Doctor Who - Downtime Part 21

The stick swung in on him and pinned him to the floor.

'Daniel Hinton?'

Harrods lay there terrified. Strands of web were gathering on his coat, in his hair. 'Get off me, sir! Sir, get off!'

With a yell, the boy barrelled against the old man, toppling him against the wall, sending a cascade of Harrods'

belongings to the ground. The stick dragged him up again, swinging wildly, beating against the fallen objects.

'Daniel Hinton. You were chosen. I claim you now. My summons binds you!'

The boy pushed Harrods towards the door. He paused and glanced back at the phone lying on the floor. He dashed at it and s.n.a.t.c.hed it away as the stick cracked down in its place.

As they turned to run, the figure, still disorientated, was blundering about among the detritus of Harrods' violated home.

The Brigadier had had enough. He was less than a mile from his first appointment and he was going to be late. No traffic had even crept in the past twenty-five minutes and it was plainly not going to get better. There had been a punch-up across the street between a taxi driver and a policeman whose radio had gone wrong. A lone cyclist kept biking up and down the rows of stationary traffic, laughing loudly. Further along the street, he had seen several people abandoning their vehicles.

That was it. He got out of the car, locked it up, tipped his cap to the family in the vehicle alongside and joined the steady flow of pedestrians.

He cut through towards St Paul's and Fleet Street via Watling Street. Ahead, through the crowds, he saw two youths in yellow baseball hats and green sweatshirts. Logos emblazoned on their fronts proclaimed the 'New World University'. They were distributing leaflets. As soon as they saw the Brigadier, they made a beeline for him.

As they approached, he could hear the irritating tinny beat of their headphones. 'Excuse me, sir,' said the first with a sickly smile, 'can I tell you about the New World?'

'I'm not interested.' The Brigadier tried to push past, but they were very persistent.

The second youth barged in front of him, catching his sleeve. 'We want to tell you about our good news, sir.'

'I said, I'm not interested,' the Brigadier snapped. He angrily pushed between them and hurried away. Behind him, he heard one of them call, 'Have a better one!', but he was in too much of a hurry to argue.

Christopher Rice sat back and drank in the elegant, history-steeped surroundings. The House of Commons dining-room, overlooking the river, evidently kept an extensive cellar.

'White Burgundy?' suggested the immaculately coiffured Desmond Pennington and ordered the Criots-Batard-Montrachet, '88 vintage. 'We had a bottle at Glyndebourne last year and I've drunk nothing else since. But then I'm very unadventurous once I find something I like.'

Christopher smiled. He glanced around again, counting the number of famous political faces with whom he was sharing the dining-room. People with power.

He had borrowed borrowed the university's helicopter to get to his lunch date. There had been no choice. He had flown over a frozen city. Every road was a seam of trapped metal. The trip was a gamble, but he doubted that Victoria, obsessed with the imminent arrival of the Chancellor, would even notice. the university's helicopter to get to his lunch date. There had been no choice. He had flown over a frozen city. Every road was a seam of trapped metal. The trip was a gamble, but he doubted that Victoria, obsessed with the imminent arrival of the Chancellor, would even notice.

Anyway, he'd tell her it was business, which, of course, it was.

'You're one of the first people to use the new helipad,' said Pennington.

'I'm duly honoured,' Christopher nodded humbly. The half lobster in cream and brandy sauce was a marked improvement on the food served by the university caterers.

'Good.' The Education Secretary had restricted himself to a light salad. 'Your Miss Waterfield was...' he searched for a word, '... enthusiastic, shall I say?'

'Naive?' suggested Christopher, but Pennington frowned.

'That doesn't disallow her heart to be in the right place.

Even so, I felt that she does not really grasp the sheer potential of New World University.'

'Exactly my feelings,' said Christopher.

'Then you must tell me what its real agenda is.'

New World's Marketing Facilitator helped himself to the wine bottle. 'The computer is the cutting edge. That's where the real potential lies. Its mainframe is self-a.n.a.lytical. It makes other computers look like counting-frames.'

'I think we've had enough of computers today,' said the MP 'It's not affected,' Christopher rea.s.sured him. 'It has built-in immunity. It hasn't been touched by all this virus business.'

'Then who controls it?'

'Anyone who's in charge. It was designed by the university's founding Chancellor, but it's outgrown the initial programming long ago.'

'I see.'

'It redesigns itself as it goes along.'

'Fascinating.'

'And with more extensive funding the sky would be the limit.'

Pennington tapped his fingers on the table for a moment.

'There is, of course, another consideration. The computer's British. And that's extremely important.'

Christopher took another swig of the Burgundy. 'I think it could prove a real powerhouse for the government... in the right hands.'

'Yes,' Pennington said slowly. Tut there's one thing that still bothers a lot of us. This mystical business that goes with the New World package. It's Tibetan, isn't it? These days, Britain is a multi-cultural society. G.o.d knows, we're never allowed to lose sight of that. But the power base is still C of E.

And hippy chanting instead of morning prayers won't go down too well in the Home Counties.'

Christopher smirked. 'It's a quirk of both the Chancellor and the Vice Chancellor,' he admitted. 'But I'm sure I can deal with that. Miss Waterfield always listens to me.'

'Ah.' Pennington suddenly appeared to shrink in his seat.

'Word gets round fast in this place. I'm afraid we may have company.'

Clive Kirkham, the Burncaster Bruiser, was standing in the far doorway surveying the diners. He was still wearing his brown checked jacket. As soon as he saw Pennington he started to weave through the tables.

'Well, this is very cosy, I must say,' he gibed. He studied the remains of Christopher's crustacean. 'Good afternoon, Mr Rice. If everyone at that New World reception of yours returns the compliment, you'll be eating out till next Christmas.'

Pennington made a show of topping up Christopher's gla.s.s.

'No one to have lunch with, Kirkham?'

'Plenty, thanks. Do I take it we're going to see another radical reform in teaching structures after this?'

'Meaning?'

'All schools and colleges, sorry universities universities, furnished with a single national curriculum computer?'

'We'd have to ask parents and teachers first.'

'Oh. Oh. You've heard of them, then?'

Pennington had been beating a Devil's Tattoo on the table.

'If you want to make a spectacle of yourself, Kirkham, why not do it in the Chamber and get a bigger audience?'

A look of gleeful smugness slid across Clive Kirkham's face. 'Not seen this evening's Standard Standard yet, then?' yet, then?'

Pennington sighed. 'I suppose you've written a piece for them. I hope they paid your expenses.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y typical!' exploded Kirkham. 'The government negates its responsibilities by letting New World take care of privatized education, just so they can do less and less!'

Christopher watched Pennington turning a bright shade of scarlet. He decided it was time for him to step in before blood or, worse, wine was spilled. He coughed lightly. 'Mr Kirkham, I think you may be jumping the gun a tadge.'

'Oh, you reckon that do you, laddie? I warn you now, don't overestimate the big boys. They don't let just anyone into their playground.'

Pennington opened his mouth to speak, but Christopher held up a hand. 'Let me explain it in simple terms. Desmond asked me up here to establish exactly what New World's agenda is. As you pointed out, Mr Kirkham, we're pretty unusual. There's bound to be suspicion over any new innovation, and we at New World, to coin that hackneyed phrase, are the cutting edge. Desmond here is simply concerned as to where this might be leading.'

Desmond Pennington was studying the stem of his wine gla.s.s.

'Absolute tosh,' protested Kirkham.

Christopher, who reckoned himself a dab hand at seeming reasonable, was not abashed. 'We're an open book. And you're more than welcome to visit at any time.'

'I might take you up on that.'

'Good. I look forward to reading your article in the Standard Standard.'

When Kirkham nodded, his whole body bobbed as if it could scarcely contain his furious excitement. He turned on his heel, narrowly missed a waitress and left the dining-room.

'Hyperactive little twerp,' muttered Pennington. 'Well done, Mr Rice; you fielded him like a pro. Perhaps you should consider a career in politics.'

17.

Web on the Line t's compet.i.tion time! Since we can't go over to the 'I national news at the moment, let's have a little quizette to keep the airwaves humming.'

Anthony sat alone in his studio. He was drowning. All the back-up feeds from outside sources were failing. No news, no traffic reports, no weather. He wanted to pull the show, but the producer was relentless. He had to get as far as the handover at fourteen hundred, then someone from Jesus FM could cope.

Just ring in to us with the name of the founder of Tantric Buddhism, and you could win an N Treble U prayer mat. But, and here's the hard bit, you have to spell the guy's name too.

And if you want a clue, he was said to have been born in a lotus bud. Perhaps his mother was a budding gardener. No, but seriously, give us a call.'

He paused to wait for the calls to come flooding in.

Nothing happened. He glanced at the transmission lights to see if they were still on air. The light was still green, and the producer without a sc.r.a.p of pity. But what did you expect from a computer?

He scratched at an irritation on his hand. On the console beside him was Danny's crumpled sc.r.a.p of paper. The strands of web attached to it glistened. He thought they twitched, but it was just the air-conditioning.

'And if you've got problems you want to talk about, why not give us a call? I've got problems too. Ring in your phone number and I'll call you.'

' 0135 666 416. Caaall Noo Wooooorrlld, 0135 666 416. Caaall Noo Wooooorrlld, ' sang a jingle. ' sang a jingle.

'Come on, somebody. Anybody. You can't all have switched off Is there anybody there? One rap, yes. Two raps, no. If there's anybody out there, even by mistake, give me a ring.'

At last the Line One light began to flash.

'And who's calling us on Line One?'

Through a curtain of crackles he heard a voice say.

' Anthony, it's Danny. Anthony, it's Danny. ' '

'And where are you calling from, Danny?'

' It's me. Danny Hinton. I'm still alive. It's me. Danny Hinton. I'm still alive. ' '

Anthony froze. 'Danny?'

The kid's voice sounded terrified. ' Listen. It's coming. It's Listen. It's coming. It's already coming for me, but it wants all of us! You've got to already coming for me, but it wants all of us! You've got to warn...' warn...'

Anthony's hand hit a b.u.t.ton.