Doctor Who_ Father Time - Lance Parkin [47]
The Prefect drew a pistol and pointed it at Barry’s head. An automatic. A VP70.
It was the first time Barry had seen a gun. A real gun.
He recognised it from one of his magazines.
And while part of his mind was telling him that it was a Heckler & Koch 9mm semi-automatic pistol, how many rounds it carried and that it was a must-buy item in its category, he was really thinking that this man could have killed him at any time since they’d met, that his being alive was just a privilege this man had granted him.
Deborah was screaming, the stupid fat cow.
‘Go,’ the Prefect said to them. He had a deep voice, like an actor’s. ‘This isn’t your fight. I’ll kill you both if you stay.’
Deborah was crying, but she was also standing up, letting go of the girl.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to her, and also to Barry.
Barry grabbed her hand and pulled his wife away from this madman.
* * *
The Prefect laid the girl down in the snow.
It was better, he thought, that she wouldn’t wake to see this.
He unbuttoned her pyjama top, trying not to think about what he was doing. He had not relished this moment, and the sight of her torso, still that of a child, did not make him proud of what he was about to do. This could be his younger brother’s chest. Ferran had been born the same year as Miranda. They were both still smooth-skinned children. Then he remembered that two hearts beat there, and which blood was in her veins. She was nothing like Ferran, she mustn’t be allowed to live.
He mentally rehearsed the two swift strikes that would end this.
He raised the knife.
‘Ahem, aren’t you forgetting someone?’
It was the Doctor, standing firmly in the snow.
‘You won’t be able to stop me, Doctor,’ the Prefect said wearily.
‘Not with weapons or fists, no. I don’t want to fight, Prefect: I want to talk.’
‘This isn’t your concern, Doctor,’ the Prefect spat.
‘It is. You want to kill an innocent –’
‘No!’ the Prefect spat. ‘If this creature lives, a lot more than one child will die. Her kind have killed untold numbers. This is not an innocent.’
‘She’s a girl. She’s not killed anyone. Look at her, Zevron – is killing a child really the only way this can end? Is this really how the ruler of a galactic empire acts?’
The Prefect felt his arm lowering. This was madness. Miranda was just a girl.
The Deputy swept past on the hoverdisc, forcing the Doctor to take a step back.
‘You know I’m right,’ the Doctor shouted across.
The hoverdisc dived back towards the Doctor, who stood his ground until the last moment. The Doctor soon broke for cover when the Deputy started firing at him.
The Prefect had regrets. The universe just didn’t work in the way the Doctor said it did. There had been a time when there was order in the universe, a time when not everything ended in blood and fire. That had been before the Last One’s ancestors had spoiled everything. Kill her, he told himself, and those times would return.
Perhaps there had never been order. Just the illusion of order.
Kill her.
He raised the knife again.
Someone barged into him, pushing him over.
‘Barry!’ the Doctor’s companion shouted.
It was the woman’s husband, the fighter. Straddling him, pummelling him. No subtlety, no elegance. But he didn’t need those things. He was strong, each punch connected. The Prefect was already blind in one eye, he already could taste his own blood on his lips. The man’s fists were large, brutal weapons.
The man was shouting at the Prefect, but the words reaching him were slurred, incoherent, full of profanity. He could guess what the man was saying.
The Prefect tried to find some purchase on the icy ground, but couldn’t. He felt his opponent tearing at his hand, tugging his gun away, taking it for himself. The Prefect reached down, tried to stop him, but it was too late. There was a moment of darkness and disorientation. The human had broken his neck, the Prefect thought. He was already dead.
The human loomed over him, the gun in his hand.
The Prefect tensed, his hand closing around a pouch on his belt.
The human hesitated.
And the Prefect’s arm swung