Doctor Who_ The Dying Days Part 29

'This will work,' I a.s.sured him. 'This has to work.'

Ray's voice was even softer than normal. 'But what if it doesn't?' he repeated. 'It's a fair question,' he added.

Captain Ford leant forward. 'We'll succeed,' he said, with such a sense of certainty that I almost believed him myself. 'But if we didn't then mankind would survive - the Martians can't fight us in the deserts, can they? They'll stick to the Arctic areas: Scandinavia, Alaska, the Falklands. We'd have strongholds and hideouts. Just think about al the army bases around the world, all the nuclear submarines. The Martians might be more advanced, but that didn't stop the Afghans from beating back the Russians or the Vietnamese from defeating the Americans.

When the human race is forced to fight for its own territory, we fight.'

My mind raced with images of Rome falling to the Vandals, fuel air bombs sucking the oxygen from Iraqi air raid shelters, Daleks killing half the human population of the galaxy and overrunning whole planets without even leaving their ships. Bil ions had died defending their home territory. But despite all the wars, al the invasions and killing, the human race had survived. Arguing with the Captain's sentiments seemed childish, cowardly. I found myself wondering how many young soldiers down the ages had died not wanting to speak up and say that they were scared.

'It's almost time for the broadcast to start.'

As the digital clock on the dashboard flipped over to midday, I turned on the radio. I'm copying the next bit from a history book, a fat blue paperback with a scary eye on the cover. As the author died five hundred and thirty one years ago, I doubt he'l mind, and even if he did he's out of copyright, so nerr.

101.

I have to resort to the history books for this part of the story, because at the time we were driving to the refinery, I was unaware of events elsewhere in the country and the rest of the world.

SAS teams and other elite squads had secured the radio transmitters. In every town and city with a resistance cel , people knew that something was coming, that something was going to be broadcast at midday. Photocopied fliers were placed on car windscreens. In St Helens Square in York, the Town Crier read a proclamation to a crowd of Royalists. Elsewhere, loudspeakers were set up, and hastily-arranged press conferences were held in loyal emba.s.sies around the world. They were told that the resistance was going to make an announcement.

At mid-day, they heard a voice that they recognised. An Oscar-winning actor, reading from Henry V. Next a recording of Ray, explaining about the poison gas and Adisham. After a few second's silence, Lethbridge-Stewart spoke. He introduced himself, then: 'I am the commanding officer of the force that will liberate London. Not just from the Martians, but from those that betrayed you to the Martians. I serve Xznaal, Greyhaven and the rest of their Provisional Government notice: this is their last day in office. Our army is already mobilised. It is a small force, but it is larger than Henry's at Agincourt, and we have right on our side. The Provisional Government has lied to you: its members have been in league with the Martians for many years in their attempts to gain power. Now they have power, they use it against their own people: the air-raid on Edinburgh, shooting on civilians in Bradford, cutting off the water and electricity supplies in Chester and York. Thousands of people have died, but this is only the beginning. I saw for myself the effect of the Martian gas on Adisham. Unless they are stopped, the Martians wil wipe out mankind with their new weapon.

I don't mean to scare you: rest a.s.sured that the Martians can be stopped. With your a.s.sistance, they wil be stopped today. We would ask those Londoners wishing to evacuate to head south, down to Kent. Those who wish to join us are equal y welcome - you can help us by cutting power and telecommunications lines, by barricading the smaller roads and by preventing the Provisional Government's security forces from barricading the major ones.

Hopeful y, we will not have to fire a single shot to end the Martian Occupation. It is now a quarter past twelve. Our tanks will be in Ealing, now. G.o.d willing, the Provisional Government wil have fallen within the hour.'

The speech finished, the broadcast cut to live coverage of the Queen's address to the United Nations. She had been informed of the effort to retake London and had given it her blessing. Her speech began by wishing Lethbridge-Stewart and his men luck. As she spoke, her advisors were outside, preparing to hand out press releases and lobbying amba.s.sadorial staff.

Without any help from UNIT, details of the damage inflicted on the Martians in Portsmouth and the location and plans of the EG refinery had found their way to New York via the Internet. Pictures, text and sound files were downloaded onto the new computer newsgroups and bulletin boards that had been set up around the world. These had eventual y found their way to the world's military and media.

At an emergency session of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the President ordered that if the Martian ship left British airs.p.a.ce it was to be shot down, by any means necessary.

Unaware of events elsewhere in the world, half a dozen trained UNIT men followed Ray through the refinery and I followed the soldiers. Ray knew which routes the guards patrolled. The place was swarming with them, apparently, but I didn't see a single one. The troops were hand-picked by Captain Ford and moved through the base swiftly and silently. No doubt if we had come across any of the patrols, the UNIT men would have dispatched them with the same efficiency - each carried an automatic pistol with silencer, and enough knives to fill a cutlery drawer. Our main weapons were the packs of thermite explosive we carried in special belt pouches. Even I had three packs - each was about the size of a paperback book but packed enough punch to bring down a house or blow open a tank. The UNIT boffins had told us that the high explosive generated enough heat to incinerate even the most deadly nerve agents. When I had chal enged them, suggested that they might free the Martian gas rather than destroy it, they were proud to announce that mankind had devised much more virulent materials than the substance released over Adisham. The bombs would work, if enough of them were planted in the right locations.

Back in Windsor Forest, as soon as Lethbridge-Stewart had finished his briefing, Ray had drawn a map for the refinery a.s.sault team. He'd helped to build the plant four years ago, and he knew virtually every pipe and wire. To me, the refinery complex looked like an alien city, with pressurised skysc.r.a.pers and pipelines instead of pavements. In a way, of course, it was an alien city: the first Martian colony on Earth. The silos had been designed by Vrgnur for the sentient gas, and duplicated conditions on Mars. Behind the stainless steel, Vrgnur had been propagating something entirely inimical to man. At the time I knew little about the Red Death. Later, I would have time to search the ancient Martian texts and I would learn of an a.s.sa.s.sination weapon capable of pa.s.sing through the narrowest gap in relentless pursuit of its target.

In the scarce atmosphere of Mars it was subtle, invisible. But when it fed on the abundant elements of Earth's atmosphere, it became bloated and bloodthirsty.

I ran my finger along a polished pipe no thicker than my arm. Just the slightest crack, just the tiniest break, and it would escape. Everything would die from the smallest microbe to the last blue whale. That didn't frighten me so much as the knowledge that the thing in these silos had killed the Doctor.

The UNIT force began splitting up, hurrying along carefully-prepared routes.

End of extract 102.

The box on the screen informed Dave that 87% of the information he had been ama.s.sing had been released into cybers.p.a.ce. It would be appearing on various bulletin boards and inboxes.

'There's a crowd gathering,' he noted. They'd been listening to the radio, and they'd heard Lethbridge-Stewart's proclamation. Now a steady stream of people was heading up towards Whitehal .

'The Brig's a legend,' Oswald continued. 'Some skywatchers think he's a myth, a codename. UNIT go in for that: the scientific advisor is always cal ed "the Doct-" '

Dave grabbed his arm. 'Come on.'

Lethbridge-Stewart checked his watch. 12.20 and they were in Chiswick. They were a little ahead of schedule. He was sitting besides Bambera in the staff car. Three of the tanks headed the convoy, then the armoured cars. The staff car was next, followed by the Land Rovers. The other two tanks brought up the rear. Motorcycle outriders were scouting ahead.

Outside, crowds were beginning to line the streets. It reminded Alistair of a royal visit. Some people were even waving little plastic Union Flags. Ordinary people were falling in behind the military convoy: policemen and firemen, even postmen in their uniforms. Socialist Workers and members of the British Legion weren't walking hand-in-hand, but they at least had common purpose.

'You were right,' Bambera conceded. 'it looks like we've got a fair few people on our side.'

'There's no sign of Government forces. We'd have expected a road block by now, at least.'

'Perhaps they are weaker than we thought,' Bambera suggested.

The radio crackled. 'Greyhound, this is Trap Seven.'

'Receiving. Where are you?'

'Tower Hill. There's quite a crowd gathering. It's like the Royal Wedding, sir.'

'Spare me the Dimbleby commentary, Corporal. How many people and what's their mood?'

'Thousands. It's a carnival.'

'Any sign of the Provs?'

'They are keeping a cordon around the Tower, they've sealed off Downing Street. Defensive positions only at the moment, sir. We've had a lot of defectors.'

'Very good. Inform me if the situation changes.'

'Roger that, Greyhound.'

Bambera was smiling, not a common sight. 'It looks like we've got all sorts of people on our side.'

The Prime Minister looked out over London. Through fifty-one millimetre 13 ply laminated gla.s.s was the familiar skyline, with its familiar Martian warship.

It was so big. On the way to one of his meetings with Xznaal he'd stopped off at a newsagents by Fenchurch Street station. The shop was selling postcards showing the capital's latest tourist attraction. That had been on Sat.u.r.day morning, not more than thirty-six hours after the invasion. Not that there were many tourists in London any longer. Before the Martians had come, the Tower of London had two million visitors a year - millions more buzzed around it without wanting to pay to get in. Now the streets and pavements around the walls were al but deserted for the first time in centuries. Many Londoners had fled the city to the Home Counties. The evacuation hadn't been orderly, dozens had died under the wheels of cars and vans and lorries charging away from the Capital, on both sides of the road. Most were living with friends or relatives, or in guest houses. Al the foreigners had gone, too. London hotels were empty, facing ruin. Walking along the deserted streets, the only language you heard was English. It made the city seem smaller, less alive. It was alive now. Even behind the bullet resistant window pane - no gla.s.s was truly bullet proof, four shotgun blasts at close range would be enough to penetrate it - the Prime Minister could hear the sounds of Londoners in Trafalgar Square, demonstrating against him.

'Mussolini once said that ruling Italy was easy,' Greyhaven said.

'He was a friend of yours, was he?' Christian asked, adjusting his pipe.

'He said it was easy but utterly pointless,' Greyhaven finished. He reached into his pocket, checking for something he knew was there. 'Mussolini had a vision that his country could be great again, but he was a fool and he allied himself with a monster. He ended up strung from a lamppost by a mob of his own people.'

Alexander Christian stood there, impa.s.sive. Greyhaven smiled at him, not expecting a response. Final y, the Prime Minister tapped at his intercom.

'Tell me, how would I get to the s.p.a.ce Museum from here without those rioters tearing me apart?'

'We can arrange an escort, Prime Minister.'

'Do so. I will be downstairs in two minutes.'

Greyhaven combed his hair into place and slipped a fountain pen into his pocket. 'If you'll excuse me, Colonel, I have work to do.'

103.

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield The Martian ship was unguarded. It was exactly as Ray had described it, and as I had expected from my excavation of the "ship's graveyard" at Tharsis. It was a V-wing, roughly the same size and shape as the pinnacle of human aviation at the time of the invasion, the B2 stealth bomber. It was built from a glistening green ceramic material, the name of which eluded me. I caught Ford's attention, and motioned that I was going in. Ford indicated that he would finish planting his explosives before joining me.

There were two ways into the shuttle: the main hatch at the front, and the cargo doors on the underside. Both were open. I chose the latter, edging forwards. A couple of fork lift trucks sat snugly in the shadow of the Martian craft.

Without even realising that I had slipped into Sherlock Holmes mode, I deduced from the tyre tracks that the fork lifts had been active recently. The cargo hatch looked like the bomb bay of a Lancaster bomber. As I approached the opening, the cold air from inside was wafting down.

I ducked underneath one of the cargo bay doors, poking my head up into the body of the ship. The shuttlecraft's hold was tiny, and there was only dim Martian lighting, but I could see that it had been packed solid with metal cylinders. Captain Ford was already out of sight and I certainly couldn't call out for him. The tiny UNIT walkie-talkie in my pocket was also useless for the moment - we'd agreed at the briefing that this phase of the operation was being conducted under the strictest radio silence.

Everything was going according to my plan - the one that I hadn't shared with UNIT. I took a last look around to make sure that no-one had seen me, then pul ed myself up into the shuttlecraft. I sat on the edge of the hatch for a moment to congratulate myself for being so quiet. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the twilight, and I could feel the gooseb.u.mps developing on my legs and arms. It wasn't uncomfortably cold, though. The magnetic engines were on, and throbbing with power. Like every machine of its complexity, the shuttle was on the brink of being alive. Noises that the ship's builders couldn't have explained surrounded me, a hiss there, a clank here.

I was heading for the communications rig. Al Martian equipment is bulky. The communicator was the size of a telephone box, too big to slot into the c.o.c.kpit. They tucked it away down here. I turned the corner.

The vast Martian scientist filled the alcove. He had his back to me. I edged away, trying not to make a sound.

Vrgnur hadn't seen me and was deep in a hissing, grunting conversation. I wasn't sure, but it was almost certainly Xznaal on the other end of the line. Like any language, there was a world of difference between the textbook Martian grammar and the col oquial form. The sound didn't carry very wel in the thin air, either. Despite all that, I could tell that the conversation was coming to an end.

I backed into something solid, the size of a tree trunk. I pul ed back, thinking it was another Martian, but it was merely a metal tank. I caught myself from screaming, sighing with relief, laughing and from making al the other little noises I was planning at that moment.

The gauge said that the cylinder was full to capacity. I bent over to double-check, resting my hand on the side of the container. Almost before my fingertips had touched the cold metal, whatever was inside surged towards them, clattering against the side like a bird in a cage.

I realised what it was.

Outside, Captain Ford and his men were planting explosives around an empty refinery. The poison gas had already been piped into the shuttle. The thing that had killed the Doctor was in here with me.

End of extract ***

'Sir,' the human female h.e.l.lmond squeaked. 'I've just had a phone cal from Downing Street. The Prime Minister isn't going to the Tower. His car is being escorted to Trafalgar Square.'

'What?' Xznaal bel owed, sweeping around.

'Did he explain why?' Xztaynz asked quietly.

'He is going to the s.p.a.ce Museum, sir,' the female said.

Xznaal glared down at the two humans. 'Why?'

'I have no idea,' Xztaynz muttered. He struggled with some mental activity - a feat of memory, perhaps. 'Unless he... he said something about an insurance policy, and that... the Orbiter.'

Xznaal's eyes narrowed. 'We musst follow him.'

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield Have you ever heard the expression "her mind raced"? In adventure stories, when faced with insurmountable odds and imminent death, the author tells us that the heroine's mind "races". My mind did no such thing. It sat there, nursing the mental equivalent of a hamstring injury. The primal instinct in these circ.u.mstances ought to be "flight or fight" - kil or run away. I stood there.

I managed to muster enough presence of mind to duck out of sight as Vrgnur detached himself from the communications alcove. In something akin to his native atmosphere, his breathing was quiet - I hoped that I could say the same about myself: Martian hearing was acute, possibly sharp enough to pick up the sound of a human heart slamming against a ribcage. Although I couldn't see or hear Vrgnur, I could feel his vast bulk moving across the deck of the shuttle, the metal reverberating with each footstep. Vrgnur paused, close to me. There was a wrenching sound, a pneumatic hiss and then the cargo bay doors slammed shut.

104.

I was trapped in here, alone with the Martian.

Within seconds, Vrgnur was lumbering out of the hold, away from me. "Relief" seemed like a rather small word to describe what I was feeling. The Martian scientist was heading away from the hold to the c.o.c.kpit. I checked my watch. I had only a little over a minute to get clear before Captain Ford set off the bombs.

I eased myself out of my hiding place and tried to find the control that opened the cargo hatch. It wasn't difficult - the lever was four foot long, and bright red. It wouldn't have been out of place in an old-fashioned signal box. To Vrgnur, releasing the control would have been as easy as changing the gears of a car. But humans found it less easy, as I quickly discovered when I tried to apply all my weight to get the thing to budge.

Reader, I swore.

The sound echoed around the cargo hold, and didn't go away however much I wished that it would or however much I gritted my teeth.

Twenty seconds later, I still hadn't been killed by a Martian, so I decided that Vrgnur hadn't heard me. He would be safely strapped into his pilot's cradle by now, a chunky visor over his eyes, his claws tugging at the controls. Which would mean...

The shuttlecraft lurched skywards on a column of magnetic energy. At precisely that moment, I could hear the rumble of explosions outside. It was like being caught in a tidal wave.

As a train begins slowing at the end of every journey, when it's coming into the station and everyone is standing up, draping their coat over their arm ready to leave, there's always someone who contrives to pitch over and crash around, unable to manage even basic co-ordination. That person is generally me.

I tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on the metal deck.

Before I pul ed myself up, I unzipped one of the pouches on my belt, and tugged out one of the thermite packs. It was wrapped up in cellophane like a packet of cigarettes or a box of chocolates. I located the little strip and unwound it, slipping the bomb from its wrapper. Like all military hardware, like most things designed for men, it was black and ergonomic with little LEDs and ridges in the plastic so that it was easy to grip.

I checked the timing mechanism - usually the first thing to go on the things. The bomb was working. I slid the control on the top, arming it. I could set the timer by tapping the little b.u.t.tons, just like setting a digital watch or a VCR, or I could just press the red b.u.t.ton and save myself the wait. One explosion would be enough to depressurise the shuttle. However much Vrgnur struggled with the controls, the ship would drop like a stone and dash itself against the English countryside. I was actually reaching for the b.u.t.ton when I remembered my plan to end the invasion. I glanced back at the communications rig. There was an adhesive strip on the back of the bomb.

I attached the device to the nearest metal cylinder. For a few seconds the gas scuttled away at it, but I was already crossing the hold.

Vrgnur had deactivated the communicator. I examined the display and tried to twist one of the dials. It took a moment for my puny human wrists to get the dial to turn, but the holoplate began rezzing up. Martians had different colour and depth perception to a human, but I had seen enough Martian murals to work out what was going on.

I flicked a stiff switch, establishing the interplanetary carrier wave, then sat back - it was going to take a while before I would be able to tell whether it was working. I didn't have a while. The logo of the Martian Communicators Guild appeared in the hologlobe. I selected an open channel, cleared my throat and began speaking in what I hoped the Martians would recognise as their own language.

'This is Professor Bernice Summerfield of the clans of the United Kingdom. Our world has been invaded by the Lord Xznaal. Unable to win in combat, he formed an alliance with traitors and now skulks in his warship, afraid to Lord Xznaal. Unable to win in combat, he formed an alliance with traitors and now skulks in his warship, afraid to leave its confines. We have heard legends of the mighty warrior race of Mars, and frankly we are shocked by this leave its confines. We have heard legends of the mighty warrior race of Mars, and frankly we are shocked by this cowardly behaviour. He now loots and plunders our world for its weapons, raw materials, and best soldiers. I can't cowardly behaviour. He now loots and plunders our world for its weapons, raw materials, and best soldiers. I can't imagine what he's planning to do with all of them. He said something about going back to Mars and, er, what was imagine what he's planning to do with all of them. He said something about going back to Mars and, er, what was it again? Oh yes "showing that stunted git Paxaphyr where he can stick the sword of Tubarr". Anyway, as I say, it again? Oh yes "showing that stunted git Paxaphyr where he can stick the sword of Tubarr". Anyway, as I say, his warship is here now, along with his finest warriors. All of them here. And not there. Just thought you would like his warship is here now, along with his finest warriors. All of them here. And not there. Just thought you would like to know that. Er... byeeee.' to know that. Er... byeeee.'

I tugged the 'off' control, took a deep breath and waited. I had done al that I could for the moment. What happened now depended on others.

End of extract ***

Greyhaven parked his Aston Martin on a double yellow line and bounded up the steps of the National s.p.a.ce Museum. The five-minute car journey had taken three times as long - they'd had to take a different route to avoid the crowds of people converging on the Square as if it were the venue for the cup final. The Prime Minister was waved through the various security barriers and into Mission Control. He paused to catch his breath. Theo Ogilvy, the Mars 97 mission controller, was there.