Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [53]
‘Of course you didn’t see anything. You were dying.’
‘But what did he do?’
‘He had these things. They were on my plane. Crawling all over it.’ Sean found that he was rubbing his hands hard across his arms and chest. Trying to brush off imaginary white things, crawling over his skin, maggot‐wet and sticky. His stomach was heaving. He took a deep breath and forced his hands to stop. Closed his fingers into fists and jammed them into his pockets.
‘What kind of things?’ Calvin had put his glasses on again and he’d picked Sean’s headset off the floor of the tent. He held it up to the light, inspecting it for damage.
‘I don’t remember. I feel sick. Yes, I do remember. They were like maggots. Or monkeys. Big white maggot monkeys. With baby faces and hands. Little pink hands. They were –’ Sean stopped. Calvin was looking at him, standing close. He stepped back as Sean ran out of the tent.
The night air was cool on Sean. He was soaked with sweat. He went across to the other tent and pushed through the flap. The tent had been sealed all evening, trapping the heat of the day. It was airless and smelled like old socks. It was also empty. Just Guthrie and Warren’s sleeping bags lying on the canvas floor, in a mess of chocolate‐bar wrappers and soft‐drink cans. Sean came back out again. He looked up at the hill then down to the sea, staring wildly around at the island darkness. ‘Warren!’ he yelled. ‘You stupid bastard! You brought some with you, didn’t you!’ Was that a sound? Was it the sound of someone laughing? Sean went back into his own tent.
Calvin was staring anxiously. He had set Sean’s chair upright again. ‘Brought what with him?’
Sean sat down in the chair. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked up at Calvin. ‘White monkeys.’
Calvin nodded. ‘Cthulhu Gate software, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How could he do that? After what happened? We all promised.’
Sean shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I guess he just couldn’t resist bringing some with him.’ He wrapped his feet around the aluminium frame of the chair. ‘The moron.’
Calvin was checking the screen of their portable. ‘He only joined the game about five minutes ago. He must have tapped in from somewhere nearby.’ Calvin checked his watch, then went out of the tent. He was back a moment later. ‘His gun is gone. It’s early but I think he’s gone on sentry duty.’
‘He’s hiding in the hills, the little creep. When he comes back I’m going to kill him.’
‘Relax,’ said Calvin. He had Sean’s gaming set in his hand. He held it out. Sean shook his head. ‘Go on,’ said Calvin. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
‘No.’ But Calvin had put the set in his lap. Sean picked it up and put it on. Calvin was already wearing his. Sean sighed as the vision screen fizzed for a moment as the system rebooted, and then he was back in the cockpit, the instrument readouts glowing against the night sky. Target shining under him. He was back in the game again. Despite himself Sean felt the old excitement building. His bladder was so full it ached but he instantly dismissed the feeling. That could wait. The body could wait.
He began a final assault run on the city, checking the status menus for his missiles. Three Niffelheims and a Ragnarok. He would get only one chance to do this properly. Even if he escaped the immediate blast of his own missiles the nuclear payloads were dirty enough to give him a lethal dose before he was out of range. This games scenario was what was known as a Bag Run. As in getting sent home in a bag. A suicide mission. Sean dismissed any feelings of fear. He allowed himself to think only about the target and victory for his nation. When the stakes were high enough you could achieve anything. Overcoming the body and its repulsive physical needs. Its shameful terrors. Fight yourself and win. Become a purified cinder burning in the jungle night, cleansed by the flames of victory. The sky tilted, islands of cloud swimming past as he turned the Loki for the assault strike. No fear, just a beautiful combat death and victory.