Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead Part 9

'But what did he do?'

'He had these things. They were on my plane. Crawling all over it.' Sean found that he was rubbing his hands hard across his arms and chest. Trying to brush off imaginary white things, crawling over his skin, maggotwet and sticky. His stomach was heaving. He took a deep breath and forced his hands to stop. Closed his fingers into fists and jammed them into his pockets.

'What kind of things?' Calvin had put his gla.s.ses on again and he'd picked Sean's headset off the floor of the tent. He held it up to the light, inspecting it for damage.

'I don't remember. I feel sick. Yes, I do remember. They were like maggots. Or monkeys. Big white maggot monkeys. With baby faces and hands. Little pink hands. They were ' Sean stopped. Calvin was looking at him, standing close. He stepped back as Sean ran out of the tent.

The night air was cool on Sean. He was soaked with sweat. He went across to the other tent and pushed through the flap. The tent had been sealed all evening, trapping the heat of the day. It was airless and smelled like old socks. It was also empty. Just Guthrie and Warren's sleeping bags lying on the canvas floor, in a mess of chocolatebar wrappers and softdrink cans. Sean came back out again. He looked up at the hill then down to the sea, staring wildly around at the island darkness. 'Warren!' he yelled. 'You stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You brought some with you, didn't you!' Was that a sound? Was it the sound of someone laughing? Sean went back into his own tent.

Calvin was staring anxiously. He had set Sean's chair upright again. 'Brought what with him?'

Sean sat down in the chair. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked up at Calvin. 'White monkeys.'

Calvin nodded. 'Cthulhu Gate software, right?'

'Yeah.'

'How could he do that? After what happened? We all promised.'

Sean shook his head. 'I don't know. I guess he just couldn't resist bringing some with him.' He wrapped his feet around the aluminium frame of the chair. 'The moron.'

Calvin was checking the screen of their portable. 'He only joined the game about five minutes ago. He must have tapped in from somewhere nearby.' Calvin checked his watch, then went out of the tent. He was back a moment later. 'His gun is gone. It's early but I think he's gone on sentry duty.'

'He's hiding in the hills, the little creep. When he comes back I'm going to kill him.'

'Relax,' said Calvin. He had Sean's gaming set in his hand. He held it out. Sean shook his head. 'Go on,' said Calvin. 'It'll make you feel better.'

'No.' But Calvin had put the set in his lap. Sean picked it up and put it on. Calvin was already wearing his. Sean sighed as the vision screen fizzed for a moment as the system rebooted, and then he was back in the c.o.c.kpit, the instrument readouts glowing against the night sky. Target s.h.i.+ning under him. He was back in the game again. Despite himself Sean felt the old excitement building. His bladder was so full it ached but he instantly dismissed the feeling. That could wait. The body could wait.

He began a final a.s.sault run on the city, checking the status menus for his missiles. Three Niffelheims and a Ragnarok. He would get only one chance to do this properly. Even if he escaped the immediate blast of his own missiles the nuclear payloads were dirty enough to give him a lethal dose before he was out of range. This games scenario was what was known as a Bag Run. As in getting sent home in a bag. A suicide mission. Sean dismissed any feelings of fear. He allowed himself to think only about the target and victory for his nation. When the stakes were high enough you could achieve anything. Overcoming the body and its repulsive physical needs. Its shameful terrors. Fight yourself and win. Become a purified cinder burning in the jungle night, cleansed by the flames of victory. The sky tilted, islands of cloud swimming past as he turned the Loki for the a.s.sault strike. No fear, just a beautiful combat death and victory. Sean's courage flowed in him and it was good. The city was a glowing gem at the centre of his sights. His heart thundered with excitement. He locked his missiles in. He would die, but so would a million of the enemy. His life was nothing compared to the beauty of a sacrifice like that. Along with his steady strong courage Sean felt a rising note of exhilaration. The target was rus.h.i.+ng closer now, a beautiful dayglo orange octagon.

But then the octagon pulsed, winking out for an instant. It returned, but its orange glow had diminished and it was fuzzy around the edges. The entire heat image of the city wavered, then it began to fold in on itself. The night sky suddenly snapped from mint green to a dead TVscreen grey. The headup displays of his instruments began to swim, registering random numbers, machinecode garbage.

Sean's rage was so enormous he couldn't get the headset off. His fingers fumbled at the velcro. He heard a voice howling obscenities, m.u.f.fled by a gaming mouthpiece, and the voice was his own. The virtual reality of Indonesia had faded away completely, replaced by a blank screen nowhere, nowhen. Sean knew what had happened. Someone had disrupted the gamesmaster process on their portable computer. He tore the games set off his head, knowing who he would see, knowing who would had sneaked into the tent. He would smash Warren's fat face in. Break his nose and then But it wasn't Warren.

It was a man. He had dark skin with some kind of black grease smeared across his cheekbones. He wore a black jacket and loose black trousers. Calvin was standing by the portable. He'd switched if off but now his hands were behind his head, fingers laced. His eyes never left the man. The man was bending over Sean's chair.

He was pointing a gun at Sean.

A real gun.

Sean felt the sudden warm rush flowing down on his leg, soaking his baggy nylon camouflage shorts as his bladder let go. The body had won after all.

9.

By the time Ace and Dfewar reached the small encampment with their prisoner, Dfewar's men had already secured the place. The mercenaries had relaxed. Some were drinking cans of Fresca that came out of the American boys' small refrigerator. Others were smoking cigarettes from packets they'd brought with them in waterproof ammunition bags. There was a round of applause and a ribald cheer as Ace and Dfewar came down from the moonlit hillside. Ace was glad of the darkness so no one could see her blus.h.i.+ng. The boy, Guthrie, was walking behind her and Ace heard him stumble on the narrow trail. Dfewar reached back and caught him before he fell. Guthrie's hands were tied behind his back, fastened with a scarf Dfewar had taken from his backpack. Ace carried the boy's automatic rifle, slung over her shoulder, unloaded and with the muzzle pointing down at the ground. She was near enough now to see the other prisoners. Two more teenage boys, handcuffed to the support pole of the tent which housed the generator.

The encampment was what you might expect from a bunch of rich kids playing wilderness games. In addition to the tents and the generator Ace could see a lot of expensive toys. A beached aluminium canoe was lying beside one of the tents, folding paddles still propped up beside it in their factory wrapping. The Kurds had a couple of expensive VR gaming headsets which evidently belonged to the kids. The mercenaries were waiting impatiently to play with the sets. The men who were currently using them were smoking kif and giggling. In the s.p.a.ce between the tents there was a portable refrigerator, a small cooking range with natural gas cylinders, and a low opaque plastic cylinder, about a metre in diameter, standing upright on the ground. A hose ran from the cylinder to a small water pump. Ace realized it was an outdoor shower. All the comforts of home.

'What are you guys doing here?' Ace turned to Guthrie. Guthrie had opened his mouth to answer when there was a shout from the tents.

'Don't tell the s.k.a.n.k anything!' The bigger of the other two boys had jumped to his feet, forgetting about the handcuffs. The smaller boy locked to the other cuff was forced to lurch to his feet, too. But by that time the first boy had jerked to a halt and was falling back down. They both ended up slamming to the ground again. 'That's Sean,' said Guthrie. Ace went over to where the boys were sitting, at the back of the generator tent, grimacing and rubbing their bruised b.u.t.tocks.

Ace smiled down at them. 'h.e.l.lo Sean. s.k.a.n.k, eh? I think it's time for a little interrogation.'

The drawing showed an object like a large waterbarrel with a ribbed surface. The three boys looked down at it, the sheet of paper reflecting light from the tent's naked bulb up on to their faces. Calvin was the first to look up at Ace again, then Guthrie. Sean refused to meet her eyes.

Ace folded the piece of paper and returned it to the black envelope. 'I've come to collect this for a friend. I don't know what it is and I don't particularly care. But I know you've got it and we're going to take it away from you.' Ace paused. She was trying to think of a phrase which would sound suitably threatening and which she could say with a straight face. The three boys were sitting, facing her, in the centre of the tent on folding chairs, their hands untied. The Kurdish mercenaries moved around behind them, helping themselves to food from plastic plates on a low picnic table. The boys' refrigerator stood outside, door hanging open, ravaged and dead. One of the Kurds had shot it at close range, testing a confiscated weapon. One blast had torn the small Kenwood fridge to pieces. Ace didn't like to think what would have happened if one of the boys had managed to open fire on the Kurds. Dfewar sat on the floor of the tent behind her, eating vegetarian chilli from a plastic carton. He looked like a kid with the gaming headset over his eyes. The other Kurds were smiling and laughing, all tension gone. But Ace knew that if they'd received fire from the encampment all these boys would be dead now. The Kurds were professionals. She was still trying to think of a convincing threat when she was distracted by a quiet rasping sound. She looked up and saw that the youngest boy, Calvin, had begun to cry.

'Shut up, you little suckhole.' Sean was definitely Ace's least favourite of the three. 'If you don't shut up I'll '

'You won't do anything,' said Ace.

'We're never going to tell you where it is,' said Sean. 'Why don't you start searching the island now? It'll only take you about three weeks.'

'Why don't you act like a nice polite boy?' said Ace.

'Sit on it and rotate,' said Sean. 'None of us are saying anything.'

'It's down on the beach.'

'Guthrie!'

'Buried just below the highwater mark.'

'Guthrie, what are you doing!'

'We figured it would help to keep it cool.'

'Don't tell her, Guthrie!'

'Just shut up, Sean. I'm sick of this. I want to go home.' He looked at Ace. 'Get a flashlight and we'll show you where to dig.'

Calvin had stopped crying now. Ace handed him a handkerchief while Guthrie searched their luggage for a flashlight with batteries that weren't dead. Calvin took the handkerchief without looking at her. 'You should just leave it alone, you know. Leave it buried. We should all go home and just leave it right where it is.'

But Ace wasn't listening. There was something strange happening to the section of tent wall that was in shadow. The canvas was flattened, tight, and spots of light were appearing on it. A pattern of tiny bright circles.

Ace stared, fascinated, as the phenomenon continued, spurts of dust blasting up from the floor of the tent, tiny holes bursting in the orange fabric, the darkness of the ground visible through them. A plastic beaker had been knocked off the picnic table and was falling slowly to the floor. More holes appeared and now Ace could hear the sound, like a drill tearing at a road surface.

The Kurds were all yelling. Dfewar reached to pull Ace down but she was already throwing herself to the floor, dragging Calvin with her. She lay on the damp canvas as the next blast of bullets ripped through the tent wall and raked the floor opposite, shredding a sleeping bag and blowing synthetic fleece up in a cloud. The Kurds had dragged the other two American boys down on to the floor. Plastic furniture exploded around them, brittle fragments showering down on Ace's back. She wished Sean would stop screaming so she could think more clearly.

The firing stopped for a moment and Ace started for the flap of the tent. Dfewar grabbed her and pulled her back just as the firing started again. He made a slamming gesture with the flat of his hand, pus.h.i.+ng a fresh magazine into an automatic weapon. The sniper had just been reloading. A guy rope outside the tent broke, severed by a bullet, and the tent's ceiling came bellying down, losing its shape.

The Kurds were swearing, shouting to each other now. Two of them crawled to the back of the tent and started cutting at the fabric with knives. They were widening the slit so that a man could get through it when the firing stopped again. This time it didn't restart. There was a shout from the hillside.

Ace and Dfewar were the first out of the tent, running in the moonlight. Sean followed them. There was a crash of breaking vegetation as a bulky shape came rolling down the path of the hillside. 'Warren!' screamed Sean, running through the dry gra.s.s. He skidded to his knees on the ground, kneeling beside the boy who'd fallen from the path. The boy was fat, wearing a barbecue ap.r.o.n with a picture of a woman's bare torso printed on it. He was shaking his head and clutching his mouth. Sean tried to touch him but the fat boy batted his hand away.

One of the Kurdish mercenaries came down the path in the moonlight. He was carrying one of the American automatic rifles as well as his own. He looked at the boys on the ground, then at Ace and Dfewar. He shrugged and smiled sheepishly. Sean pointed a finger at Ace. 'You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,' he said. His hand was trembling. 'Warren's got a broken tooth.'

'Warren's lucky he isn't wearing his brains on his ap.r.o.n,' said Ace.

'You guys don't know what you're doing.' Calvin shook his head and walked along beside the sea, staring down at his feet. He scuffed his sneakers through the damp beach pebbles.

'Probably not,' said Ace. She looked back to where Dfewar and his men were digging. The barrel was almost completely uncovered now, seawater flowing into the hole as they widened it with shovels and entrenching tools. The moon was behind clouds and they worked by the chemical light of snapsticks. Calvin brushed a strand of his long black hair away from his eyes.

'We came here so nothing like this would happen.'

'Nothing like what?'

'You people. Coming here and taking it away. The government.' He looked back at the barrel. The Kurds were wrestling it out of the ground.

'We're not the government,' said Ace.

Calvin shrugged. 'No difference,' he said.

'What are you going to do now?'

'Go back home. Back to the States. Our parents are all worried sick. I guess it never would have worked.' He looked up at the dark bulk of the island rising away from them, up from the sea. 'I came here with my parents. Family vacation when I was ten. It seemed like the other side of the world.'

'It is the other side of the world,' said Ace.

'Distance doesn't exist any more. You never heard of the information revolution? I should've known someone would find us here. When they knew what we had. We were stupid.'

'No you weren't. You did a good job.'

'Don't humour me. You think I'm going to start crying again, right?'

Ace smiled in the darkness. 'Right,' she said.

'We thought we were like the three musketeers, you know.'

'Except there were four of you.'

'There were four of the three musketeers, too. We swore we'd all work together and guard it and make sure nothing bad happened.'

'Nothing bad has happened,' said Ace.

'You really don't know what you're doing, do you? You don't know what you've got.'

'I've got a friend. He knows.'

'I hope you're right.' Calvin picked up a stone and snapped his arm hard, throwing out into the darkness over the sea. Ace listened but she didn't hear a splash.

There were slopping noises from inside the barrel, as if it was full of liquid. Ace listened to the sound as it was unloaded and carried to the Mercedes diesel van that was waiting by the docks. It went into the back of the van with room to spare. The mercenaries crowded into the front. As far away from the drum as they could get, Ace noticed. The last of the Kurds left the keys in the cabin of the boat for the owner, then trotted to the van and slammed the door. Dfewar leaned out the window and waved to Ace and then the engine started, the van lurched, and they were gone, headlights sweeping across the marina, leaving her in a cloud of diesel that drifted away over the water.

Provided they made delivery all right they'd collect their software and cables from Miss David, who was holding them in Antalya. Then they'd be able to pump the tank computer dry of its secrets. Possibly they'd get some weapons system information.

After the noise of the van had faded the marina was silent. She looked around. Boats lifting gently on the swell. The flatedged moon, a few nights short of full, glowed above the sea.

From the centre of Marmaris she could easily get one of the small buses that shuttled tourists back to their beachfront hotels. But Ace was still coming down from the adrenalin of the operation on the island. She needed to walk it off. She turned her back on the docks and set off, tired, empty and happy. Her feet slapped the pavement steadily, carrying her forward, a steady rhythm of sound in the soft night.

When the pavement ended she walked in the road. Past halffinished buildings, concrete sh.e.l.ls surrounded by rubble. She was quite alone. Her head was pleasantly empty. It would take maybe half an hour to walk to her destination. Another hotel, another night in clean sheets that smelled like mothb.a.l.l.s, then a flight back to Europe. Her ticket was already booked.

There were frogs singing in the ditches beside the road, a deeper, more liquid song than crickets. Ace crossed the quiet street, moving away from the halffinished buildings. Then she paused. There was something in the road. A small hunched shape, black under the yellow light of the street lamps. It was lying in the middle of the tarmac. The turtle, or one just like it, sh.e.l.l crushed by the tyres of a car. Ace looked at it for a moment then turned away and kept walking. Then she found herself turning around and coming back. She couldn't stand the thought.

Ace opened her rucksack and pulled out a flashlight. She held the beam of white light steadily on the turtle, hoping it wouldn't move, hoping it was cleanly dead. The turtle was absolutely still. Ace wondered if it had been trying to get back to the sea. She could carry it to the sea again now. It was too late, but she could send it home.

Ace bent down to pick the turtle up, and because she bent down, the steel bar hit her on the shoulder rather than the head. The blow drove her down to the road surface. Grit stinging her cheek. Smell of the tarmac and tyre rubber suddenly close against her face. There was dirt in her mouth, her lip fattened by the impact. Her shoulder was numb and the breath had been knocked out of her. Ace had been in combat. She knew the wound would begin hurting as soon as the initial shock pa.s.sed. Here she was again. The slowmotion carcrash feeling as time slowed down and she tried to stay alive. Objects were spilling out of her open rucksack. A grapefruit rolled slowly past her face, looking goofy and strange. Ace felt as if she was in the middle of a very stupid cartoon. She knew another blow was coming but she didn't want to move. She forced herself into motion, twisting on the road, and the sharp curved end of the iron bar dug into the oily tarmac a few centimetres from her face. She rolled over and rolled again, then got up to face the man.

For some absurd reason she had expected him to still be dripping wet. But he'd had all afternoon to dry his clothes and get ready. He crouched in front of her holding a bent iron bar that had come out of the construction debris. He moved forward and Ace backed away. Her foot hit something. Her rucksack. She kicked it aside. It went skidding towards the ditch at the edge of the road. She tried to scan the road on either side of her. Had she heard the gun fall out of her pack? In her peripheral vision, under the amber streetlamp glare, she was aware of objects lying on the road. But she couldn't determine what they were. Ace turned her head to look for the pistol and that was when Ma.s.soud moved. He swung the iron bar in a sweeping arc. Ace evaded it easily and stepped in close to the man, punching him accurately in the stomach. The bar clattered on the road surface. Ma.s.soud was more shocked than hurt. Now Ace set about hurting him. She hit him in the windpipe with the ridge of her knuckles. He made a sound and clutched at his throat. He doubled over, not even looking at her. Ace knew she had him now. She could take her time. She moved forward to hit him again.

Ace never saw the blow. She saw the moon, a streetlight, the road coming up at her again. Ma.s.soud was moving very quickly. She hit the road and he was on top of her. For a moment they rolled across the oilstained tarmac. Ace could smell the salt on him, the sea smell from his long swim. They were too close to hit each other effectively. They wrestled and jabbed clumsily, each reaching back to gain leverage for a blow. Ace felt her fingertips brush against the sharp edge of the turtle's sh.e.l.l. Sharp sh.e.l.l. Heavy body of the dead animal. She could feel the weight and the cutting edge of it in her mind. There was no way she could reach it with her right hand. She had to reach with her left arm. Her injured shoulder burned fiercely, muscle tearing as she began to move. Ma.s.soud was rocking back, grunting as she forced him away with the slow pressure of a knee. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the sh.e.l.l again. The pain in her shoulder abated, then came back in a flood. It seemed to rush into her mind.

Ace saw the string of streetlights extending away in the darkness along the deserted road. Ma.s.soud had battered her knee away from his chest and was punching at her. The streetlights looked beautiful, clean and symmetrical against the dark sky. Ace could feel herself losing her grip, drifting away. She was fainting. She pulled her arm back and the pain from her shoulder eased. She shook her head and Ma.s.soud's punch grazed her skull. She could hear him gasp at the pain in his knuckles. The sound gave her the strength to reach again.

She strained back with her damaged arm, ready for the pain this time. The turtle's sh.e.l.l was rough against her fingers. She clasped it, dropped it, then held it again. She lifted the sh.e.l.l, got a firm grip and held the thing like a killing implement. As she lifted it to hit Ma.s.soud he suddenly released her and rolled away across the road surface.

Ace sat up, breathing hard.

Ma.s.soud was standing a few metres away. Pointing something at her. A gun. Her gun. Ace dropped the turtle. She wanted to turn and run. She made herself stand her ground. She knew that the instant she turned her back on him he would fire. Ma.s.soud took a couple of steps nearer, making no sudden moves that might panic her, in no hurry now.

Ace couldn't think. Her mind had been simplified by fear. She backed away from the man with the gun. She was off the road surface, her feet making a different sound on the gravel and dirt, retreating backwards. The ground gave way under her and Ace fell. She landed on her shoulder and for a moment she thought she was going to faint with the pain. Everything faded. Darkness beat at the edge of her vision. Ace welcomed it. Escape.

But she didn't faint. The sound of the frogs came back. The damp smell of mud came back. She was in one of the drainage ditches that ran parallel with the road. Ma.s.soud was walking towards her. At the bottom of the ditch Ace's rucksack was lying in a shallow puddle, just within reach. She put her hand into it. It was empty. There was a grapefruit among some long gra.s.s and weeds, skin split, leaking juice from its soft flesh. The broken Vickers helmet was lying beside it. Ma.s.soud had almost reached the rim of the ditch. Ace picked up the night sight helmet and clutched it to her stomach. Ma.s.soud stopped walking. He stood looking down at her. Then he raised the gun.

Ace thumbed the control switch on the helmet and twisted the broken face plate. A hairline of red laser light crept along the dirt inner wall of the ditch. Ace adjusted the eyepiece, directing the beam at Ma.s.soud.

The second blow to the helmet had caused a loose circuit board to settle back into place. The control chip for limiting the intensity of the laser was still dislodged, but the sighting mechanism was functioning again. As the thread of laser light scorched Ma.s.soud's cheek the resettled chip recognized the contours of a human face. It a.n.a.lysed the curve of a cheek bone and errorcorrected, locking in on where it expected to find the user's eye.

It found Ma.s.soud's eye, overshot slightly, swung back and directed its beam straight through his iris.

The uncontrolled laser beam needled out silently, barely visible in the dusty air of the summer night. It went in through the front of Ma.s.soud's eye and into his brain, through the frontal lobe and sweeping into the motor and sensory areas.

Ma.s.soud saw a brilliant light. It filled his vision. It was the sun over the shoulder of his sister. She was standing on a mound of droughtcracked mud in the resettlement camp, looking down at him with the sun behind her. Ma.s.soud hated her. He hated her for letting them put her in the truck that went east while they put him in the truck that went west. Darkness in the truck and the smell of fuel. Hot smell of the plastic seats. When his mother had the fever, Ma.s.soud fetched water for her. He carried it in a CocaCola bottle, filling it from the tap in the courtyard. His small bare feet slapped on the concrete. His mother stirred with the fever. Her lips were cracked and dry, like the mud his sister stood upon. He picked up the CocaCola bottle and ran down the corridor towards the courtyard. The doorway glowed brightly at the end of the corridor. The corridor was long and dark. Ma.s.soud ran along, weightless, his feet flying. But the small bright light at the end grew smaller. The corridor grew darker. Ma.s.soud ran more quickly.

Ace got out of the ditch, moving awkwardly, favouring her shoulder. Her mouth was dry. Ma.s.soud lay by the side of the road, dead. Ace found she was still clutching the helmet. She let it drop back into the ditch. She left the rucksack and everything that had spilled out of it. Now the pain in the shoulder was spreading down to her fingers. Ace couldn't move her arm. She walked back across the bare ground with the abandoned construction equipment, retracing her route towards the lights of the marina and the shopping streets.