Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [101]
Mancuso set her gun down, gently, remembering how alert she used to be for noises on the roof. She moved forward both hands free. She looked down at the hatch, the spray‐painted question mark glowing on it, dead centre. Maybe she should try to open it after all. It might be unlocked. There might not be anybody inside.
And then the ghost‐green question mark began to slide, rising up into the air. Mancuso’s heart slammed and she leaned back, reaching for her gun. The question mark rose and tilted as the metal surface rose and tilted beneath it. Mancuso’s arm strained. She didn’t dare move her body. She never should have moved so far from her weapon. Her finger tips brushed the cylindrical barrel of the gun.
The glowing question mark was rising silently as the hatch opened. The bastards must have drowned the release catch in oil. A dull glow spread out from under the hatch as the inner shield was swung back. The head and shoulders of a big man became visible, emerging from under the hatch, dim cabin light behind him. Mancuso grabbed for her gun and knocked the barrel to one side. It slid along the metal roof, sliding away, out of her reach, rasping as it followed the curved metal surface, sliding and falling towards the concrete floor three metres below.
While the gun was still in midair Mancuso stood up, stepped forward and put her combat boot on to the chest of the man who was coming out of the hatch. She put all her weight on her foot and pushed, driving him back through the hatch. As he fell she put her other foot on his head and followed him down.
The interior of the hovercraft was cramped and shadowy, lit only by the pale fluorescence of the screens at the weapons station and the pilot station. Mancuso landed more or less on top of the man. He was wearing a ribbed hiker’s jacket and an open‐necked shirt. Now that the surprise was over he was reacting, fighting back, and he was strong. Mancuso could smell peppermint on his breath and the leather of his jacket.
There was a knife sheath sewn on to the sleeve of his jacket, a carved bone handle protruding from it. Mancuso let the man reach for it, right arm going for left sleeve, and while his hand was exposed she broke his wrist. It didn’t even slow the man down. He was on some kind of powerful dexedrine analogue, blocking out pain and speeding up his reaction time. His pupils were open wide and his eyes as flat and glassy as a doll’s eyes. As his broken wrist dragged down he simply reached across, left to right, and pulled the other knife out of the other sleeve.
Ambidextrous was the word that registered in Mancuso’s head as she backed away, slithering across the floor, the knife lashing out at her.
They were both on their feet now, crouching in the confines of the hovercraft cabin. Neither of them moved. He held the knife so that the blade was flat, parallel to the floor, angled to slide easily between her ribs. Mancuso watched his eyes, waiting for a sign that would prefigure action, though he was so wired she might have been better off watching his feet.
The cabin was hot. It always was, despite the clumsy mass of air‐conditioning equipment that jutted down from the ceiling. Mancuso began to move, neither towards the man nor away from him. To one side. Circling in the small cabin space. The man circled with her. Now she was at the front of the cabin, by the control panel and the pilot’s seat, and he was at the rear by the air conditioning. Mancuso reached down and put her hand on the pilot’s seat, as if for support. She slid her fingers down and hit the adjustment lever and pulled hard. The detachable seat back came away in her hands and she threw it straight at the man.
Moving with fantastic drugged speed and grace, the man darted to one side, the seatback missing him completely. But he jumped straight into the air conditioning, head slamming hard against the ceiling