Doctor Who_ The Dying Days Part 31

There was a scream from the crowd.

'Now what?' Bambera scowled.

The two Brigadiers turned back to the s.p.a.ce Museum. At the bottom of the steps was a Martian. Even at Allen Road, the Brigadier had only seen the enemy as he was running from it, or shrouded in darkness. All he knew was that they were heavily armoured, like an armadillo or a rhino, and that they were big. In broad daylight, standing there, the Martian lost none of its majesty, indeed it looked even more powerful. Everyone in the crowd was wild-eyed, they were clambering over each other to get a look.

The Brigadier unclipped his radio. 'This is Greyhound to al Traps. Hold your fire. Repeat: Hold fire.'

'Is that the leader?' Bambera asked.

'Yes,' Helmond said quietly. 'Xznaal.' She was terrified that it would see her, even across the crowded square. The Brigadier looked from the single Martian to the thousands of civilians. They were watching the alien with awe, all of them aware that this was the most important thing that they would ever see. They were mere footnotes in history, witnesses, not instigators and whatever else they did, wherever else they went, this was the defining moment of their lives. None of them were important. For wel over a full minute, the great ma.s.s of people were almost deathly quiet.

The Martian didn't move, it stood there like a great, old tree or a statue hewn from a block of jade.

Below it, the crowd was shifting around, rustling like leaves. Some news was spreading among them.

'The warship's moving,' someone - a civilian or a soldier, Alistair didn't know - announced.

Alistair spun around. The metal sky to the East was turning slowly and drifting forwards. All around them, UNIT radios squawked as the spotters around London began relaying the news. The Brigadier checked his watch.

'The refinery?' Bambera asked.

'Why wait until now?' he replied. 'It's been nearly ten minutes.'

'Then that means... '

The warship was heading towards them, there was no doubt about it. The two Brigadiers were looking at each other, hoping the other would think of something to do.

The warship eclipsed the afternoon sun over Trafalgar Square.

Below them, the crowd fell quiet.

As darkness dropped, the silence swept through the crowd like a Mexican wave. Alistair watched, and felt the mood change. From his vantage point, he could see it all, the high spirits had become darker. A group of young men were fighting each other in front of Dillons. The crowd were pulling back from the s.p.a.ce Museum, some were trying to get away, and they jostled with those who were transfixed, watching the sky. One spark and this crowd would erupt into terrible violence.

Xznaal stood there, watching them too.

109.

The warship had stopped, its prow hanging over the s.p.a.ce Museum, the vast ma.s.s of the ship hanging over London and disappearing over the horizon.

The Martian lifted its slablike foot, the first movement that it had made.

The warship was blotting out the sun, making everything else around it irrelevant.

Xznaal swung forward, those broad shoulders slouching, its eyes turned blankly to the ground.

Far from the Martian the first bottle arced into the air. It dashed against the pavement, scattering the crowd where it fel . Voices were being raised again.

The Terran gravity was taking its toll. Xznaal was like a medieval knight in a suit of armour. Clad in a chain mail vest and plate armour weighing as much as he did, even a knight in prime condition had been unable to fight for long. Many falling on their face into the mud of a battlefield would find that they didn't have the strength to pul themselves back up. The weight of their armour would drag them down and they would drown.

Xznaal took another step.

On the other side of the Square, there was a great crashing sound, shouts of surprise. The crowd had uprooted a lamppost. A fight had started, a small incident at the base of Nelson's Column. It was impossible to see who was fighting. As members of the crowd realised that there wasn't anything to stop them: no police, no army, no laws, the violence spread like fire. Within seconds the crowd was a seething ma.s.s of flailing arms, rising and falling.

With a great, rol ing clank, a panel on the underside of the warship was grinding open.

The crowd were pushing against the crash barriers, right in front of Trap One. The metal fence was buckling, sc.r.a.ping against the tarmac.

The crash barriers toppled, the front row of the crowd falling with them. Like a dam had burst, a seething ma.s.s of humanity surged through the gaps in the barrier. Men were clawing their way over children, women were punching and kicking their way to the front. The noise. Ten thousand shouts and screams and cries, al merging into a monster voice.

'They're going to kill us!'

'Run!'

'Got to get out of here.'

Lethbridge-Stewart turned to his men. 'Let them through. Try to help the injured,' he bellowed.

But it was the best that his men could do to stand their ground. They were trained in crowd control techniques, the subtle and not so subtle ways that a man in a uniform could manipulate a ma.s.s of people. None of the crowd were thinking, they only wanted to get away. So the UNIT men did the thinking for them, channel ing them off into three or four columns, slowing them down, spreading them out. Other troops were clearing the bottlenecks, pulling the injured clear or making room for them.

The Brigadier was trying to keep track of the whole scene, from the activity of the warship to the dynamics of the crowd. It was an impossible task.

'Something moving up there.'

As he looked up, a young woman collided with Lethbridge-Stewart, almost bringing them both down. She was already on her way. He peered up, trying to catch his breath.

'It's the platform,' he called out. 'That lift thing. It'll be heading for Xznaal.'

The disc was dropping slowly but inexorably.

Bambera appeared at his side, the shoulder of her uniform jacket ripped. 'This could be our last chance to take him out.'

The Brigadier shook his head. 'The Martians would retaliate,' he called.

The platform had dropped below head-height. Xznaal was still visible, towering over the crowd. The Martian mounted the platform, a laborious movement.

The radio squawked. 'Trap Two to Greyhound. There's a mob of people heading for the Tower, sir. They're throwing bottles and stones at the Government troops. They'll... sir, there's gunfire. Both sides.'

The two Brigadiers looked over at each other. The sound of the shots was drifting across London.

Behind them, the magnetic platform was rising again.

'Prepare to move out,' Bambera shouted to her men. They began pulling back to the Land Rovers. A pretty young lieutenant opened a car door for Lethbridge-Stewart.

'Sir,' one of the radio operators called back before he could get in. 'The spotters at Brentford report an aircraft.

Unknown design, travelling at supersonic speeds. It looks Martian.'

They could hear it, cutting a swathe through the air. Lethbridge-Stewart swung his binoculars around. A large V-wing craft was approaching from the West. 'The Martian shuttlecraft.'

'The mountain has come to Mohammed, Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart.'

The Brigadier turned. There was a young man, wearing a duffle coat and long scarf, and behind him was an overweight chap about the same age. The old soldier narrowed his eyes. 'Who the devil are you?'

'My name's Oswald. I've been working in London during the Occupation. Sending information out over the Net. I know what's going on.'

'Thank G.o.d someone does,' Bambera muttered.

Oswald ignored her. 'The Martians have transported the gas from Reading in the shuttle.'

The Brigadier paled. 'We've been a.s.suming that the only way to get the gas to London was using the warship. We didn't count on them transporting it in the shuttle. It's heading for the Tower.'

Bambera was wide-eyed. 'So Ford's team failed? Now the Martians have the gas?'

'Yes.'

Lethbridge-Stewart was reaching into his jacket pocket. He handed Oswald a small card.

110.

'Mr Oswald, could you do me a favour? This is my wife's business card. It has her email address. Could you send her a message? Tell her that I love her. Thank you.'

Oswald took the card and nodded. Lethbridge-Stewart shook his hand and hurried into his staff car.

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield The doorway at the front of the shuttlecraft gave a pneumatic sigh and parted. The shuttle had landed on Tower Green, right in the centre of the Tower of the London. It was a flat lawn, surrounded by two towered curtain walls.

Beyond the millennium-old defences, I could hear chaos: shouting, even sporadic gunfire.

I began to step down the ramp. My wrists had been tied together with steel wire. It would have been an uncomfortable binding for an Ice Warrior but to me, without the benefit of chitinous wristguards, it was agonising.

Vrgnur, my captor, wasn't following me down.

As I made my way down into the afternoon sun, I could see Xznaal waiting, standing alone in the middle of the green. He had just stepped from that magnetic disc of his. Provisional Government troops, wearing their ordinary Army uniforms were manning the battlements. There were snipers on the ramparts, ducked behind the merlons.

Beyond the walls I could hear sporadic gunfire. Down on Tower Green I was sheltered from the bullets. Medics scurried along into place, ready for casualties. It wasn't a battlefield yet, but it would be. It was reverse-archaeology: instead of sc.r.a.ping away the layers of history, these people would soon be adding to them and centuries from now, someone would be cataloguing the bul etholes in the walls, unearthing cartridges and dropped jewellery. Becoming excited when they found an intact skull. But the archaeologist wouldn't be human, or Martian, and they wouldn't be studying a living race.

The warship hung above it all. It was the first time I had seen it in daylight. This was a Warbringer, used in former times as flying fortresses during the longest and most b.l.o.o.d.y crusades and military campaigns. Although its gunports were open, there was no sign that the sonic cannons had been used or that they were about to be.

'Good afternoon, Professssor,' Xznaal gasped.

'Good afternoon. I am sorry to hear of your loss.' I uttered a short Martian prayer of lamentation. The original had been carved in the wal of a deep shelter during the Thousand-Day War, probably with the tip of a Martian claw.

Xznaal exhaled slowly, a sound like a sigh. 'I ssensse that you mean what you ssay.' He sounded weary, but not broken. He spoke in English.

'Is there any more news from Mars?' I asked him.

'None.'

I couldn't feel sorry for him. I pictured the gal eries and tunnels shattering, fragments of rock the size of houses raining on the subterranean cities of the Argyre. I could hear a whole planet screaming as the ground began to tremble. Crystal statues splintering, women and eggs being crushed, a population running and screaming and dying, million-year old temples flattened. But I couldn't feel sorry for Xznaal himself. I tried to rub my wrists where they were particularly sore.

As I reached the lawn, the shuttle's door hissed shut, sealing Vrgnur inside.

'Take tea with me,' Xznaal ordered. I nodded, taking my position at the side of the Martian Lord as he lumbered away from the shuttle. I've always been tall for a human, particularly a woman, but my eyes only came level with Xznaal's chest. I looked down at the Martian's legs. Great box-like sections of dark shel parted and drew together as his feet lifted and fell. My own body seemed frail and withered by comparison. I felt like a child walking beside a grown-up.

We walked up the Green towards a low stone plinth. It was almost certainly all that remained of a long-demolished building, or a monument to an otherwise forgotten hero. A very large, flat tray sat atop it, jostling with a silver tea service. Iced tea, naturally.

'Shall I be mother?' I asked, climbing up. I moved the teapot aside and discovered a patch of green paint. 'Er... this wouldn't be the original Haywain, would it?'

'I grew bored of it. Thiss way it sservess a practical purposse.'

'Martians are not a race to waste anything.'

'No.' I poured two cups of tea and spilt about three more, not bad going considering my wrists were tied together.

Xznaal hadn't kil ed me. Normally, this would be good news, but I had learnt over the years that when megalomaniacs don't kill you straight away it's because they plan to kil you horribly a little way down the line, once they'd a.s.sembled suitable kil ing equipment. I was unsure whether I was expected to conduct a conversation with my captor. I began by asking Xznaal why I hadn't been killed yet.

'You vanquisshed a Martian warrior in ssingle combat,' the Martian whispered. There was a tone of respect in his voice. Megalomaniacs were also the only people in the whole, wide universe that used words like "vanquished" in everyday conversation.

'Er, yes. It's not something I'm terribly proud of.' But if it meant that Xznaal respected me...

'You desserve an honourable death. An execution.'

I nodded my head. 'Do I get to choose the method?'

Xznaal cackled. 'An exquissite idea.' He sucked some more air. 'How do you wissh to die, human?'

I made a show of looking around. My eye caught a wooden block and an axe. There was a little plaque: 111 "The axe which is of the Tudor Period, was for long displayed at the Tower as the instrument of Anne Boleyn's death, although in fact by her own choice she was beheaded with a sword. The block was made for the last beheading on Tower Hill in 1747."

The trouble was, I didn't fancy the idea of beheading, however it was done. Nor ga.s.sing, stabbing, hanging, shooting, electrocution, lethal injection or strangulation. Dying was an irredeemably unpleasant idea.

'I choose "old age",' I announced final y.

Xznaal seemed disappointed by the answer, as I had expected. Before one could join the Amalgamated Union of Villains, Baddies and Miscel aneous Evil Persons one had to abandon any sense of humour.

The Martian Lord drew breath. 'From ssome of the implementss on dissplay in thiss fort, I knew that your race truly iss ingeniouss when it comess to the artss of death.'

I thanked him, already knowing that Xznaal wouldn't be able to pick up on my tone of voice.

'The concept of "torture", for example iss - '

I yawned. It had reached that stage in the proceedings.

Xznaal c.o.c.ked his head.

'The Victorians exaggerated all that,' I informed him. 'There aren't quite as many dungeons and torture chambers here as they would have you believe.'