Doctor Who: The Devil Goblins From Neptune (25 page)

'That's right.' said Saddest Moon. 'He's used his dough to help Shelter, Release, Oz, all the alternative scene. He isn't a trendy swinger, babe, he's one of us.'

Starchild said nothing, but every time she looked at the Mercedes, she found herself shivering.

In the caravan, Arlo was lying on a battered old mattress in a haze of nicotine and marijuana. Rose's arrival, without ceremony, didn't cause him much surprise. It was just like the cat to enter without knocking.

'Nice to see you, dad.' said Arlo sarcastically. 'Cool threads. They having a sale at Jackson the Tailor or what?'

Rose crossed the caravan without a word and slapped Arlo across the face with the back of his hand.

‘Insolent cur,' he spat, and repeated the dose, before kicking the terrified hippie on the seat of his loon pants. 'Get up, sharpish, laddie,' barked the viscount.

Arlo struggled to his feet, holding up his hands in a gesture of submission. 'Cool it, man,' he kept repeating as Rose hit him again and again.

warned you about the UNIT men.' exclaimed Rose. 'And what do I discover? You've only gone and told them about the end of the world, you ignoramus!'

SUBTLE ENERGIES COMMISSION

Bruce stepped out of the hovercraft and into the plain black car. Its engine was idling quietly, the only noise in the deserted cove. The driver stubbed out his cigarette and, avoiding eye contact, settled into his seat.

The sedan moved smoothly across the beach of rough shingle, the deep grinding of the wheels sounding like the wash of the tide from within the vehicle. Bruce stared at the back of the driver's head, noticing a band of pink scar tissue around the thick, tanned neck. It was as if the man had been clumsily garrotted - or had been the unfortunate recipient of Baron Frankenstein's spare-part surgery. Either way, he was an ugly brute, stuffed into a cheap suit that stank of garlic.

Bruce imagined a gun sight moving across that blubbery neck and up his cropped black hair. Pulling the trigger. Blood and bone and brain spraying everywhere. From this range, and even against that thick skull, it would make one hell of a mess.

He stared out of the window, bored. England had been a bit of a buzz. But now he only felt empty disappointment. The drug-like rush from every mission was fading more quickly, the spaces between jobs beginning to feel like an eternity. If things carried on like this, even killing might lose its appeal.

Joke.

The road hugged the coastline, gently ascending the cliffs. Eventually it turned its back on the azure sea, moving inland. Some minutes later the car passed through a broken gate covered with warning notices and on to a track. The ground became artificially flat, a ruler-straight, rusted railway line stretching into the distance. The car followed the track for about half a mile, and then turned on to a concourse of broken asphalt and stopped.

The driver stepped out of the car, leaving the engine running. Bruce pushed open the door, and followed the man past the disused railway platform. Numerous weeds sprouted between the old wooden sleepers. The adverts for Orangina and the local hypermarket on the wall of the former ticket office had almost faded beyond recognition.

The station was deserted but for the freight train standing on the one clean-looking track. The big driver approached, pulled open one of the sliding doors, and immediately walked away. Bruce didn't board the train until he'd heard the dark sedan leave.

Rusted steps led into a boxcar that smelled of straw and animals. There was a connecting door at the far end, with light visible through a small glass window. Bruce strode into the next carriage.

It was a computer room, its bright silver walls windowless and claustrophobic. 'White-coated technicians moved between the banks of equipment, checking readings and swapping spools of computer tape. Only one of them seemed to notice Bruce's arrival, and he came over, arm outstretched, as if to shake the man's hand.

Bruce gave him the data reel he'd stolen from UNIT HQ, and the man immediately turned away, satisfied. Bruce moved through the next carriage, of leather armchairs and crew-cut men in tight-fitting suits, and towards a red door. He knocked once, and pushed it open.

The room beyond was dark save for a single table lamp on top of a mahogany desk. The pool of light illuminated a pair of hands, leafing through a document.

Bruce strode smartly up to the man. 'I believe this is the information you require, Mr President.' he stated, placing the manila envelope on the table.

The hands came into the pool of light again, and pulled out a few sheets. There was a grunt, made ambiguous by the darkness. 'Geneva.' said the man. 'We have another job for you.'

Benton took the train to Salisbury, sitting next to a young man who said he was a member of the Lowlife Brotherhood Republican Movement. He tried to indoctrinate Benton, then gave up, talking about football instead.

Five years from now, thought Benton, you'll be selling insurance. He lapsed into sleep just as the kid was giving twenty reasons why Leicester City would never be champions.

Benton snapped back into wakefulness just as the train pulled into the station. The young man had gone. Benton stuffed the newspaper he'd bought at the kiosk into his holdall, and jumped to his feet.

A succession of local buses, all of which seemed to run on the principle that the fastest way from A to B was via X,Y, and Z, took Benton to the edge of Salisbury Plain. He'd been on manoeuvres there many times before, and had a vague idea where the hippies were likely to be found. Even so, it took him a number of hours to track down the Venus People.

As he approached the site - some fields that bordered MoD land - Benton felt that he was buzzing and alive, his mind full of the electricity of new thoughts and ideas. It was years since he had felt like this.

Benton hid in some bushes as a trio of hippies shuffled past, talking animatedly about 'the big gig' where 'it's all coming down'. The two lads were trying their best to sound calm and relaxed, but even Benton could detect the excitement in their voices. The girl had absolutely no time for their cynicism. Her zeal blazed like a torch.

They were young and stupid, Benton could tell that. Their minds had been poisoned by the evil guru who was feeding them a diet of lies and letting the drugs do the rest. Benton felt sorry for them, but a good bath, a haircut and a dose of national service would sort them out. Never did him any harm.

He shook his head. His mind was wandering again. It was happening more frequently now. Perhaps the doctor at that hospital had been right about the delayed effects of concussion.

He turned as an engine started, first time. Not one of the charabancs. A Mercedes he'd not noticed before was pulling, away from the camp. Although he didn't get a decent look at the driver, Benton knew that it was Viscount Rose. He also knew who Rose was visiting, and he knew why They were hatching plots. Fiendish schemes.

It was time to strike at the heart of the action. Benton removed his jacket and left it in the bushes with his holdall.

He undid a few buttons on his shirt, rubbed some soil on to his hands and face, and then backtracked a couple of hundred yards parallel to the dirt road. He breathed deeply, and waited for his whirling thoughts to gather themselves.

Here we go.

He stepped on to the road in full view of the Venus People. A new convert to their cause.

Quizzical eyes looked at him as he reached the edge of the camp and smiled a bewildered, lost smile.

'Peace,' he said, doing the gesture as he came within earshot. 'Love,' replied the girl, beaming a smile that wasn't shared by her two friends.

I've come down from the Smoke,' explained Benton.

want to know when the saucers are showing up.'

It was dark and something was pressing against Alistair's chest. Ignore it. Must be night-time. Get some sleep.

The sensation refused to go away. Alistair found breathing difficult. And the darkness wasn't right, either.

Lethbridge-Stewart moved his head, and it hurt. But he realised that it had been dark only because his eyes had been half shut, his face pressed against something cold and glassy.

Windscreen, and rough tarmac beneath. And the pressure on his chest had been caused by his falling on to his front against the truck's door. The truck.

'The memories came back like objects viewed through fog. Houghton. The bullet meant for him. Hayes. The chase.

The entire truck had rolled over on to its side, somehow throwing the Brigadier right into the cabin. Behind him he detected moans from the men in the back. Houghton was just coming to. The young lad with the radio seemed to be out cold.

The driver, bleeding from a wound across his forehead, pushed ()pen the other door, and began pulling himself upwards, on to the side of the truck, which was now effectively on its roof. Houghton and the Brigadier followed suit, leaving the rest of the men to untangle themselves.

The police cars, lights still flashing, and UNIT jeeps had formed a circle around the downed truck. Rifles pointed in their direction. The Brigadier jumped down on to the concrete.

For the first time in years he suddenly remembered his encounter with an Italian border checkpoint, soon after he had joined the army. Lethbridge-Stewart had tagged along with a group of young soldiers who had decided to use some leave to explore the beaches of the Med. They were only interested in cheap booze and foreign crumpet, but they'd taken a wrong turn, and had ended up heading towards the border. When Private Partridge had seen passport control he'd had a rush of blood to the head, and had decided to do a handbrake turn to try to go back the way they'd come.

Within seconds they'd been surrounded by Italian police with machine guns. Partridge had just laughed. Their CO had been much less amused when he'd got to hear of the incident. 'Sorry, sir,' said the driver, interrupting the Brigadier's reverie. should have been able to -'

'Perfectly all right, old chap.' said Lethbridge-Stewart.

'Nothing more you could have done.'

The Brigadier noticed Hayes, standing to the side of one of the UN jeeps. He looked extraordinarily pleased with himself as he raised a loudhailer to his lips. 'You men,' he ordered through the howling feedback of the device, 'put your weapons down. Place your hands above your heads.'

'Damn,' said the Brigadier under his breath.

'Sorry, sir?' queried the driver.

'I said, I suppose we'd better do what he wants.'

Lethbridge-Stewart turned to Houghton. 'Don't worry, I'll take full responsibility for this.'

'Like hell you will, sir,' said Houghton. He was raising his hands above his head, but there was a nervous tension in his voice. 'I'm not about to play dead for this lot.'

Before the Brigadier could say anything Major Houghton drew his pistol and threw himself on to the road, clearly hoping to make a fight of it.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The Brigadier ran to Houghton's side as the noise of the machine-gun fire faded, and stared at the body and the blood that flowed on to the tarmac.

He pushed the man's eyes shut, and turned round as Hayes walked over towards him.

'That was stupid.' said the Major-General. 'In any event, it would have been so much easier if my friends in the police force had found you with a warm gun in your hand,' he said, with barely a hint of sympathy. 'This escapade should have ended back in the warehouse.'

'Every drop of blood is on your hands, Hayes, not mine,'

spat the Brigadier.

'Lethbridge-Stewart, is that any way to talk to -'

'You've made an enemy of me, Hayes.' said the Brigadier angrily. 'Whatever happens, I'm going to make sure you damn well pay for what you've done.'

John Benton's acting career had ended in junior school when his cameo as Third Shepherd in the nativity play was critically panned after he forgot his one line.

But he had just put in a performance that Humphrey Bogart would have been proud of.

The Venus People had recognised him, of course. He had expected that. Arlo came out to see him, and looked at Benton as though he were something that had just crawled out from under a stone. Benton's reaction was to play it cool, and act dazed.

And it worked. The Venus People took pity on him.

He told them he had thought about what they'd said, and that they were right. The world was doomed and it needed the power of the aliens to get it sorted out.

Scouse looked at him quizzically. 'I don't dig this,' he said flatly. 'He's a square.'

'So were you when I found you.' said Arlo. He turned to Benton. 'OK, soldier boy, suppose we believe you?'

'What's to suppose?' asked Benton reasonably.

'You could be a spy.'

'So could he.' said Benton pointing to Scouse. 'Or any of them.'

‘This is heavy,' said Scouse angrily. 'He's turning us on each other.'

Arlo stopped and squatted down beside the camp fire, warming his hands. 'Why should we believe anything you say, soldier boy?

You're never happy unless you've got a war on your hands.'

Benton didn't answer. Instead he threw his unloaded Walther P38 handgun into the fire.

It's time to decide whose side you're on. Isn't that what you lot are always saying? Well, I'm on the side of the Saucer People. And the reverse vampires. And anybody else who's up for a bit of destruction.'

Arlo nodded. 'You'll do for me, soldier boy.' He turned to the Venus People and smiled, the sort of smile sharks make before biting people in two. 'Get him ready for the Treatment.'

The Brigadier found himself immediately separated from the rest of the men, and bundled into one of the UNIT

vehicles. After a short ride they came to a small airport. As the Brigadier was hauled out on to the tarmac he noticed a US Air Force B-52 that had just landed, taxiing in their direction. He clamped his hands over his ears as he and the group of accompanying soldiers moved in the direction of the bomber. Lethbridge-Stewart glanced backward to see Hayes watching the scene intently from the passenger seat of the Jeep.