‘No,’ said Mike, stepping around a police box that half blocked the alley. ‘Twenty shillings to the pound.’ He was sure that police box hadn’t been there before.
‘Stupid system,’ said Ace.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Perivale. Why?’
Mike considered her reply – wasn’t that up west somewhere, past Shepherd’s Bush? ‘Just wondered.’
‘If it’s twenty shillings to the pound, and that means two hundred and forty pence to the pound,’ she looked at Mike for confirmation, and he nodded, ‘then what’s half a crown?’
Before Mike could answer he heard someone calling him. He looked ahead for the van. Professor Jensen was beside it, waving. ‘Sergeant,’ she called on seeing him, ‘we have to get moving.’
Mike started towards her. ‘What is it?’
Professor Jensen shouted something about the group captain and something about Matthews. Mike closed the gap between himself and the van.
‘The group captain said he’s under attack. Matthews is hurt.’
Mike yanked back the sliding door and jumped into the driver’s seat. ‘Where are they?’ he asked as Rachel got in beside him.
‘At the secondary source, Foreman’s Yard. It’s just off Totters Lane – did you hear that?’
‘What?’ asked Mike as he turned the ignition key. The engine caught first time.
‘I thought I heard the back doors slamming.’
‘Hold on,’ said Mike and slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator.
In the back of the van, Ace looked at the Doctor. She had learnt that wherever they were, in whatever bizarre circumstances, the Doctor at least was consistent.
She had been walking up the alley with Mike before he had run off, and then the Doctor had appeared between the open back doors of the van and called to her.
Ace had jumped in without hesitating, the Doctor had slammed the doors, and the van had accelerated – Ace figured Mike was in the front. She had lost her grip on her food in the confusion.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked the Doctor.
‘Adventure,’ said the Doctor, holding up a packet of bacon sandwiches, ‘excitement, that sort of thing.’
2
FRIDAY, 16:03
MIKE SWORE AS he pressed down on the brake pedal. A long greasy plume of smoke, its base hidden by a wall of civilians, rose above Totters Lane.
‘Foreman’s Yard,’ said Rachel, pointing. ‘There, the entrance is behind those people.’
Mike carefully nosed the van through the crowd, flashing his identity card at a policeman, who let them through the gates.
The yard was littered with rusty iron and industrial debris; the smoke was coming from a shabby lean-to at one end.
Mike stopped the van and got out. To his left Group Captain Gilmore draped a blanket over a body. Gilmore looked up as Mike and Rachel approached.
‘What’s the situation?’ said a voice behind them.
Mike turned and saw Ace with a strange little man.
‘Who the devil are you?’ demanded Gilmore.
‘I’m the Doctor,’ said the man, nodding at Professor Jensen.
Gilmore rounded on Jensen. ‘Is he with you?’
Mike watched while Rachel hesitated for a moment, her eyes locked on the Doctor’s.
‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘he’s with me.’
Gilmore snorted and caught sight of Ace. ‘Sergeant,’ he snapped at Mike. ‘Take the girl and set up a position at Red Six.’
Mike quickly saluted and, gesturing to Ace, took off for Red Six, the other detector van. He was grateful that the group captain had been too busy to ask who Ace was and just what she had been doing in the back of the van – questions that Mike would like answered himself.
Was that wise? Rachel asked herself as she knelt by the body with the Doctor and Gilmore. She watched as the Doctor pulled back the blanket. Matthews’ dead face stared up at her: his skin was pale and clammy, webbed with broken capillaries. Now what caused that I wonder? thought Rachel.
The Doctor opened the dead man’s shirt and carefully pressed down with his hands.
‘No visible tissue damage,’ he said. Something gave under his hands. ‘Ah,’ he pressed down in a new pattern, ‘massive internal displacement.’
‘What?’ asked Gilmore.
‘His insides were scrambled,’ said the Doctor, ‘very nasty.’
There’s an understatement, thought Rachel. ‘Concussion effect?’ she asked.
‘No, a projected energy weapon.’
A what? Rachel was puzzled.
‘A projected what?’ demanded Gilmore.
‘A death ray?’ demanded Rachel.
‘Exactly,’ said the Doctor. ‘I hope you have reinforcements coming.’
‘Any minute now. But this is preposterous,’ protested Gilmore. ‘A death ray – it’s unbelievable.’
Allison Williams stared at Mike. ‘Dead? Are you sure?’ she asked for the third time.
Mike nodded. He noticed Ace staring back to where the group captain, Professor Jensen and the Doctor were examining the body. He’d liked Matthews, and now Matthews was dead. It had happened like that before in Malaya.
The Doctor crouched behind the remains of a boiler, flakes of red paint rough under his hands. He looked towards the lean-to. ‘Whatever fired the weapon is trapped in there. There’s no way out.’
Gilmore, his doubts about death rays not with standing, kept down and followed the Doctor’s gaze. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘I’ve been here before.’
Rachel heard the roar of a large engine behind her. Turning she saw the big khaki Bedford draw into the yard.
‘Good,’ said Gilmore with evident satisfaction, ‘we’ll have him out in a jiffy.’
Private Abbot snapped out of sleep as he felt a sharp pain in his left shin. Amery, opposite, grinned at him. The truck had stopped. He nudged Bellos, beside him.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
The big Yorkshireman shrugged. ‘London.’
‘Clever.’
Somebody banged hard on the truck’s side board. ‘All right boys, let’s be having you,’ yelled Sergeant Embery from outside.
Grabbing their guns the squad scrambled out of the truck. Abbot heard Bellos swear and the crunch of grit as his feet hit concrete. Out of habit he scanned the area: it was a rectangular yard with rusty scrap for cover. He didn’t like cover as it could hide snipers, especially in the buildings that framed two sides of the yard.
Abbot felt an odd tension in his gut as Embery ordered them into parade formation. Special duties, easy posting – this is London ain’t it? he thought. Smoke rose from a lean-to in the far corner. That suggested a bomb.
‘It’s Chunky,’ said Bellos as the group captain came forward. On the command, Abbot came to attention with the rest of the squad.
Gilmore ran a practised eye over the squad as he outlined the position. Detailing Sergeant Embery to take two men and clear the onlookers from around the gate, he called Mike over. ‘Take two men and get Matthews away from there.’
Mike picked two men and led them away.
‘I’m not sure you know what you’re dealing with,’ said the Doctor.
‘I assure you, Doctor,’ anger made his voice clipped, ‘these are picked men; they can deal with anything.’ He looked again at the veil of smoke obscuring the lean-to. ‘Providing they can see it.’
The warrior had been dormant for a while. Delicate sensors passed information through a spun web of crystal and laser light, down into the breathing heart of itself where its intelligence sat. The data resolved itself into a concept, mapped out in three-dimensional space.
Figures moved in and out of perspective, and as activity increased, the manner in which they moved became decisive. Fast motions activated subroutines which awoke dormant systems and made demands on the warrior’s central power reserve – demands that were met.
The focus of the warrior’s attention sh
arpened, shooting into the infra-red spectrum. The figures became luminous, shifting patches of red; they carried hard metal objects which in a nanosecond the battle computer identified as weapons.
Tracking systems warmed up and the warrior shifted power to its blaster.
Mike caught the flash of light in the periphery of his vision. His mind still registered it as a muzzle flash even as his eyes showed it moving. One of the soldiers with him was caught as he stooped over Matthews’ body, caught and whirled backwards to sprawl brokenly in the dust. The air carried the sharp tang of ozone.
A man was down, provoking Gilmore to shout for covering fire. Around Rachel soldiers scrambled into position while others opened up with their rifles. She had seen it: her eyes had been looking at the lean-to when the bolt of energy had shot out. It was like a bolt of lightning, but…
Ace could hear screams from the crowd at the gate over the sound of the gunfire. Puffs of dust peppered the walls around the lean-to as the bullets left saucer-shaped depressions in the brick. She saw the Doctor crouched behind an old boiler. She tried to make out his expression; Ace thought she saw self-disgust for a moment before the Doctor’s face became grim, his eyes flat.
Group Captain Gilmore, unable to see a target, ordered his men to cease firing. In the sudden quiet he could hear the muted roar of traffic. To the left of Matthews another man lay dead. It looked like MacBrewer: Catholic, married, four children, career soldier, dead in the dust of an east London junkyard. A sudden debilitating rage filled Gilmore and with it foreboding.
‘What was it?’ Professor Jensen demanded behind him.
A second voice, the Doctor who had arrived with her. ‘That was your death ray.’
‘I know that, but how?’ Jensen’s voice was sharp. ‘To transmit focused energy at that level, it’s incredible, it’s…’ her voice trailed off.
Gilmore turned to face them. Jensen looked uncertain, as if she were struggling with something unacceptable.
‘Yes?’ asked the Doctor, his eyes bright.
‘It’s beyond the realm of current technology.’ Jensen had to force the words out.
Enough of this, Gilmore thought angrily. ‘We can save the science lecture for a less precipitous moment. Now, Doctor, if you can just tell me what’s going on?’
‘You must pull your men back,’ he said quickly. ‘Now. It’s their only chance.’
‘Preposterous, we can’t disengage now. Whatever is in there, these men can deal with it.’ But he was uncertain even as he spoke. Who is this man and what does he know? he asked himself. He heard the Doctor speaking even as he made his decision.
‘Nothing you have will be effective against what’s in there.’
We’ll see about that, thought Gilmore. He summoned Sergeant Embery and told him to fire three rifle grenades on even spread directly into the lean-to. Let’s see what this damned sniper makes of that, he thought.
Why does he refer to the sniper as an it? Rachel pondered as she watched the Doctor rally his arguments one more time. Who or what could wield such an energy weapon?
‘Group Captain,’ pleaded the Doctor, ‘you are not dealing with human beings here.’
‘What am I dealing with – little green men?’
‘No,’ answered the Doctor. ‘Little green blobs in bonded polycarbide armour.’
Embery reported that the grenades were ready.
‘Fire!’ ordered Gilmore.
Rachel watched as the Doctor turned away. ‘Humans,’ he said disgustedly.
Abbot felt the kick as the grenade was knocked forward by the rifle round. He watched with a practised eye the blurred trajectory of the grenade which hit the entrance of the shed dead centre. Fire blossomed a moment later.
Ace watched the explosions rack the shed reducing it to a ragged, debris-strewn cave. The size of the blast indicated a fairly low-grade explosive core wrapped in a fragmentation shell; she would have to acquire one to make sure.
She rushed over to the Doctor.
‘Did you see that, Professor?’ she said as she reached him. ‘Unsophisticated but impressive,’ she added airily. The Doctor, however, ignored her.
Gilmore looked with grim satisfaction at the remains of the lean-to. ‘I believe that should do the trick,’ he said to the Doctor.
The girl in the strange jacket was staring at the wreckage. The enthusiasm on her face disturbed Gilmore: he was reminded of France in 1944 and the two German soldiers his men had scraped off the interior of a pillbox.
Sergeant Smith was hovering waiting to do something. Gilmore ordered him to call up further reinforcements and an ambulance. The Doctor frowned at this and told him that reinforcements weren’t going to make any difference.
‘My men have just put three fragmentation grenades into a confined space; nothing even remotely human could have survived that.’
The Doctor’s eyes fixed on Gilmore’s. ‘That’s the point, Group Captain,’ the Doctor said softly. ‘It isn’t even remotely human.’
The warrior’s sensors were still flaring from the aftermath of the explosions. A blizzard of metal had engulfed it; there was damage, but it was minor – only chips off its armour. It quickly sought to regain its perception of the outside world.
The first data came from modulated signals in the low frequency electromagnetic spectrum. The battle computer identified them as communications: the enemy was seeking to communicate, perhaps with its gestalt, probably ordering up more forces. Target-seeking routines locked on to the source; infra-red detectors once more probed through the wall of smoke.
A primitive vehicle was the source. The warrior could make out the shifting blur of an enemy partly masked by the cold metal. A data search lasting nanoseconds brought priorities: neutralize communications, destroy the force opposing it, crush all resistance, obliterate the enemy for the glory of the race. Fulfilment of its function brought a strange excitement within the warrior’s twisted body.
A very real and terrible emotion.
Mike was out of the van and in the air before any details of the attack registered: a bang, glass in the side window shattering, the radio handset slapped out of his hands, the smell of ozone, and the ground slowly rising to meet him as he dived out of the open door. He tucked in his head and felt the world roll over his shoulders; he could smell the dust of the yard. Mike snapped to his feet still holding his submachine-gun.
Private John Lewis Abbot counted himself an old soldier at twenty-six years of age and definitely planned to live long enough to fade away. The rest of the squad shared this ambition. To them hostile fire was hostile fire, whether it was a machine-gun round or a funny looking bolt of lightning, and everyone dived for cover and then blazed away in the direction of the enemy until Gilmore yelled at them to wait for a target. Abbot crouched down, snapped a new clip of ammunition into his rifle and carefully sighted down the barrel, waiting for a target.
Then it came.
It was grey and metallic, a stunted thing that glided with ugly grace out of the smoke. A tube protruding from the smooth top dome swung deliberately from side to side. Energy belched from a gun-stick midway down the thing’s body.
It was a target and Abbot fired.
The FN-FAL automatic rifle is a Belgian design which weighs 4.98 kilograms loaded and fires a full-sized cartridge. The 7.62 millimetre bullet leaves the muzzle at 2756 feet per second and has an effective range of 650 metres; at close range the bullet can pass through a concrete wall. In accordance with British military doctrine that an aimed round is worth twenty fired rapidly, the FN-FAL used by the RAF Regiment fires single shots only – one squeeze on the trigger, one carefully aimed round fired.
In the first second of the firefight the target was struck at close range by seventy-three carefully aimed rounds. The bullets bounced off the target’s armour to ricochet uselessly into the junkyard.
‘Give me some of that nitro-nine you’re not carrying,’ said the Doctor. Ace unpacked what looked like a grey can of deodorant from h
er rucksack and passed it over. The Doctor looked anxiously over his shoulder. ‘Another,’ he demanded.
‘It’s my last can.’
‘I should hope so too. The fuse, how long?’
‘Ten seconds.’
‘Long enough!’
Rachel ducked as a bolt of energy blew a hole in a bit of nearby machinery and shrapnel whined over her head. Cautiously she looked over the bonnet of the Bedford. It has to be a machine, she reasoned, perhaps a sort of remote-controlled tank. The stalk at the top had to be a camera, but the weapon… a light-maser, but how many megawatts would it take to generate a beam?
The thing fired again, and this time Rachel traced the path of the bolt. I can see it moving, it can’t be coherent light. Perhaps it’s superheated plasma? She continued to search for an explanation.
Gilmore yelled over the noise at her: ‘When I tell you, take the girl and make for the gate.’
A man shrieked somewhere off to the right.
Gilmore frowned as he pushed shells into his revolver, then, bracing his arms on the bonnet, he looked over his shoulder. ‘Now, Rachel, go!’
It wasn’t until later that Rachel realized that Gilmore had called her by her first name.
Gilmore was about to fire when he saw the Doctor running forward. Ducking round a metal pillar the Doctor whistled at the squat metal machine. ‘Oi, Dalek,’ he shouted, ‘over here. It’s me, the Doctor!’
Gilmore watched in horror as the eyestalk swivelled to focus on the Doctor, who seemed to be pulling the tops off a pair of aerosol cans. The machine had paused as if it were uncertain.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ the Doctor shouted irritably. ‘Don’t you recognize your sworn enemy?’
Ducking, the Doctor placed the cans by a large stack of bricks. As the machine moved towards him, the Doctor crept away towards Gilmore’s position.
Three.
A quiver of anticipation ran through the warrior as its battle computer verified the data. Desire ran hot through sluggish veins, its internal life support compensating for the sudden demand on blood sugar. There was a high probability that this was the Doctor, the Ka Faraq Gatri – the enemy of the Daleks.