Doctor Who_ Toy Soldiers Part 21

Then she remembered. The Recruiter. The little girl the Ogrons had killed. The other little girl, that she had refused to kill.

She started to shake again, felt the Recruiter's strings pulling at her consciousness, telling her to kill the enemy, kill whilst she wasn't looking, kill whilst she still thinks you're asleep - The figure spoke: 'I'm not going to kill you yet, unless you try to get away. I'm holding you for questioning.'

Benny swallowed. The girl's voice - normal, human, if somewhat wary - seemed enough to break the Recruiter's spell. For the time being. Ah. Good,' she said aloud. 'Er - what do you want to know?'

'Why didn't you kill me? Why did you break your rifle?'

Benny sat up, being careful not to make any sudden moves. Her body felt weak, as if she'd had a fever. Looking around, she saw that they were in a trench. Part of the wall had collapsed, presumably under the impact of a sh.e.l.l, and the sun and flame-coloured sky were visible through a tangle of barbed wire behind the gap. A furred arm projected from the rubble, the part-rotted flesh covered in small green and yellow flies.

'Answer me!' snapped Gabrielle suddenly, jerking at the gun. Benny looked into her eyes, saw hopeless confusion.

But she also knew that the girl could kill. She remembered how she herself had felt as Sergeant Summerfield leading the attack on the enemy, and shuddered.

'I'm a pacifist,' she said quietly.

The girl looked at the ground for an instant: Benny could have tackled her, but decided not to risk it. When she looked up again, she said, 'That isn't a word.'

'Yes it is. It means someone who doesn't want war.

Someone who doesn't believe in killing people, unless it's the only way of saving your own life.' She paused. 'Maybe not even then.'

The girl frowned and began drawing patterns in the loose soil with her foot. Benny saw that her grey flying leathers were coated in cracked mud, and that her face was white with exhaustion. She realized that the girl must have dragged her here, out of no man's land.

'You believe in it too,' she said aloud. 'Or you wouldn't have brought me all this way. Not just to ask a few questions.'

The girl just looked at her. There was something almost like hope in her eyes.

'What's your name?' asked Benny softly.

There was a long pause. Then: 'Gabrielle. And your name's Professor. Professor Benny. You said so.'

Benny grinned. 'Just Benny will do.'

A tiny smile in response. But the girl didn't lower the gun.

She just stared at it for a while, then said, 'If I don't kill you, I'll be a traitor. But I don't want to kill you.' She looked back up at Benny then, as if for help.

'I don't want you to kill me either.' Benny grinned again, but it was forced this time, and her hands were shaking.

Evidently just making friends with someone wasn't enough.

Not here.

'The only reason I can think of for not killing you,' said Gabrielle carefully, 'is if you were to help me in something useful to the war effort.' She paused. 'But now that you've answered my questions, I can't think of anything else.' Again she looked at Benny as if for help.

Benny looked away, at the dead arm sticking out of the rubble. She said, 'Why can't we just both be pacifists?'

Gabrielle shook her head. 'It's best not to - best not to -'

Abruptly she began to cry.

Benny took the risk, leaned forward and put her arms around the small, shaking body. 'I know,' she said quietly, 'believe me, I know.'

She held the child for several minutes, rocking her gently. But she knew better than to try and take away the gun.

Eventually Gabrielle stepped back, rubbed her nose and eyes, and said, 'I'm hungry. We should get back to my unit, where I can get some food.' She paused. 'This part of the front is quiet, but if we go south, we should be able to reach some friendly artillery.'

'They won't be friendly to me,' Benny pointed out.

'That's all right; I'll tell them you're my prisoner.'

Benny thought about the concept 'prisoner', and what it would have meant to Sergeant Summerfield. She shook her head. 'They'll kill me, Gabrielle.'

Gabrielle nodded. 'But at least I won't have to do it.'

Benny shook her head gently. 'That won't make any difference to me, will it?'

'To you?' The girl seemed bewildered. 'No, I suppose not. But I can't think of anything else to do.'

Benny desperately tried to think of somewhere else they could go. Now that she thought about it, she was hungry too.

She took out the leather water bottle from her uniform, drank a little, then offered it to Gabrielle, who took it and drank greedily, almost emptying the bottle.

'We could go north -' she began. But what was to the north? Benny realized that she didn't know. Sergeant Surnmerfield hadn't had that information. She was vaguely aware of the fact that there were reinforcements to the south, that in the event of an emergency she could retreat in that direction. But the north -? You just didn't go that way.

'I'm not sure what happens to the north,' Gabrielle was saying. 'I was at the limit of my patrol when -' She broke off, grimaced. 'Anyway, my unit's to the south of here. I have to go back.' She paused. 'I could - I could just leave you. If you promised not - I mean, if you're really that word you said and won't kill anyone.'

Benny stood up, decided that the time had come to take another risk. 'I'm definitely going north,' she said. 'Are you coming with me?' She started to walk, crawlingly aware of the gun that must be pointed at her back.

After a few moments she heard the sound of footsteps running after her, of rapid childish breathing. Slowly, they caught her up.

'I've changed my mind,' said Gabrielle's voice. 'If you're going to walk around on your own, then I think you ought to have a guard with you, to make sure you don't sabotage anything. So I'm a.s.signing myself to you.'

It was all that Benny could do not to laugh. Instead she said, 'Sounds like a good idea to me.' She turned round, saw Gabrielle still determinedly holding the gun.

She looked at it, raised her eyebrows.

'You promise you won't try to get away?' asked Gabrielle.

'I promise,' said Benny solemnly. She reached out: after a moment, a small gloved hand, covered in pieces of dry mud, reached out in return. Benny grabbed it, squeezed gently, grinned.

'Come on, Dorothy,' she said, 'we're off to see the Wizard - or better still, the Doctor.' She paused, then muttered under her breath, 'a.s.suming what I did to him hasn't killed him off, that is.'

Neither Benny nor Gabrielle noticed a small, intent figure following them along the floor of the trench. He kept to the shadows, stopped when they stopped, walked only when they walked. A canteen of water stolen from a corpse hung around his neck. The boy's pale face was filled with anger and confusion. Occasionally he took a swig of murky water from the canteen, or glanced at the empty gun in his hand.

I'll kill them all, thought Josef. I'll kill them all. As soon as I get the chance.

Chris looked at the timetables spread out in front of him, squinting in the poor light of the police station waiting-room.

Roz decided that he had probably looked rather like this when he'd been a kid, unpacking the a.s.sembly instructions on his model s.p.a.ceships. Coldweld slot A to tab B - 'If we get the 6.55 boat train from Paris to London,' said Chris at last, 'we should be in London by - ' he paused, ran his finger down the column of figures to make sure he'd got it right - 11.57. That means we can get the last train from London at 0.10 which gets into Bristol at 4.35.'

'You'll never cross London in ten minutes,' said Martineau. Roz almost grinned. There'd had to be a catch somewhere.

'Cross London?' Chris looked at the Frenchman in bewilderment. 'Why do we need to do that?'

'I have been there. The Paris boat train goes to Victoria Station. Trains to Bristol go from Paddington. They are - ' he shrugged - a considerable distance apart. It would take half an hour, maybe more.'

Roz looked from one to the other of them and scowled.

'This sounds more like a kid's puzzle than a transport system.

Join the dots and you might get somewhere, eventually. We need to be in that factory in Bristol before six o'clock.'

Martineau glowered at her. 'So you say.'

'You heard what Parmentier said.'

'He didn't say it to me. And anyway, there's no need for you to go there. We have telegraphed the English police, and -'

'It's our only chance!' snapped Roz.

Martineau glared at her for a moment, then went on quietly, - anyway, it will be too late by the time you arrive.

Besides, I have no authority to allow you to leave France.'

Roz noticed the way that Martineau had phrased that last statement, the slight inflection on the word 'allow'. She glanced at him slyly. 'And no authority to prevent it either?'

'I have no instructions about that.' He paused, suddenly seemed to take a great interest in his polished boots. But - I suppose - if you are really determined to travel to this place in England tonight, I know someone who might be able to help.'

Roz just looked at him.

'There is a war comrade of mine, a Lieutenant Emile Chevillon. He transferred to the Flying Corps in 1917, and he has a civilian licence now. He owns an aeroplane.'

'What's an aeroplane?' asked Chris.

Manda's hands were sore, the skin red and itchy. Her arms and chest ached from the exertion, and one of her knees had developed a distinct, painful crick. This was the fifth room she'd scrubbed clean: in each one the Doctor had insisted she make a thorough job of it, scrubbing not just the floor but the walls, the tables and chairs, the frames of the bunks, even the light fittings. All the while the Doctor had stood around, the silver drill in one hand, his hat sometimes in the other. Occasionally he'd spoken, usually to himself as far as Manda could tell, disjointed phrases that didn't make much sense: 'If the transdimensional a.n.a.lyser is manually operated - 'Optical circuitry indicates a phase three disphase-matter unit, but - Not likely to be a hypermotogenerotropo-morphic system' - this last whilst examining the door handle through a magnifying gla.s.s that he'd produced from one of his pockets.

These ramblings were interrupted by barked orders: 'Sutton! You've missed that speck of dust in the corner!', or 'I can still see that stain quite clearly - clean it again!' The orders were sometimes, but not always, accompanied by an apologetic smile, and a gesture towards the door of whatever room they were in. The doors were guarded, usually on the outside, but once, terrifyingly, on the inside, by the bearlike things, or even worse, by other hairy things, ape-faced and long-toothed, whose bodies smelled like rotten meat.

In this, the fifth, room, the Doctor was tapping on the walls with his knuckles, listening to the sounds and nodding meaningfully. At least, Manda supposed the nods were meaningful, until he suddenly said, 'Has it ever occurred to you how fascinating resonance patterns can be?'

Manda looked up from the bunk she was scrubbing.'What are resonance patterns?'

The Doctor put a finger to his lips, went to the door and knocked on that. When nothing happened, he nodded, smiled, knocked again, much louder this time.

Still nothing.

'The structure brought about by the interaction of wave-propagated energy with matter or other waves whose frequency is equal to or an exact multiple or exact fractional multiple of the frequency of the original waves.'

Manda blinked. 'I beg your pardon?'

The Doctor ignored her, crouched down and began rapping on the floor. 'In this case, matter and and other waves,' other waves,'

he said obscurely. He repeated the rapping, this time with one ear against the floorboards. His hat fell off.

'Can I have a rest now?' said Manda hopefully, glancing at the door.

The Doctor once more ignored her, so she sat down on the bunk and closed her eyes.

'Hmm,' said the Doctor after a while. 'Manda, could you scream, or something?'

Manda opened her eyes and stared at him. The Doctor grinned at her, and tapped the drill, which began making its characteristic high-pitched whine. She realized then what he meant: there was only one legitimate reason for doing any drilling here, and that was -

She swallowed, then said loudly, 'No - Doctor no, Please -.

The Doctor grinned encouragement, nodded briskly.

Manda screamed, and screamed again, and went on screaming.

The Doctor put the drill bit to the floor and began cutting into it, making a series of holes in the floorboard. He put his eye to each of the holes, nodding thoughtfully from time to time. Once, he stood up and went to the door, removed the doorhandle with a v-shaped tool he produced from one of his pockets, then tore out what looked like a bundle of white silk threads which he proceeded to play cat's cradle with for a few moments before rolling them up again and feeding them through one of the holes. Then he went on drilling.

Manda kept screaming, from time to time jumping up and down on the floor to add emphasis. She remembered Celia Parsons in the school dramatic society, making a similar display when playing Queen Dido of Carthage, though she hadn't had to do it for so long. Every time she so much as paused for breath the Doctor would give her an impatient glance or gesture. After five minutes Manda's throat was beginning to ache, and her screams had become decidedly hoa.r.s.e.

Finally the Doctor held up a hand, said loudly, 'Shh!'