Doctor Who_ The Dying Days Part 19

Wednesday, May 7th 1997

The exact sequence of events of the previous night was still confusing, and the newsrooms were still a.s.similating what had happened.

Lord Greyhaven and the Home Secretary had gone aboard the Martian s.h.i.+p. Some unconfirmed reports suggested that another two people, a man and a woman, had also been taken aboard. It was around then the attack on the Martian s.h.i.+p had taken place. A group of soldiers had opened fire with mortars, some of these had fallen short and caused panic in the crowd. Al this time the Martian s.h.i.+p had remained immobile, and apparently it hadn't been damaged in the attack. Later, a statement from the Ministry of Defence said that the soldiers firing on the s.h.i.+p had been acting against direct orders, and had not been part of the force sent to the Square to contain the crowd.

Supporting this official line, the main body of soldiers moved in on those firing at the s.h.i.+p. Some civilians - reports varied, but probably only a handful - were caught in the crossfire. This had caused a stampede, limited looting and a couple of power failures. The rebel soldiers had commandeered an a.s.sault helicopter. When it was sent against the Martian vessel, it was finally provoked into opening fire. Some sort of energy ray destroyed the helicopter that had locked on to the alien craft, and then the Martian moved a little way into Whitehall to demolish an office building with the same weapon. The soldiers had commandeered the office block to launch their attack on the Martians.

Within half an hour, the s.p.a.cecraft had returned to its position. The fighting was already over by ten o'clock and the third Martian Proclamation: 'PEOPLE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM. YOUR ASTRONAUTS COMMITTED A TERRIBLE CRIME, THROUGH.

THEIR IGNORANCE. THIS SHOULD NOT BE THE WAY OUR RACES FIRST MEET. LET US PUT TODAY.

BEHIND US, AND WORK TOGETHER. WE HAVE MUCH TO OFFER ONE ANOTHER. YOUR FELLOW.

HUMAN CLANS ABANDONED YOU, YET YOU FOUGHT FOR YOUR BELIEFS. THIS WE RESPECT. WE.

HAVE TALKED TO YOUR LORD GREYHAVEN, HE IS A BRAVE, BOLD MAN. LET US LIVE IN PEACE, PEOPLE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM AND OF MARS. '.

Tensions on the ground had noticeably lessened by the time Lord Greyhaven and the Home Secretary emerged, broad grins on their faces.

Greyhaven, surrounded by the world's television cameras explained that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, but he and Staines had quickly come to an arrangement with the Martians. There were many exciting opportunities ahead. The few thousand people stil in the Square cheered him as he made his way from the area.

Every paper led with a full page photograph of the alien s.h.i.+p hovering over London. There wasn't a great deal more variation in the headlines. 'We are not alone' was used by a couple of them. The Mail had 'UFOria'. The Telegraph had 'ET Our Friends, But The EU Are Not'. The Independent printed the declaration of peaceful intent in full. The Mirror had 'Mars: Planet of Peace'. Only The Times seemed to remember the Mars 97 with 'Britons on Mars, Martians in Britain'.

They weren't looking at what was happening in the rest of London or in Was.h.i.+ngton. News of the Prime Minister's a.s.sa.s.sination came too late for the papers. Before anyone had time to take in the tragic news, a press statement announced that evidence had been uncovered by MI5 of a conspiracy underway to overthrow the entire British political system and to kill the Prime Minister. Members of Parliament and other figures were arrested, some service chiefs had been suspended from duty. The conspiracy went deep into the civil service, the armed forces and both Houses of Parliaments. Many prominent people were involved, a number of whom were still at large.

Under the circ.u.mstances, it had been agreed to dissolve Parliament, pending a full investigation.

Any other day, the greatest const.i.tutional crisis since the Restoration would have dominated the headlines and thrown the country into panic, perhaps even civil war. Today, though, people were too busy rejoicing that the Martians were here and that they had come in peace to even notice.

It was light at six o'clock.

The police would tell you that at that time, London's streets are almost empty. The street sweepers and delivery men haven't quite started work, the trains haven't started arriving. Taxi drivers sit dozing in their ranks. In the big hotels, the kitchen staff are gearing up for breakfast, but the foreign night porter is still on duty and only a handful of the guests have received their alarm cal s. Cafes and markets are beginning to open, but they don't have customers.

69.This morning something was different, and it took a moment to work out what it was. It's like breathing: you do it all the time, of course, but every so often you're sitting down, relaxing, reading perhaps, and you become conscious of it. You feel every inhalation rus.h.i.+ng through the hair in your nostrils, you feel it easing down your throat and inflating your lungs. You breathe out, acutely aware of your diaphragm contracting. For a while you forget how to breathe without thinking about it. In moments like that, you visualise all the other things your body does without telling you. The blood pumping around your brain, the skin cells you're shedding, the food that's slowly being turned into s.h.i.+t in your stomach, and then you think about the chemicals flas.h.i.+ng and winking in your brain that make you what you are. You sit there, wondering if you'l ever be able to concentrate on anything else again, or whether the steady rhythms of your body that have been there al your life will keep you in a hypnotic trance forever. Two minutes later, you've forgotten all about it again, and turned back to your book or television.

The difference was the traffic. The sound of cars was normal y there in the background. Not the noise of individual engines revving or vehicles whoos.h.i.+ng past with car radios blaring, but the flatter, more even sound of tyres against tarmac, a dull sound like rus.h.i.+ng wind that's always there in every town centre. The invisible cars that are forever somewhere in the distance. The sound that is somehow the same volume whatever the time of the day or night.

In London, more than any other city in Britain, it is ever-present. It pervades every shop, every house, every office.

There isn't a window that doesn't pulse, or a pavement that doesn't hum with the vibration. Even on the platform of a Tube station, deep underground, it's there. No-one ever notices unless they are by themselves, sitting in a park or waiting for a train that never comes.

But when it's not there, it's as though the city is holding its breath, or its heart has stopped beating.

There were sounds - burglar alarms that were still ringing, car alarms that hadn't yet run down. Every so often a police siren would wail past. Loudest of al was the birdsong.

A helicopter pa.s.sed overhead.

Alexander Christian ducked behind the police box, scanning the sky as it receded into the distance.

When he had finally broken cover, and walked down Whitehall, he realised that something was missing. It took a couple of seconds for him to register that it was the Martian s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p. If only it had al been a dream, he thought, before wondering where the s.h.i.+p was now.

The burnt-out sh.e.l.l of the police mobile HQ was the only remaining police or army vehicle in Trafalgar Square. The corpses had all been removed, but the ground was littered with patches of blood and spent cartridges. A copy of the Evening Standard blew past.

He wondered when Bambera had noticed that he'd gone. Her plan was that he would head to Windsor with a group of the UNIT boys. Christian preferred to stay in London. He'd never been one to run away from a fight.

He'd expected more troops on the ground, but he soon realised why the area was so deserted - the whole of Whitehall, the Square and the Strand had been sealed off, along with a few of the back streets. The manpower was concentrated on keeping people away from the area. Even so, it was short work to find a gap in the defences and make a way out. Within ten minutes, he was in Covent Garden.

There couldn't have been many, Alexander mused, who had stolen the petty cash box of the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce. It had about seventy pounds in it - a fortune twenty years ago, barely enough to live on now. He didn't have any jewellery or even a watch to barter with. He'd be able to buy food and travel around the Tube if it was operating, but not buy any new clothes or items of kit.

Apart from a couple of sugar cubes, he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon at the Lethbridge-Stewart place, so the first order of business was breakfast. Covent Garden had gone upmarket since his day, but he still managed to find a greasy spoon cafe without too much difficulty. Radio One was playing the latest music - Christian hadn't been 'with it' twenty years ago, so it came as no surprise that the music now was louder and more unpleasant now than ever before. Two burly young men were discussing the form guide in their newspaper at one table, a young girl was sitting by herself at another. The proprietor was a lanky Greek chap, who took Christian's money and disappeared into the back to make his fry-up without saying a single word.

'You got a light?' the girl asked. She had an East End accent, long dyed-blonde hair that she kept loose.

He took out a match, and sat next to her. He lit her cigarette, then his own pipe. She wore a tiny cropped T-s.h.i.+rt that might have been sprayed on. It wasn't too difficult to work out what she did for a living. She was fourteen, fifteen at most.

'What were you doing last night?' he asked.

'Same as everyone else,' she said non-committally, 'watching the tel y and hoping Jeff Goldblum was around, know what I mean?'

He smiled, as if he did. 'The s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p's gone now.'

'It's over the Tower.'

'The Tower of London?'

'Yeah.' She dragged on her cigarette. 'D'ya want to buy me breakfast?'

'That's all I'll be buying,' he said.

'Fine.'

Christian went over to the counter and shouted through that he wanted another meal. The Greek emerged ten seconds later with both plates and took some more money from him.

The news was coming up, Christian listened out for it.

The girl sat there, taking her time over the bacon. 'What d'you think?' she asked.

70.The news bulletin came on - a group of MPs and senior army men had tried to launch a coup last night. This had been countered by loyal army units, and after fighting in the streets around Whitehall last night, most of the plotters had been arrested. Parliament had been suspended, and until the situation had stabilised, there was to be a Provisional Government led by Lord Edward Greyhaven. To prevent the escape of the remaining plotters, all ports and airports would be closed for two days. In the interests of law and order, the major cities would be under curfew during the hours of darkness for the next week or so. People should remain calm, and go to work as normal.

'They didn't even mention the Martian s.h.i.+p,' Christian laughed, unable to believe the gal of it.

'I'm scared,' the girl said, stubbing out her cigarette and pulling out another.

'Everyone is,' Christian said, finis.h.i.+ng off his fried egg.

'I like that Lord Greyhaven, though. I think he'd make a good Prime Minister.'

'You're not worried about the curfew affecting business?'

She smiled as she chewed, her mouth was full. 'I'n't he bold? I don't just work nights. I'm in what they call a recession-proof industry. Whatever happens I'll be OK.' She had a tiny bruise on her temple, scars on her wrists, and underneath that T-s.h.i.+rt he could see her ribs. Christian wanted to hold her, to take her little body and give her a hug. If he could just take her home, give her a bath and a comfortable bed to sleep in she'd be safe. But that was what she wanted silly old men like him to think, wasn't it?

'I'm sure you wil ,' he replied, getting up.

'Thanks for breakfast.'

'Thanks for talking to me.'

By seven o'clock, the phone lines of the j.a.panese Emba.s.sy on Piccadil y were jammed. Across London, all the emba.s.sies were fielding calls from worried tourists. At any given time, there were tens of thousands of j.a.panese in the United Kingdom, seeing the sights of London, Stratford, Bath and York. None of them wanted to be in a country occupied by a hostile alien lifeform. Most of these tourists were middle-aged, rich and respectable, the remainder were the children of rich businessmen. Either way, there were many powerful people at home scrutinising the actions of the emba.s.sy. The beleaguered staff were fortunate that the phone system had crashed last night - the London exchanges could only deal with local calls.

The emba.s.sy staff were quite busy enough trying to establish what the situation in Britain actually was. Tokyo had demanded clarification as to who was in charge, whether the situation was stable, whether Britain was still honouring treaties and trade agreements.

Mr f.u.kuyama and his wife had been among the first to arrive in person at the emba.s.sy. They were keen to leave the country. Before he had retired, Mr f.u.kuyama had worked in the local tax office, so he was used to a steady stream of phone calls from irate people. He volunteered his services to help take the calls from his fellow tourists.

The emba.s.sy staff gratefully agreed. They were trying to charter a fleet of aircraft to get their citizens out, but then so were al the other emba.s.sies, and for the moment at least the airports remained completely closed. A dozen j.a.panese film crews were in Britain - most of these were now within the emba.s.sy itself.

It was unusual for Eve to be a bystander in a television studio, it felt odd to be standing behind a television camera.

It was a little after eight o'clock. Lord Edward Greyhaven, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, was sitting at a desk in front of a bookcase full of fake books, in a BBC studio, recording an address that would be broadcast that morning and at intervals throughout the day. First he recounted the events of the previous night, how a group a soldiers and politicians had attempted to attack the Martian s.h.i.+p. The Provisional Government had been established because they were now in a new era: the existence of real live Martians presented an opportunity that the old system would have been slow to take advantage of. He explained the benefits of co-operation with the Martians and how alien technology would help Britain and eventual y the world.

'Politicians often promised jam tomorrow if only we'd make sacrifices today. The time has come, if you'll pardon the expression, to feast on Martian jam. I am pleased to announce that thanks to the savings that the simplification of government al ows, my first act as Prime Minister is to cut both VAT and income tax by five percent. We shal be building new factories in the depressed areas of the North East and Wales, with many more to come. We were promised a more prosperous future - well, it's 1997 and high time that we had the future. Welcome to the prosperous today. Thank you.'

The director was beaming. 'Excellent, Lord Greyhaven, excellent.'

Edward stood, unclipping the mike and tucking his speech back into his Wallace and Gromit ringbinder. 'That should calm things down a bit.'

'And we're real y cutting income tax?'

'That was Xznaal's suggestion, yes.'

'But how do we balance public spending and all that sort of thing?' Staines asked, unafraid to hide his past life as a junior treasury spokesman.

'Xznaal said that he could. He says he also knows ways to reduce pol ution and unemployment, traffic congestion and global warming.'

'Crikey. I suppose as well as al those s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps and holograms and other gadgets, the Martians have also had millions of years to perfect chartered accountancy.'

Greyhaven smiled forgivingly. 'That must be it. What is the state of the nation, Staines?'

71.'Things are a little more subdued than we thought, Teddy. Problems at the ports, of course, but they are logistical ones: thousands of people with nowhere to go. We've promised full compensation to holidaymakers and tour operators. We'll need to do something about repatriating foreigners.'

'Will you indeed?' Eve asked archly. She hadn't known the Home Secretary long, but already had a well-developed sense of hostility towards him.

'Only if they want to go, Eve,' Edward said hurriedly, brus.h.i.+ng her cheek with his hand. 'David, I'll need to talk to you later about tracking down the Doctor and Christian - one o'clock?'

The Home Secretary nodded.

'The Doctor?' Eve said. 'Mid-thirties, dresses like he's read too much d.i.c.kens?'

Greyhaven turned to her. 'The very fellow.'

'I saw him at the s.p.a.ce Museum, he thought he recognised me. I'll keep an eye out for him. So what's on your agenda, then?' Eve asked.

'I am in meetings with Lord Xznaal for much of the rest of the day, that's why I'm recording my message now.'

'So I won't be seeing much of you?'

He brushed her cheek. 'I promised you the first American interview with the new Prime Minister.'

'You know that everyone wants to see Xznaal, too. Where's the meeting, Downing Street?'

'The Tower of London. Xznaal has taken a s.h.i.+ne to it and so the Martians wil be based there. We've called in some refrigeration engineers to adjust the climate for them. A simple process, apparently, and the Tower will be fully converted in three days.'

'Mars is a cold world,' Staines informed her.

'Yes,' she said, trying to match its coolness. She turned to Edward. 'Any chance of a talk to Xznaal?'

'I think that might be counterproductive for the moment. If Staines' reaction is typical then the public might react unfavourably towards our new allies. Let's just wait until things have settled down a little bit.'

Greyhaven had described the Martians as large reptilian creatures. They sounded quite palatable - fifty years of science fiction B-movies and corny TV series had prepared the way. They might look a bit like Klingons, but they didn't act like them - Klingons didn't help cut tax and set up trade agreements.

'I think you might be right - but people want to know all about them. What about their history and their culture?

Never mind al that fuss about the Martian fossil last year. Everyone said that that was the greatest scientific discovery of the century. Guess that'll teach people to wait until the end of the century next time.'

'This certainly knocks what the Americans found into a c.o.c.ked hat,' Staines simpered, smiling knowingly at Eve.

She grimaced back at him.

Greyhaven nodded to her. 'I think you are right. I'll check with Xznaal, and try to set up a meeting between the two of you. A doc.u.mentary about their history will help people to understand the Martians better.'

Eve tried to stay calm as she was handed another world exclusive.

By nine o'clock, the breakfast television and radio programmes were drawing to a close. The news editors had been careful not to do anything that might lead to accusations that they had instilled panic in the population. They concentrated on the awe-inspiring prospect of a peaceful alliance with a hitherto unknown race. Reports about the political situation were downplayed in favour of more offbeat coverage: UFO cranks, science fiction writers and comedians got a great deal more airtime than const.i.tutional lawyers, politicians or police chiefs. In the national interest, no-one asked where the Queen had got to - only she had the power to dissolve Parliament and to confirm the appointment of a Prime Minister.