Doctor Who_ Interference_ Book One - Lawrence Miles [45]
Even the security men on the door didn’t try to stop the machine. Their job was to stop people with dreadlocks getting into the building, not to stop the attendees’ toys getting out. None of them really wondered why the thing didn’t activate the metal detectors on the doors, possibly assuming that the machine was made of plastic, and certainly not guessing that it may be shielded in any way.
When the unit dumped down the steps and reached the car park, it did something really quite surprising. But, once again, nobody tried to stop it.
* * *
3:
In the driver’s seat, Compassion was tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. It was a local superstition, Guest had been told, a ritual designed to speed up time.
Good. It was good that the others were starting to listen to the native signals. It was good to keep an open receiver.
Guest himself sat in the back of the vehicle with one of the security guards, keeping an eye on the rear window, watching Kode’s car follow them up the driveway to the factory gates. Fifty years ago, there’d been a war here, or so Guest had heard. A war that had covered most of this world, that had involved military deployment across each and every one of the continents. Back then, the factory had been used to create weapons, warheads designed to bring down the enemy nation‐state. After the war had ended, the factory’s owners had continued to produce their hardware, supplying countries across the planet, some of which the state of Great Britain had previously been fighting. The company had supplied international terrorists, too, although it had claimed this to be an unfortunate accident, probably something to do with a clerical error.
The company had left the factory now, gone somewhere to the north of this land, where it was apparently cheaper to hire worker units, and easier to avoid awkward questions. Guest had acquired the complex before Kode and Compassion had joined him on Earth, using what the natives liked to call ‘credit’. The old signs still hung around the gates, though. Informing casual passers‐by that this territory was guarded by policemen from the Ministry of Defence, ready to kill, if necessary, to protect the country’s interests.
Guest had decided to keep the signs. They made him feel secure. He wasn’t sure why.
The sun was setting now, vanishing over the tops of the factory buildings, turning the poles of the perimeter fence into spikes of pure black. Even the buildings were just silhouettes at this time of day. Compassion kept tapping away, waiting for the automatic systems to finish opening the gates.
The sun never sets on the British Empire, that was what Guest had been told. He had some idea of what it meant, as well. A century ago, this nation had ruled vast portions of the Earth, leaving a trail of torture and bureaucracy across the entire globe. And the trail still existed, even if the empire had – officially – fallen. That was why Britain was still the place to go if you needed tools of interrogation, why it was able to cover up its dealings with meaningless paperwork and treaties nobody really believed in.
The British Empire had survived. Passed on everything it knew. Made sure its methods had been taken up by the next generation.
The Empire had been remembered. The same way the people of the Remote were remembered.
The gates were open, at last. Compassion let out a grunt of relief, and pretend‐steered the car towards the nearest of the buildings, heading for the warehouse section.
* * *
4:
‘Tell me that isn’t what it looks like,’ said Sam.
The warehouse was big, aircraft‐hangar big, the roof supported by dirty great steel girders, the floor nothing more than rough concrete.