out of England,' said Justine. 'Well, across the Channel a few times, to Paris and Amsterdam. But never out of Europe before.'

Vincent took her hand as they turned away from the spattering grease and laughter and scents of the market place. 'That used to be something called The Inn on the Green,' said Vincent, 'before the riots took care of it.'

They walked side by side, occasionally b.u.mping against each other, still a little clumsy with each other, moving deeper into Central Park. Vincent looked at Justine whenever he thought she wouldn't notice. They had been able to take off their breathing masks once they were a few hundred metres inside the park and he couldn't get enough of looking at her.

Justine was wearing her hair in dreadlocks with bright beads fastened in it. Under her eyes she'd pencilled circles of kohl. The beads rattled close to his ear when he hugged her.

When Vincent thought she might see him looking at her face, when he thought he might embarra.s.s her or annoy her, he'd just look at her hands. Small vulnerablelooking hands with bitten nails and dirty fingers. He wanted to kiss her fingers. He wondered how much longer they could spend in the park.

'Won't the others be getting worried about us?' he said. 'The Doctor and what'shername. Heart? Queen?'

'Ace.'

'Yeah. They said for us to meet them somewhere on Fifth Avenue, didn't they?'

'Number One, Fifth Avenue,' said Justine. 'Don't worry. We've got plenty of time. I just had to see some trees.'

'I guess it's okay,' said Vincent. But Justine wasn't looking at him. She was watching a pack of boys coming towards them along the footpath. They were jogging in a group, all with shaven heads and sleeveless teeshirts. Vincent didn't recognize their image. Newstyle skinheads, maybe. Oi Boys, they called themselves. The Eastern European synthesis. Or maybe it was some new kind of youth gang Vincent hadn't heard of yet. Justine had let go of his hand and was watching the boys.

'Maybe we should go back to the market,' said Vincent.

'I don't think we have time.' Justine didn't take her eyes away from the approaching group. The jogging boys seemed to be heading directly towards them.

'We could run,' said Vincent.

'I'm not running. I'm your bodyguard. The Doctor said to look after you.'

Vincent felt a queasy warm excitement in his stomach. 'Look after me? We can look after each other,' he said. 'Take my hand.'

Justine clasped his hand again, her fingers cold against his. Immediately he began to pick up images. Recent memories coloured with her emotions. They were fresh and raw, flashes of New York she witnessed since their arrival.

The innocent gaptoothed smile of a child prost.i.tute. The same smile on her mother's face, the family resemblance striking, as the mother haggled with a group of soldiers over her daughter's price. The little girl had coloured squares of foil braided into her long blonde hair to make her look pretty. Inside the foil squares were condoms. Her mother was looking after her.

Skysc.r.a.pers against a sky the colour of weak tea. Air so thick with hot rolling dirt that you swallowed it instead of breathing it. If you didn't wear a mask on the streets the air choked you, but the masks were expensive. Old men and women tottered past with pieces of bedsheet taped on their faces. There were three neat black patches on those white masks, a small black dot by each nostril and a large one over the mouth.

Cars. Cars everywhere. The taxi drivers were all armed and they advertised their weaponry, stencilled paintings of automatic rifles on the doors of the cabs, to rea.s.sure customers and discourage robbery. The Sikhs were the most heavily armed. The cabs also advertised incar entertainment including wellstocked bars and television, to keep the customers amused while they sat for hours in gridlocked traffic.

Cardboard shelters built in doorways where the homeless slept standing upright.

Dirt that settled, stinging, into your eyes and gathered on your hands and on the bridge of your nose where the breathing mask stopped.

Dogs lying panting under parked cars, trying to get enough air to breathe. Thin cats with fat tumours on their faces prowling on the stoops and in the alleys.

Vincent saw it all through Justine's eyes. He felt his heart beating with her anger. The beating stirred the power inside him. Pressure grew behind his eyes, mounting so fast it took him by surprise. It was getting quicker every time.

The emotion and memories surged out of Justine, fast and unstoppable. They ignited the power inside him. He looked at the pack of boys running towards them.

Vincent let it happen.

It was over as quickly as a flash photograph.

Suddenly the boys were all sitting on the footpath, flat on their a.s.ses, coughing and choking. Some crawled into the thin yellow gra.s.s to vomit. They showed no interest in Justine and Vincent as she led him along the footpath, walking through their midst. Some of the boys moaned, rocking back and forth uncontrollably, hugging themselves or hugging their friends. Others just sat, staring blankly, their lips moving, like sh.e.l.l shock cases in a psychiatric ward. As Justine reached the far side of the group she began to smile, then she turned to Vincent and laughed. They broke into a run, both of them laughing.

They ran through a tunnel under a low bridge and out again, then off the footpath into a patch of bare trees. As they paused to catch their breath, Vincent reached for Justine. His fingers were in her thick braided hair, drawing her face towards his, when he felt her go rigid. She was staring over his shoulder, looking back at the footpath. Four women in white overalls were walking among the stubs of the melted park benches, examining the piles of newspapers and damp cardboard where the winos slept.

'It's just the Butler Inst.i.tute,' whispered Vincent. 'They sweep the park every couple of hours.' The women in white were pausing, bending over, lifting up a big sheet of corrugated cardboard. Underneath it was a man, an unconscious drunk or junkie. The women unfurled a stretcher and rolled the man on to it. 'They pick up anything that's warm and breathing,' said Vincent. 'Use them for biostock. Spare parts for the organ banks.' Justine put her fingers on his lips. She kissed him and they clutched at each other, trying to keep their balance, clumsy in their thick jackets as they got their arms around each other. They stood there under a dead black tree with the smell of wet newspapers and methanol all around them. It was a golden afternoon in late autumn and dead leaves covered the park. Somewhere in the bushes nearby an OD was moaning.

'You know,' said Vincent, 'we never really kissed before. You didn't kiss me the other night.'

'We were too busy doing other things.'

Vincent sighed and held her as close as he could. 'You know, the last time a girl kissed me something bad happened. I guess my luck's '

He looked down at the sharp pain in his arm.

Justine was holding a heavy old chrome syringe. She had slid the needle into his wrist, into a thin blue vein.

Vincent looked up into her eyes. They were as beautiful and as unreadable as a cat's. He looked down again and now there was a flowering of blood in the syringe. As she finished draining it, he looked up again, feeling his muscles moving slowly, sad and slow, looking for her eyes. But her eyes were gone and the world was rushing out from under him.

Justine watched the boy's eyes as they flickered shut. She dragged him to one of the few remaining intact benches, checked his breathing, and left him lying there.

She waited, watching from the trees, until the next sweep by the Butler Inst.i.tute bioacquisition unit team found him and collected his unconscious body. Then she left the park, slipping away into the darkening city.

'Everything is going according to plan,' said the Doctor. He closed the door behind him and strolled casually over to join Ace. The door had a sign on it which read 'Employees Only'. He had been inside about ten minutes, according to Ace's watch.

'Fine,' said Ace. 'But what is the plan?' She was looking at a display advertising children's vitamins. It featured an image of a pumpkinheaded humanoid in a greasy oldfashioned black jacket. He was holding two hideously sticky carving knives. His fingers looked like twigs.

'Why don't you tell me?' said the Doctor. 'Tell me how much you've worked out and I'll fill in the blanks.' He turned and walked down one of the long aisles. They seemed to extend for miles and this was just the vitamin section. Ace followed.

'Okay,' she said. 'You need a weapon. Those two kids are the weapon. I don't know what the target is but I can guess.' They were in the h.o.m.oeopathy section of the drugstore now. A smiling boy in an ap.r.o.n was offering samples of an allnatural toothpaste. 'That girl's got a thing about cars, pollution, the environment. She's a bit psychotic.'

'Perhaps. But she also happens to be right,' said the Doctor. 'This planet is reaching the point of no return. Ordinary people don't have the ability to alter the course of events. Only the big corporations and the very rich have the power to do that.'

'Yeah, but eventually they'll have to do something,' said Ace. 'They have to breathe the same air we do.'

'Not necessarily,' said the Doctor.

'But I'm right otherwise,' said Ace. 'Right?'

'Yes.'

'So tell me why we're standing in the middle of New York city in a chemist's.'

'Drugstore,' said the Doctor. 'Try to speak the language and adopt local ways.'

A man brushed past Ace, not apologizing or even glancing at her. He wore the uniform of a private security guard. 'Are we supposed to meet somebody here?' said Ace. 'Besides Vincent and Justine, I mean.'

'Yes,' said the Doctor. 'And Vincent isn't coming back. Justine is arranging for him to go directly to the Butler Inst.i.tute.'

'The Butler Inst.i.tute. They're the target?'

'Yes. Or, to be more specific, one of their research projects. We have to put a stop to it.'

'Just tell me what I have to do,' said Ace.

'Well, please don't be startled if you hear some alarms go off. Or gunfire.'

'Do you mean there's going to be a robbery in here?'

'It's already started,' said the Doctor.

'And that's part of the plan, too?'

They were nearing the end of the h.o.m.oeopathy section now, the Doctor strolling as if he had no particular destination in mind. 'Not exactly. But the security guards will send a signal which summons the police.' A girl in a leather jacket was standing, her back to them, staring up at a display that showed idealized endless vistas of rainforest. 'And thanks to modifications I've made to their computer,' said the Doctor, 'we can be sure that a certain specific police officer will get the call. And she will come here.'

'And she's part of the plan.'

'No, she isn't part of the plan. But her partner is.'

'And he'll be with her.'

'No. He's dead, as a matter of fact.'

The girl in the leather jacket turned away from the rainforest display and fell into step with them. 'Am I on time?' said Justine.

'Yes,' said the Doctor. 'I was just saying to Ace that everything is going according to plan.' Two security guards came past them, running along the aisle. 'Did you manage Vincent all right?'

Justine was toying with a silver locket that she wore around her neck. 'I did what you wished,' she said, pressing the edge of the locket. 'But now I must do this.' The locket opened with a click, spilling a large yellow and black capsule into the palm of her hand. There were tears in her dark eyes.

'No!' roared the Doctor.

Justine put her hand to her mouth and swallowed the capsule. 'Forgive me, my lord,' she said. Then she reached out and grabbed one of the racks beside the aisle. Her body convulsed and bottles of h.o.m.oeopathic mouthwash began to tumble off the shelves. She let go of the rack and reached out towards Ace. Her face was white and the kohl under her eyes stood out in stark black arcs. She took a clumsy lurching step forward and Ace involuntarily backed away. Justine's body folded at the waist and she slumped towards the floor.

'Is she dead,' said Ace, searching for a pulse.

'Yes,' said the Doctor.

'Is that part of the plan?'

'No.'

Then there was the sound of alarms going off.

And the gunshots.

19.

'What do you think of it?' The new weapon system consisted of two thick black tubes, connected side by side, with 'Manhattan Police Service' and the Butler Inst.i.tute logo picked out in thin elegant red. The bee and eye symbol was slightly larger than the lettering.

Mancuso held the gun in her lap, feeling the weight of it across the top of her legs. She studied the magazinerelease catch which looked a little intricate and p.r.o.ne to jamming.

'So, what do you think of it?' repeated Breen, glancing across at her.

'Keep your eyes on the road,' said Mancuso. 'And slow down.' They were pa.s.sing the restaurant where McIlveen had been shot. Breen was looking at her as if he expected some kind of reaction. 'On the road,' repeated Mancuso, and finally he looked away. The police car swayed a little as it accelerated past the burntout brownstone buildings, picking up speed. Their red light cut regular slices in the night, sweeping across blank walls and burst windows. Sweeping through pitch darkness where the road widened into wasteland. There hadn't been a street light working in this neighbourhood for ten years. 'Put the siren on,' said Mancuso.

The brownstones gave way to wasteland, a burnedout bus shelter, and then they were back among buildings again. Mancuso relaxed a little. Now their siren made a steady high scream that bounced back at them off the solid old stone faces.

Instead of easing up on the gas pedal, Breen was relentlessly creeping it down a little further.

The new weapons systems were an annual joke. Mancuso had spent three hours that evening waiting outside Research and Development. Waiting to be issued with the latest joke. Every month R&D blew a portion of their annual budget on technology licensed from the Butler Inst.i.tute. Hastily organized designs were sent to industrial conglomerates in the Pacific Basin where each component was manufactured by the lowest bidder. Then the equipment was issued to the various police services and the Butler Inst.i.tute got its technology fieldtested for free.

'What's that over there?' said Breen. There was an orange glow from a building lot, ahead and to the right. Breen eased up on the accelerator and the patrol car coasted to a crawl. Mancuso studied the building lot through the bulletproof plastic of the pa.s.senger window. It was a s.p.a.ce of waste ground created by the destruction of a mediumsized office building. Orange light washed out on to the dark pavement through a wide gap in the corrugated tin sheets of the fence. Through the gap Mancuso could make out the tall shapes of vitrification rods jutting out of the earth. Their shadows swayed on the packed dirt. The source of the orange light was a car on its side, a taxi, burning.

Mancuso's fingers were already moving across the rubber keyboard of the dash computer. There was something else there in the darkness, standing beside one of the vitrification rods. It gleamed like metal, dark blue or black. It was hard to tell in the shadows. It had a light on top of it, like the revolving lights on old police cars. Mancuso looked back at the taxi. The windows were cracked but not broken. The interior of the car was a misted, glowing box. There was a dark shape in there. Maybe it was the driver.

As Breen swung back out into the street Mancuso finished typing, logging the location and the general nature of the incident. Just another routine robbery and murder of a cabbie. She flagged the call as urgent. A car would be sent. Help would arrive. Eventually. Now Breen had his foot down hard. Side streets swept by. Mancuso didn't say anything. In the rear view mirror the orange glow was shrinking. They turned a corner and then it was gone. 'Did you see that? On the top of it?' Mancuso had seen it. Black spray paint on the yellow cab roof. The shape that looked like a crooked star. 'Hex sign.' said Mancuso.

'It's going to be a long Hallowe'en,' said Breen.

At the edge of her vision Mancuso registered a change on the dashboard screen. Above the street map a string of flashing numbers changed colour, amber to dark red. They were now more than half an hour late responding to their own urgent situation. Mancuso realized that her right hand was still clutching the contoured plastic grip of the gun. She forced herself to relax, feeling the grooves that the handgrip had made, moulded deep in the flesh of her palm.

Sometimes the faults in the new guns were subtle and nasty. Sometimes it was difficult to get anyone to test them. Nine years ago, when she was still a trainee, Mancuso had refused a direct order concerning a new gun. Her training sergeant, who hated Mancuso, had tried to force her to use the latest model. Mancuso was a rookie but she knew her rights. When she wouldn't budge the sergeant had been forced to demonstrate the weapon herself. She was now collecting a fifty per cent disability pension.