Doctor Who - Downtime Part 22

' This is Noo Wooooorrlld, This is Noo Wooooorrlld, ' sang the jingle again. Anthony listened as his own recorded voice began to babble inanely. ' sang the jingle again. Anthony listened as his own recorded voice began to babble inanely.

'New World Radio, the ones who share.' Music fed into the transmission channel.

He let the emergency insert play and cut back into Line One. 'Danny. You b.l.o.o.d.y idiot, what's happening? I knew you'd get caught. Where are you? You've got to get help before...'

The un.o.btainable tone cut in on the line.

'Danny? Danny!'

Anthony slammed a fist on his console. He pulled off his cans. The tone on Line One was breaking up, becoming a series of high-pitched staccato blips.

Danny's paper was bubbling up with a sort of frothy web.

The stuff had spread like a malignant growth onto the console.

Anthony pulled back and moved towards the door. It was jammed. He pulled and tugged at the handle before he realized that the fire lock had been operated automatically by the computer.

The endless run of blips was getting louder and louder.

Behind him, the frothing web hissed and spluttered with a voracious glee.

The stream of blips knifed into Danny's ear. He yelled and flung away the mobile phone. It struck a rock and cut off.

Danny dropped to his knees and retched. As he caught at his breath, he heard the tramp behind him shouting and complaining.

'What you after? b.l.o.o.d.y Chillys! I'm going to get the law.'

'Think they'd believe you?' Danny snapped without looking up.

They had got well away from the campus, out onto an abandoned allotment that bordered the ca.n.a.l. The tramp, who was well-known round the university a sort ofjoke or mascot had helped carry him after they had escaped the garage, but Danny had to make the phone call, if only to warn someone.

There were things he had discovered at New World. Things he'd unearthed, but didn't understand. And now the things, whatever they were, were coming for him.

'Sir, I never hurt no one. Not me, sir. Not old Harrods.' The old guy, filthy-dirty and crazy as he was, seemed to be genuinely concerned. He was scrabbling down to reach the phone.

'Don't!' shouted Danny and the tramp cringed.

Then a wicked grin cracked over his sun-baked face. 'Sir, flew right down, you did. Glided right down out of that place.'

He spread his arms like a kid being a jet-plane and whistled himself down. 'Don't need jets no more, sir!' He cackled and capered a little dance. Then just as suddenly his eyes were full of fear. He glanced back at the distant ziggurats of the university. 'And then he comes after us, like an old spidery man.'

'He's coming for all of us,' declared Danny and grabbed Harrods by the coat. 'That money you nicked from me's no good to anyone. Period. Not unless you help me.'

Harrods' eyes narrowed. 'You got more?'

Danny shot him a look of withering contempt and he started to whimper. 'Sir, I got principles. I'm very particular.'

But he kept his hand on the money in his pocket.

'You've seen what's coming,' said Danny and they both stared again at the distant buildings.

'Yes, sir.' Harrods twisted his head and looked up at the young man with a sense of wonder. Danny was squinting into the depths of the upper air.

'That's only half of what I can see,' he said. 'There's someone we have to find fast.'

18.

By Appointment t took the Brigadier three-quarters of an hour pus.h.i.+ng Ithrough oncoming crowds to reach Great Portland Street.

He cut up through Covent Garden the old market streets where he had once led a squad against the invading Yeti. The robots had had no apparent strategy. They were like s.h.a.ggy tanks, formidable and virtually unstoppable killers. The trendy piazza with its fas.h.i.+onable shops seemed a world away from the battlefield where he had lost so many men.

It was going to be a day for memories. He reached Great Portland Street at last and headed into the august portals of the Alexander Hotel. He could remember when the building had been a gentlemen's club. The Victorian Gothic facade remained, but the inside had been gutted and renewed. The once agreeably fusty reception area was now all mirrors and chrome. Pleasantly vacuous music was being piped in from somewhere. The smiling girl at the reception desk with her 'Hi. Welcome to the Alexander Hotel,' was as innocuous as a strawberry milkshake.

'Lethbridge-Stewart to see Cavendish,' he announced.

He noticed that the receptionist, who was wearing headphones, was seated at a computer which actually seemed to be working. She indicated the double doors across the foyer beyond a melee of j.a.panese tourists. 'If you go through to the lounge, Brigadier, you'll find Captain Cavendish waiting for you.'

From the expansive windows of her office, Victoria watched the university helicopter sink down behind the outbuildings.

Christopher's absence had not gone unnoticed, but she half hoped that he was actually returning with the Chancellor.

Her thoughts had been flying far away, searching for the Brigadier, but his location eluded her. Desperation drove her now. She was not sure she could physically face the Chancellor's rage at her failure to find the Locus. Perhaps she was looking too hard. All she saw was spreading chaos, further signs that modern society was teetering on the brink of collapse. No wonder the Chancellor had chosen this moment to return.

She saw Christopher crossing the quadrant alone. While she waited, she gazed from the windows at the extensive grounds of the university she had inaugurated. Everyone else reckoned it an amazing achievement, but it was far from complete and that final resolution rested on her shoulders. Sometimes her thoughts got confused. Things happened that she did not always understand.

There were people she wanted to talk to, to ask if she had got it right. Where were they all? The Harrises and Roxana Cywynski and poor dear Charles and the Doctor. Surely the Doctor would know what was right or horribly wrong.

'Now Victoria, you know that this is a decision you have to make for yourself,' he would say gently. How she wished he was here to say that now.

She was aware that Christopher had silently entered the office. She could sense his presence moving in behind her like a serpent. He coveted her position, she knew that, but she could not progress without him. A wave of self-pity and nostalgia for things lost began to well in her heart.

John Jerum, soldierman, Is searching high and low.

The only secret he can keep Is one he doesn't know.

She sighed. 'My father used to say that. He'd have hated this.'

Christopher's voice was very quiet. 'You haven't a clue, have you? It's your precious Chancellor who's got the real power. Power we can all profit by. He's not just a father subst.i.tute for you.'

She shuddered, but retained her composure. 'He works for the world's spiritual good.' She faced him. He was gloating over something, slowly turning the gold ring on his finger. She wished she had the courage to banish him forever. 'You'd even sell your own soul.'

He laughed. 'That's marketing.'

Victoria smiled too. She was, after all, still his employer.

'All "ringfenced", no doubt. Just like your expense account.'

His fingers froze on the ring. His glare could have inflicted physical injury on lesser mortals, but she revelled in it.

Without warning, the PA system crackled into life.

'Victoria Waterfield? Can you hear me?'

It was her turn to freeze. Anthony's voice sounded more than half crazed, full of insane mockery. 'Miss Waterfield's our boss, ladies and gentlemen. The big cheese at N Treble U!'

Victoria groped for the edge of the desk to steady herself.

'What's he doing? Make him stop!'

'And she's today's surprise guest on Lift the Lid Lift the Lid. So ring in those questions now.'

'Stop him!' yelled Victoria, but Christopher clutched her arm and laughed in her face.

'It's Revelation Time, Vice Chancellor!' ranted the presenter.

Christopher gave her arm an extra-hard squeeze before he ran from the office. She watched him hurrying towards the studio block, but there was no stopping Anthony's ravings. By now he sounded close to tears.

'Forget anything I said before. It was lies. New World's just a big front. But they pay well, don't they, Miss Waterfield?'

What was he saying? She didn't understand. From the window, she saw groups of Chillys standing and listening. The broadcast was feeding right across the campus.

'What about all the people who disappear, eh? Danny was right. New World doesn't give a toss for you. Something's coming. Victoria Waterfield'll tell you!'

Music cut in over the voice. It was smooth and pleasantly vacuous. Victoria sat in the security of her chair. She clung to one of the high leather wings. 'Of course, something's coming,' she said. She couldn't understand what poor Anthony was saying. 'It's what we've all been waiting for.'

Christopher had cut in the music as soon as he reached the studio control room. He could still hear Anthony in the studio booth, but the gla.s.s panel between them was opaque, tinged with a pale green light. The inside was covered with a skein of glinting web that rippled as if it was horribly alive.

Anthony's voice was close to breaking point. 'She'll tell you. She knows what's coming. And it'll finish everything.'

He finally cracked in a flood of hysterical tears.

From the window in the door, Christopher could see Anthony's shape through wreaths of web. The presenter was rocking to and fro, caught like an insect in the tangle. The substance had spread through the booth like a malignant, rampant plant. The strands of web were flecked with luminous froth.

Christopher smiled. This was abominable, but fascinating.

He tested the door to ensure that it was locked. Satisfied, he set off back to Victoria's office with a jaunty gait.

19.

Blunder Days he young man rose casually as Lethbridge-Stewart entered T the hotel lounge. He had sleek dark hair and cla.s.sically handsome features. The Brigadier had taught dozens of boys like him. The public school and military aura was inbred, indelible despite the sharp business suit. Sandhurst, the Brigadier decided before they even spoke.

'Captain Douglas Cavendish, Virtual Ordnance Group at UNIT. Good to see you, Brigadier.' He indicated an armchair for his guest. In one hand, he clutched a tumbler of whisky.

'Can I get you a drink?'

'Not for me, Cavendish,' the Brigadier said firmly. He felt like adding, 'Not on duty.'

'Sorry if I'm late,' he said instead. 'The whole transport system seems to be fouled up by this wretched computer business.'

'Quite,' agreed Cavendish. 'It's better to meet here. The security boys get stressed out over ID checks.'

The Brigadier smiled. 'UNIT hasn't changed much since my time then.' He glanced round at the lounge. Many of the old features had been retained from when he had once met Air Vice-Marshal Gilmore here in this same room. Even several of the paintings of ill.u.s.trious military forbears remained, their ferocity restored by the cleaners. He must have seemed like a young whippersnapper to Gilmore then, just as Cavendish appeared to him now. But he hoped he had displayed many degrees more civility.

'I doubt if there's much left you'd recognize,' said Cavendish. 'Razor-smart weapons. All on computer these days.'

'Oh, I used to leave the technology to the experts.'

'Yes, of course.' Cavendish took another swig of whisky.