Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead Part 20

HEL.

PME.

'Okay, don't worry, Jimmy,' said Mancuso. 'I'll do whatever it takes.' She began typing at the computer. 'What do you want?'

GET.

EVE.

N.

'Okay.' Mancuso turned to the Doctor. 'Let's a.s.sume for a moment that I buy this. In that case the people who did this to Jimmy are the same ones who shot him. Right?'

'Right.'

'And you know where to find them?'

'In a place called the King Building,' said the Doctor.

Mancuso picked up the outer casing of the gun, careful not to disturb the large control clip. She examined the beeandeye logo engraved on the metal. 'You're talking about the Butler Inst.i.tute.'

'The BI has been doing some very interesting work,' said Petersen. 'Neural networks. Artificial intelligence.'

'Yeah,' said Mancuso quietly. 'But I didn't know they were big on black magic.'

The Doctor took the gun casing away from Mancuso and set it gently back on the desk. 'Our minds are processes that run in our brains. A mind is an electrical and chemical pattern. And patterns can be transferred and copied.'

'The Butler Inst.i.tute,' said Ace. 'I think I'm beginning to get this. Breen said that they use people for organ transplants. Keeping rich people alive with poor people's bodies.'

'They've been doing that for years.' Mancuso got up from the computer. She walked across the lab, moving restlessly. She looked angry. 'Where have you been?'

'So if someone is found dead at the scene of a crime, like the drugstore on Fifth Avenue '

'The body goes to the Butler Inst.i.tute,' said Mancuso.

'And that's where they took Justine.' Ace was looking at the Doctor accusingly. She was thinking about a black and yellow capsule and an old silver locket. She was thinking about a girl with beads in her hair, falling to the floor, spilling plastic mouthwash bottles. 'I saw your face when she did it. You really did look angry. You said it wasn't part of the plan.'

'It wasn't,' said the Doctor. 'She took that pill far too soon.'

Mancuso was back on the computer now, concentrating. She quit out of the communications software and called up a database of the city's streetplans. In thirty seconds the blueprints of the King Building were up on the screen. 'We have to get somebody inside there.'

'You haven't been listening,' said Ace. 'I think we already have.'

22.

Justine was walking through west London streets under a cold blue sky. The houses around here were big old brick structures. Some of them had corner turrets with conical roofs and the black s.h.i.+ngles made them look like witch hats. Justine had never noticed that before and it worried her. She felt like she might be losing her grip. She found herself beginning to sweat under the leather jacket, a familiar symptom. The condition was called stoned paranoia. It was particularly likely to hit you when you were on your way to score, as Justine was now.

But Justine knew a sure cure for stoned paranoia. She kept walking, feet clattering on the pavement, aware of her own breathing, watching the streets telescope endlessly on this unreal day. As soon as she saw a policeman, she crossed the road and went straight up to him and asked for directions, asking him the way to Portobello Market, just like a tourist.

She didn't even bother listening to what the policeman said. She just stared attentively up into his face, her sense of control returning. The policeman was white. He wore the traditional London cop headgear and a heavy coat against the cold. He was young and tall and handsome. But his face was so pale and he had such dark rings under his eyes that he looked like he was a fever victim. There was something wrong with his skin as well: a mottling and a dampness. Justine stared at his face in fascination; you don't expect policemen to have skin conditions. He smiled at her and his teeth were marvellously even and white.

And sharp.

'Whatever happened to the traditional greasy roll of banknotes?' said Mrs Woodcott, scooping the onequid and fivequid coins off the table. 'It's just not the same doing a deal any more. You young junkies these days. You just don't know what you're missing.' She counted the money as she put it into her purse.

'I'm not a junkie,' said Justine. 'I'm a soldier for a cause.'

'Of course you are, dear,' said Mrs Woodcott. And as she said the words they seemed to echo in Justine's head. A rush of deja vu deja vu began to hit her. began to hit her.

She had heard exactly those words before, in exactly this place. In a pub called The Moonchild on the corner of Powys Square. In a small backroom of the saloon bar with nicotinecoloured walls and ceiling and heavy old wooden tables. A gla.s.s of Polish vodka was in front of Justine, ice melting and thinning the alcohol. The old woman called Mrs Woodcott was sipping a port and lemon. Any moment now Mrs Woodcott would say 'What are you looking at, dear?'

'The policemen.' There were three policemen over by the crowded bar. One of them met her glance as she looked across at them. None of the men wore uniforms but Justine could spot a policeman in plain clothes, even in the Sat.u.r.day crush at the bar. The undercover men all had something subtly wrong with their faces. An unhealthy colour, pale and splotchy. It made Justine think of mushrooms you found in the autumn, on the damp underside of a log. You rolled the log over, looking for treasure, and all you found was the wood rotting away to dark coffee granules to feed the clinging fungus.

Or maybe it was the just the lighting in The Moonchild. A line of multicoloured Christmas lights was strung up over the bar. Above the Christmas lights was a crossed pair of sabres from some antique war. They were old but they looked remarkably clean and sharp. Justine had to tear her eyes away from them, from the light gleaming on their blades.

Now two of the policemen were staring at them, not bothering to conceal their interest. Mrs Woodcott stared back at them, unperturbed.

'London's finest.'

'Has this place become a CID boozer or something?'

'Not as far as I know,' said Mrs Woodcott. She made no move to hide the pill she'd placed on the table. It was a fat s.h.i.+ny black and yellow capsule. Justine quickly put it away in the place she prepared.

'That's a nice locket,' said Mrs Woodcott.

Justine wasn't listening. She was looking at the policemen again. They were all smiling. Their teeth appeared to be unnaturally sharp.

'I know what you use those pills for, you know,' said Mrs Woodcott. 'You young people. All you goths and punks and crows. You use them for nice things like morgue parties.'

Justine nodded, unable to reply. She was sweating heavily again. The door of the pub had opened, bringing in a flood of cold air that found its way to the saloon bar. Justine s.h.i.+vered as it hit her. Following the cold air through the pub door was the uniformed policeman. The one she'd asked about directions. His face looked worse than before.

Mrs Woodcott had a large fabric Harrods bag. She put her purse back inside it and as she did so Justine got a look at the other contents. Old jam jars full of the black and yellow capsules. Mrs Woodcott saw her looking and took out one of the jars, setting it on the table in plain sight. The policemen were all staring, including the PC who'd just walked in. Justine tried not to let it bother her. She was still s.h.i.+vering although the pub was warm again. Mrs Woodcott picked up the jar and shook it. The pills rattled loudly. 'Beautiful aren't they?' Did you know that the yellow and black colour combination is used in nature to signify a virulent poison?'

'Poisons are drugs and drugs are poisons,' said Justine. 'It's just a matter of terminology.'

'Commendably suicidal att.i.tude,' said Mrs Woodcott. 'Now, let me tell you about this capsule. I like to think of it as what our American friends call a "double header". The first and most significant component is a synthetic variant on tetrodotoxin. Tetrodotoxin is a naturally occurring and highly potent neurotoxin. It is found in the puffer fish and the j.a.panese fugu. The method of operation of the substance is to block nerve signals by interfering with the sodium process through cells. Symptoms of tetrodotoxin poisoning included pulmonary oedema, hypotension, cyanosis, hypothermia, respiratory distress, paralysis and death. Sound good so far?'

Justine nodded. The policemen were talking together in a small huddle. Their faces were strange and getting stranger. Mrs Woodcott kept on talking, oblivious.

'It is a folk poison capable of pharmacologically inducing an apparent state of death. In Haiti its sacramental use is central to the zombie phenomenon. You've heard of zombies. At any rate, you've seen the videos, I'll warrant.'

The policemen were all turning to look at Justine. They were all smiling. They opened their mouths quite wide when they smiled.

'The second component is a popular amphetamine derivative in a thick gelatine coating that takes several hours to dissolve in stomach acid. At the deepest part of the trance the amphetamine kicks in and begins to brings you back up to consciousness. Imagine the surprise of the poor b.l.o.o.d.y morgue attendant when you come out of your trance on a trolley. Imagine your your surprise if they've already locked you in a refrigerated cabinet with a limited air supply.' surprise if they've already locked you in a refrigerated cabinet with a limited air supply.'

'What's the amphetamine a.n.a.logue called?'

'Billy whiz,' said Mrs Woodcott. She sipped her port and lemon. 'At least that's what I like to call it.' She turned the yellow and black capsule over in her hand. 'It really is a lovely little drug. I'd say the dosage in one of these would be about perfect for someone with your body weight.'

'How come you know so much about this drug?'

'How come? Because I built it, dear.'

Over by the bar the policemen were beginning to undress. With each piece of clothing they took off their gestures grew more extravagant and stylized, like the movements of a dancer. Their fangs appeared as they smiled and leered, blowing kisses to the people sitting in the booths near them.

'And is it possible,' said Justine, 'that there might be hallucinations as I come back up to consciousness?'

'Certainly. Vivid dream hallucinations.'

A punky girl sitting beside the policemen got up hastily and tried to leave. One of the policemen grabbed her hand.

'And could they be partly pure fantasy and partly take the form of a flashback?'

'Do you mean like a summeroflovestyle acid flashback? How sweetly nostalgic. Flashbacks were partly propaganda of course. Take a tab of acid at the student union fresher's hop and ten years later you crash head on into a semi while you're driving your family to church. But they do sometimes occur.' Mrs Woodcott drained her port and lemon and smiled. 'The human mind is a strange and dangerous place, as I'm sure you've discovered, dear.'

The policeman who'd grabbed the punk now spun her around as if they were going to dance in a Fred Astaire musical. But instead of dancing he swooped forward, his mouth latching on to her throat. Justine noted that the big fangs were basically just for show. Getting the blood out of the girl's neck involved some kind of fungoid extrusion where the policeman's tongue ought to be. A damp grey pipe locked to the punk's throat, pulsing as it drank. Some excess blood splashed on to the surface of the bar. The fat publican sighed and wiped it up with a rag.

'For instance,' said Justine, 'I might seem to be reliving an episode from my recent past, with some weird s.h.i.+t thrown in?'

'Absolutely.'

The other policemen were doing a striptease, but not a very pleasant one, unless you were attracted to human skin with unusual textures and colours. The kind of texture and colours you might find in a mushroom that had been left too long in the fridge in a sealed plastic bag. The kind of mushroom that was beginning to melt. Justine reflected that she had never liked mushrooms. 'Like the time I went to Notting Hill and went into a pub and scored a drug?'

'The hallucination could adopt any sort of delusional architecture. So yes, why not?'

One of the policemen was mincing across the pub, towards the saloon bar, towards the corner where Justine and Mrs Woodcott sat. 'And could I be explaining something to myself in my head? Like a dream where you're telling yourself you're asleep?'

The policeman's tongue, such as it was, was flickering wetly in and out of his mouth.

'Yes, dear. You might even have a person in it who seemed absolutely real. And that person might just be a construct, made from memories of someone you met.'

'Telling me it's all a dream.'

'Well, they might not actually come out and say say it, dear.' it, dear.'

The last of the trees had been cut down and dragged away.

Now you could see the tunnel mouth of the project site quite clearly from the picture window, even when you were sitting down.

Stephanie was admiring the view, sitting on the couch beside O'Hara. She had her feet up on a cus.h.i.+on on the coffee table beside the printer. While O'Hara was waiting for his call she was printing out a questionnaire that had been prepared by the Butler Inst.i.tute's psychology consultants. Stephanie caught the last sheet as it slid out of the printer. She got up and sauntered out of the room.

O'Hara remained sitting on the couch, waiting to take the call that was coming in on the hour. Jack Blood appeared on the carpet in front of him. He was holding a rotting newspaper and a huge fan of yellow pages, and was wearing a 1930s newsboy's cap. 'Priority news,' said Jack. The words came out of his carved mouth in the voice of the B&O television newswoman. The computer in the B&O had picked up something it deemed O'Hara should know about.

'Pause,' said O'Hara. Jack Blood froze, the newspaper extended in one twigbundle hand, hanging in midair. The woman's voice faded. 'Resume when this phone call is over.'

Three images stabilized on the wall. The first to snap into focus was Mr Pegram's physician. She advised O'Hara against exciting Mr Pegram, then disappeared to be replaced by Pegram himself. O'Hara had never seen the old man looking so ill. The next image to arrive was that of the Oriental woman. Next was the teenage boy. He was wearing his ceremonial robes today.

The woman was the first to speak. 'Our shareholders are applying a great deal of pressure. People are becoming frightened.'

'My subjects are frightened as well,' said the boy.

'We've done our best to keep a lid on the situation,' said Mr Pegram, the rich virile voice coming out of his withered face. 'But too many people know. Word's getting out to the public. They know about the point of no return.'

On the floor under the living room, at the front of the house, Stephanie knocked and went into what used to be Patrick's bedroom. There were still toys on the floor, dragged into piles to make room for the stretcher from the helicopter. It was a bulky paramedical unit with onboard life support equipment and some monitoring hardware. Mulwray was sitting in a childsized chair, supposedly on guard duty. He got up when Stephanie came into the room and shambled out, heading for the kitchen. He was carrying a handgun and, considering his increasingly erratic behaviour, Stephanie might normally have been a little worried. But she had ordered the weapon especially for Mulwray from an armaments subsidiary, with a request that the firing pin was removed.

When Stephanie was alone she presented Vincent with the questionnaire, removing one set of handcuffs and giving the boy a pen to write with. She kept the other set of cuffs locked, one end attached to his wrist, the other to the frame of the bunk bed. Stephanie looked at the small decals that covered the heavy metal bunk bed. O'Hara had told her that his son loved this bed. Just one of those dumb things kids become fond of.

As Stephanie turned to leave the room she had a strong impulse. She wanted to touch Vincent. Turn and go back into the room and touch the teenage boy handcuffed to the bed.

It was an odd desire. It wasn't as though there was anything special about Vincent. He certainly wasn't good looking. But there was something about him. You wanted to grab his hand. Touch his face. Make contact.

Vincent was watching her now. Lying there on the undersized bunk bed. His eyes were afraid but there was some other emotion, too.

Stephanie turned and hurried out of the bedroom.

Upstairs in the living room the hologram of Jack Blood stood waiting patiently for O'Hara to finish his conference call.

'Frankly, I don't care what route we follow,' the Oriental woman was saying. 'So long as profits continue and there is agreement. But I have to know soon.'

'Don't be mistaken,' said the boy. 'Unless there is continuing progress I will cease to back your project.'

'Have some faith,' bellowed Mr Pegram.

'I agree with the prince,' said the Oriental woman. 'My company withdraws its support if there are any setbacks.'

'There will be continuing progress. There won't he any setbacks,' said O'Hara.

'That's more like it,' said Mr Pegram.

As Stephanie came into the room the Oriental woman disappeared from the wall, closing her call. The boy went next, leaving just Mr Pegram's image. The old man, his face huge on the wall, stared at O'Hara.

'You must succeed, my friend,' said Mr Pegram as his image began to fade. 'We must triumph over the flesh.' One of his pinkish eyes was spasming wetly, buried deeply in its nest of wrinkles. He might have been trying to wink.

O'Hara turned to say something to Stephanie. But before he could speak, the hologram of Jack Blood unfroze, the B&O coming off pause.

'The exciting life of one hovercraft continues its eventful course in New York City,' said Jack, speaking in his newsreader's voice. 'In a bizarre accident a G-8 hovercraft has crashed into a security installation outside the King Building, killing one guard and injuring three others. Once a police vehicle, the hovercraft was sold into private owners.h.i.+p and has only just been confiscated for use in a robbery. However, it now appears to have been stolen from the police pound and abandoned in spectacularly destructive style.'