Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [126]
Stephanie heard gunshot sounds from the office as she shut the door. She knew instantly what the sounds were. The windows in the office blowing out. The windows had been made of some kind of plastic which would simply bend and bulge and were normally impossible to break. But Stephanie had seen ice crystals forming on them as they froze down to some unimaginable sub‐zero brittleness.
The corridor where Stephanie stood was as cold as a meat freezer already. There was a window at the far end, on the side of the hut facing away from the tunnel mouth. A small portion of the window was still clear of ice and Stephanie was able to look out. She saw lights exploding all down the tunnel’s length and great curved panels of computer circuitry peeling off the tunnel walls. All the metal structures lining the excavation were shattering under the sledge‐hammer winds and the impact of temperatures that should never have occurred on Earth. A small group of Japanese mainframe consultants were sheltering in the jagged remains of some crane machinery, trying to fix themselves to the metal frames with belts. She saw them being plucked off one by one by the wind before the window blanked out completely, ice crystals growing across it.
The corridor was freezing now. Every breath was a cold stab deep in Stephanie’s lungs. She pulled a bunch of keys out of her pocket and the metal of the keys welded to her flesh with the cold. She fought her way to the door in the centre of the corridor. This was an inner room with no windows. She might have a chance inside. Stephanie unlocked the door and entered.
Stephanie could hardly see now. The emergency generator under the prefab was still operating, providing light, but there was something wrong with her eyes. Crystals of frost had formed on her lashes. It was getting difficult to breathe. Her body was reluctant to take in the killing chill of the air. Stephanie turned to close the door as the mirror in the far end of the room exploded. As the mirror went it exposed an opening and through that opening was another room, with three windows in it. A fast wind found its way in those windows and knifed towards Stephanie. It picked up toys from the pale wooden floor of the room and lashed at Stephanie with them. Through the ice on her lashes she could see the far wall of the hut being torn open. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, but when she shut her eyes she found that she couldn’t open them again.
* * *
Cold.
A cold like permafrost, extending forever in layers below. Into dark earth frozen hard as steel.
As soon as O’Hara touched him, Vincent began to feel the cold and to see the images.
He saw O’Hara as a child, a serious little boy sitting in a dusty backyard. His parents had just explained to him that one day he would have to die, like everyone else. In his rage O’Hara had beaten his hands raw against the fence in the backyard. Now he sat staring at his bloody knuckles, staring in disgust at the fragility of the skin. Hating his own flesh, the warmth and weakness of it.
Cold.
O’Hara sitting in a university library, working late. Refusing to go to sleep. Refusing to eat. Refusing to let the flesh win.
Cold.
O’Hara making love to his wife. Using his body like a machine. It was just a machine he lived in. He tended it and exercised it, but it meant nothing to him. It was just the flesh. It wasn’t O’Hara. O’Hara was the mind that watched his wife’s face, calculating when to move and where to move his body, timing each motion and controlling each muscle. He was the mind that watched her face strain sadly with pleasure and he was the mind that made his mouth kiss her afterwards.
Cold.
O’Hara in the delivery room of the hospital. Holding his newborn son and feeling disgust at the tough, living piece of muscle that writhed in his hands and cried.
Cold.
So cold that Vincent felt as if he had become frozen himself. Frozen at the centre of the great storm. The storm came from behind