Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies - Lawrence Miles [33]
Now one of his assailants looks up, towards the camera. Suddenly, everything goes white. We realise the cameraman has ducked behind something, although we can’t tell what. The next thing we know, there’s a flurry of movement. We feel like we’re twining again. This time, we suspect we’re being followed.
Tchike stopped the cinevid footage.
‘The alien object hit the ground in the middle of a trailer community,’ he explained. ‘No known casualties. Obviously, the authorities took the usual precautions.’
‘Witness intimidation,’ noted Major-General Bael.
‘I’ve got a question,’ said Professor Cogan.
Everybody swivelled in his direction. Cogan hadn’t said a word up until now. The man was English, and therefore naturally reserved. Or, to put it another way; no one cared what he had to say, most of the time.
‘Who took this footage?’ Cogan asked.
‘One of our people. Colonel Kortez. Working undercover in Arizona.’
There was a long, drawn-out groan from Dr Martinique.
‘Is there a problem, Doctor?’ asked the General.
Martinique crossed her arms, and turned down the corners of her mouth. ‘Kortez is insane,’ she said. ‘I worked with him in Ontario. His idea of “undercover” is to dress up like a native American and go around asking people if they’re what they seem. We should have put him in a home years ago.’
She shot an accusing glance at Bael, and Tchike was glad to see the Major-General squirm in his seat. It was easy to dislike Bael, whether he did his job well or not. The man had a nasty little beard, a nasty little gnome’s mouth, and two nasty little piggy eyes. He never did anything wrong, as such, but Tchike always got the feeling he was on the brink of doing something deeply irritating. His uniform didn’t suit him, either. He looked like he’d be happy working as a game-show host, not handling personnel and recruitment for a paramilitary organisation. Even one as rundown as UNISYC.
‘Don’t start on me,’ Bael announced, in his slithery New Zealand accent. ‘Kortez was the best man we had ready. Look, I don’t have to tell anyone here how short we are on manpower. We don’t have people queueing up to kick the crap out of Cybermen any more. If we hadn’t cut half the NCO ranks out of the organisation, we’d have more officers than ground agents by now. Half of our lieutenants aren’t qualified for officer duty, d’you know that? They’ve just stuck at the job long enough to prove they’re not completely brain-dead.’
Martinique looked unconvinced. ‘You’re seriously telling me you couldn’t find anyone saner than Kortez?’
‘This is besides the point,’ Tchike rumbled. ‘I want your opinions on the footage, not on the cameraman. Watch.’
A cut. A splice.
We’re not in the desert any more. We’re in a hangar, probably at an airbase, judging by the military paint-job. Oh, you know the kind of place. You’ve seen the movies, you’ve heard the rumours, you’ve watched Ed Bogeley’s Conspiracy Hour on Channel 101. According to the folk stories, whenever an alien ship crashes on Earth, the soldiers turn up and drag the wreckage off to a hangar like this. It’s traditional.
Let’s concentrate on the things around us. In the distance, on the other side of the hangar, men are working on a piece of serious high-tech machinery, but it’s only a helicopter. Probably fitted with whatever weaponry’s fashionable this season – last year it was viral missiles, the year before that it was psyche-guided warheads, you know the drill – but it’s definitely man-made. No UFOs here.
There are other shapes in the hall,