Doctor Who_ Toy Soldiers Part 14

There was a moment's silence. Chris sucked in another breath, but felt Roz's hand on his shoulder. 'He's right, Chris.

The kit says she's gone.'

Chris looked down, registering for the first time Amalie's open, staring eyes, one pupil contracted more than the other, a curl of brown hair plastered to her forehead by sweat. She's dead, he thought. She was kind, she was trying to help us, and now she's dead, and it's our fault for being here, for using her to investigate this thing - 'Right.' Jean-Pierre's voice, brisk and authoritative.

'Georges, go and start the car. Henri, stay here with the women. Send someone to fetch Father Duvalle, for - ' he paused, swallowed, - for Amalie. I'm taking these two to the police in Septangy.'

Now just a minute!' said Roz. 'We didn't shoot her. Your vanishing friend did that. We've just tried to save her life, and now we need your help to find out - '

'You can explain that to the police!' Jean-Pierre was standing over them now, the muzzle of the rifle almost against Roz's head. Now walk! Towards the car!'

Roz stood up, swayed a little, put a hand on her injured leg. 'I'm going to need a plastaform on this,' she said, her voice shaking a little.

Jean-Pierre gestured with the gun. 'You can do that, whatever it is, when you are in the car. Walk!'

Roz gave the man a murderous glance, but she walked.

Chris followed. For a moment - just a moment - he considered trying to jump Jean-Pierre, but quickly decided that he didn't have a high chance of success. There'd been enough heroics, and enough bullets flying, for one night.

When they reached the house he glanced back along the path between the vines. Henri was leaning over his sister's body: as Chris watched, he gently closed her eyes.

Chapter 8.

When Sergeant Summerfield woke up she was no longer responsible for recruitment. She was vaguely aware that she had been, but the memory was no more coherent than that of a dream: there had been a blue box appearing out of the air, a civilian in a rumpled suit with his hands above his head. A factory, somewhere.

She shook her head. No time for dreams now. She had to get on with the new job.

She rolled out of her bunk on to the muddy concrete floor, pulled on the trousers and jacket of her new red-and-yellow uniform, then looked around the dugout that was now her command. It was small, and very basic: a single-squad hole in the ground, with three sets of bunks jammed against the crude metal blastproofing, one to each wall, and a single gas-burning stove occupying most of the remaining wall. To its left a low brick archway revealed the beginning of an upward flight of steps. A square wooden table, muddy and burn-scarred, stood in the middle of the room: there was barely s.p.a.ce to pa.s.s between it and the bunks. A low rumble of sh.e.l.lfire ran through the dugout, occasionally rattling the metal sheets on the walls.

Summerfield checked on her staff. The top two bunks in her tier were occupied, the troopers sleeping in their Muddy, dull red-and-yellow uniforms. Both of them were Ogrons: good fighters, she knew, but stupid. She was going to have to do a lot of their thinking for them. She checked the other two sets of bunks, saw four more Ogrons and a couple of Biune.

'Teddy bears,' she muttered. 'Slow movers. But at least they've got brains.'

She pulled her helmet and her rifle from their hooks on the wall across the bunk. She put the helmet on; it came down over her ears. She adjusted the chin strap, but even at the tightest notch it was still loose.

Not good enough,' she muttered. 'Must have a word with the costume department.' Then she frowned, wondering why the remark seemed funny. What was a costume department?

She briefly checked her rifle, then slung it over her shoulder before starting across the dugout towards the stairway that led to the surface. Her new boots squelched in the mud, ankle-deep on the floor. Half-way across she slipped and almost fell, had to put a hand on the table to steady herself. She gazed at the bloodstains on the table for a moment, wondering what had made them, then shook her head. Whatever had happened there, it didn't concern her.

The stairway twisted sharply to the left. There was no rail. Summerfield had to keep a hand on the rough bricks of the wall to stop herself from falling. She became aware that her boots, like her helmet, didn't fit properly: they both flopped awkwardly, and the right one chafed her heel. She wondered in pa.s.sing if the alien that made them had ever seen a human being.

Daylight became visible: a ragged entrance, part blocked by the heavy form of a Biune. Summerfield called up, 'Sentry!'

'Sergeant!' The heavy form turned, and Summerfield saw the faint glow of the alien's green eyes.

'How's the duty squad doing?' There had to be a duty squad: eight soldiers in bunks meant eight soldiers on shift above ground, manning the trench.

Not much activity up here, Sergeant. Couple of bombardments, and a plane tried to drop a bomb, but nothing else nearer than half a mile. We've been conserving ammunition.'

Summerfield nodded. 'Conserving ammunition' meant 'nothing to fire at'. Which could be good news - or bad, if they had to advance to a new trench because they were too far from the enemy. She climbed the remaining steps so that she could take a look for herself.

Outside, surprisingly, it was sunny. The sunlight shone through a thin haze of smoke and dust, which made the sky white, but it was nevertheless warm, almost hot on the side of Summerfield's neck. The mud on one side of the trench steamed slightly, and she could see small things gleaming in it, crystals, pieces of broken gla.s.s, fragments of metal. A dry bone projected from between two pieces of wood. The squad were all in sight: three more Biune in the heavy machine-gun emplacement, a fourth about fifty metres away, on sentry duty at the top of a wooden scaling ladder, the two Ogrons squatting near the dugout entrance sharing a mess tin of fried meat with a pale, dishevelled human. These three shuffled to their feet as Summerfield approached, and the human saluted her.

'Corporal Holder, Sergeant.' The dim thunder of sh.e.l.lfire which she'd heard in the bunker had become louder, loud enough for Holder to have to shout at her to make himself heard.

Summerfield nodded. 'I'm Sergeant Bernice Summerfield, and I've been a.s.signed to this squad.' She paused, briefly wondered who the previous sergeant of this squad had been, and what had happened to him or her.

Perhaps her squad would like it if she asked - No. Better not to think about it. She knew what her duties were, and that was all that mattered.

She looked around the squad again. 'I'd better have everyone's names.'

The Ogrons, mouths full, gave their names as Urggh and Iggh; the Biune were T'oru, D'sha and Mai on the gun, Ge'von on sentry duty, and P'skeo at the bunker entrance.

She remembered someone telling her that Biune names always had two parts: a glottal expletive, and a softer sound made with an intake of breath. She also remembered being told that the Biune were a peaceful, meditative people who had no word for 'war' in their language.

She frowned, wondered who had told her that, and why it seemed important. It wasn't important, surely? Their history didn't matter: all that mattered was how well they fought now.

Anyway, what did 'peaceful' mean?

She turned back to Holder, who was still standing to attention, said, 'Dugout sentry says it's been a quiet day.'

Holder nodded in return. 'Rumour has it the ground engines have outflanked the enemy again, Sergeant. Their artillery's been forced back.'

Summerfield thought about it. If the enemy advance had been broken up, it might mean that some of their units were stranded in parts of trenches without support or supplies. In which case - 'How long until you change shifts, Corporal?'

'We change at sunset, ma'am.'

Summerfield nodded, glanced at the sun. It was high in the sky, surrounded by white glare. 'Time for a little scouting party, I think,' she said. 'Make sure your ammo belts are full.

T'oru, D'sha - stay with the heavy gun and cover us.'

The two Biune nodded; the third, Ji'taj, stepped out of the sandbagged emplacement, picked up a rifle and methodically began to check the mechanism.

Summerfield shook her head. That was the trouble with Biune, she thought. Too careful by half. She quickly checked her own rifle then started up the ladder that led over the top.

Ace would have enjoyed this, she thought. Shame she's not here. Then she frowned, paused with her hands on the sun-warmed rungs of the ladder.

Why did she keep thinking things that made no sense?

She didn't know anyone called Ace.

And what did 'enjoy' mean?

They were out in the open, crawling mid-way between their own trench and the enemy's, when the ground-engine appeared. They heard it before they saw it: a distant, repeated, thudding sound. Holder, who had a pair of binoculars, saw the plume of steam beyond the enemy lines, and quickly established that the vehicle was painted in the blue and brown colours of the enemy.

Summerfield swore under her breath, propped herself up on her elbows and looked around at the uneven plain of wet mud. There wasn't much cover, unless you counted a low, ruined wall that looked as if it might have once been part of an airbase or a factory. A tangle of barbed wire, lying across a shallow pool of sc.u.mmy water, was between the squad and the wall. Summerfield couldn't see what lay beyond it, but there'd been occasional sounds of rifle fire from that direction. Still, it had to be better than being here, a sitting target for the ground-engine. With luck - if they got there quickly enough - it might not see them. She half-stood and started towards the wall at a crouching run, waving at the squad to follow.

By the time they'd reached the barbed wire, the ground-engine had stepped over the enemy trenches and was advancing across no man's land. Summerfield saw the metal body of the machine turning slowly towards them. Another hundred metres and it would be in range.

Holder and Ji'taj were already cutting at the barbed wire, trying to make a wide-enough gap in the dense tangle for the squad to get through and take cover behind the wall. But Summerfield knew there wasn't enough time. She stood fully upright, shouted to the squad, 'Spread out!'

They stared at her blankly. Only Ge'von nodded, and began to run back up the shallow slope, away from the barbed wire.

'Sergeant?' asked Holder, puzzled.

Summerfield could hear the irregular hiss of steam escaping from the leg joints of the ground-engine, the creak and clatter of the metal body as it shifted up and down. 'If we're scattered he can't get us all at once,' she said quickly.

'If a few of us can get within rifle range - '

P'skeo and Ji'taj nodded, stood up, ran in opposite directions along the barbed wire. Holder ran after P'skeo; the two Ogrons stayed where they were.

'Where do we go, Sergeant?' asked Iggh.

A machine-gun crackled from the direction of the ground-engine. There was no time for messing about, Benny decided. 'Just stay there!' she yelled, then ran up the slope, keeping her head low. She could see Ge'von ahead, and the bulky form of the ground-engine almost directly behind him.

Well within rifle range. Good.

A splutter of machine-gun fire sent her sprawling to the ground. She felt the heavy bullets thud into the mud around her, too near for comfort. She rolled on to her back, saw the dark shadow of the boiler blotting out half the sky.

Far too near, you idiot, she thought. I could get you from here with a peashooter. And: get the leg joints. Paralyse the b.u.g.g.e.r.

She took the best aim she could at the moving target and fired. Once - reload - twice - reload - The engine was gone, out of range. She heard more shots ahead of her as the Ogrons also emptied their guns.

There was a metallic clang, and a loud hissing: Benny saw steam gouting from a bullet hole in the boiler, actually watched the cracks propagating in the metal, like thin black tendrils of ivy. Holding her breath, she waited for the boiler to explode.

It didn't.

She ran down the slope to the Ogrons' position by the barbed wire. The hairy idiots were already trying to push their way through the barrier, and getting themselves entangled in it.

'Bounty!' they shouted. 'Our bounty!'

Summerfield yelled after them: 'It might blow up any second! Stay clear!' From the corner of her eye, she saw Ji'taj returning, the wire cutters still in his hand. She put a hand up to indicate that he should wait, then looked around to check on the others. They were all visible, none more than about fifty metres away. She beckoned them in, saw Holder and Ji'taj cautiously begin to creep forward.

Ge'von didn't move.

Summerfield frowned, then started up the slope towards the Biune. As she got closer, she could see that he was injured. She increased her speed to a run, saw the dark bloodstains on the front of Ge'von's uniform.

His head turned slightly as she crouched down over him, and amber blood leaked from his mouth. One of the chitin shields over his eyes was cracked, the green fading to frosty white as Benny watched.

'Well done, Sergeant,' he said, his voice bubbling through the blood. 'It was a good plan.'

Then he stopped breathing.

Benny swallowed. A peaceful species, she thought. Not used to war. She wondered what they were doing here, then wondered where 'here' was. The Doctor had asked her The Doctor?

There was the sound of a revolver shot from the direction of the wrecked ground-engine. Summerfield turned quickly, saw that the door of the cabin was open. She saw a glint of metal moving behind it, and a fraction of a second later heard another shot. One of the Biune turned and fired at the doorway. Summerfield aimed her own rifle, though the range was extreme, but there was nothing to aim at. She took Ge'von's rifle from his dead hands and hurried down the slope, suddenly aware that her squad needed her. She shouldn't have let herself be distracted for so long by the loss of one individual.

The Ogrons were through the barbed wire now, clambering over the cabin on the opposite side to the door.

One of them reached down from the doorway and pulled at something: Summerfield heard a shrill voice shouting, 'Run, Josef! Leave me!'

A girl's voice, Benny realized. A human voice.

There was another shot. Summerfield saw one of the Ogrons lifting a small blue-uniformed figure from the cabin doorway.

'Rations!' he laughed. 'Extra rations!' He threw the body into the air, caught it again. The captive made a choking scream. Summerfield saw a second small figure, also human, scramble from the cabin door to the ground, a revolver in its hand. She raised her rifle and took aim.

'Josef! Look out! Run!' yelled the girl.

Yes, thought Benny, look out, you stupid little boy, or I'll have to shoot you.

The boy turned and stared at her. Benny crouched down, fired a warning shot at his feet. He jumped, turned and sprinted away across the mud towards the cover of the wall.

Summerfield lowered her rifle: the boy was almost out of range, and anyway no longer an immediate threat to her unit.

She looked up and saw the girl still struggling in Iggh's arms.

As she watched, Urggh clambered over the wrecked cabin, grabbed one of the child's arms and pulled. The child screamed once more. Urggh pulled harder.

No, thought Benny. They can't be going to do it. They can't be.