Doctor Who_ Match of the Day - Chris Boucher [0]
CHRIS BOUCHER
DOCT
OR WHO:
MATCH
OF THE DAY
Commissioning Editor:
Shirley Patton
Editor & Cre
ative Consultant:
Justin
Richards
Project Editors: S arah Emsley & Vicki Vrint Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd,
Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane
London W12 OTT
First published 2005
Copyright © Chris Boucher 2005
The moral right of the author has been asserted Original series broadcast on the BBC
Doctor Who and TARDIS are trademarks of the BBC
ISBN 0 563 48618 X
Imaging by Black Sheep, copyright © BBC 2005
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Cover printed by Belmont Press Ltd, Northampton For Lynda
Chapter One
As the Mythmotor Repro dropped down off the elevated section onto the twelve-lane drag, Keefer touched the hidden switch on the control board and killed the inboard link. He accelerated carefully, simulating the response of the computer overrides, and enjoyed the sensation of being in total control of the runner. So what if it was illegal? He had a right to protect himself according to his contract: ‘in any way not prejudicial to the lives of non-participants.’ Non-participants, yeah that’d be right. He shuddered slightly as he thought of the chancers, three so far, who’d tried to take him down. No declaration, just step up and shoot for it.
Breach of contract? Pity about that. They’d still make a liftload of money. And he’d still be dead as yesterday.
He pushed his speed up to the legal limit and was comforted by the knowledge of the extra power waiting in the modified drive. ‘You and me,’ he said aloud to the vehicle,
‘the scufflers can’t touch you and me.’
And then Keefer saw him. Four, maybe five hundred metres ahead, a slim figure standing motionless on the shoulder of the road. Even at that distance he could see the long gun clearly. For a moment he froze while the runner rushed him on towards the assassin. He thought he saw a flash as the laser sight probed for a head shot. He’d imagined it probably, but it was enough to snap him out of his death trance. He angled the runner across the lanes towards the shoulder.
‘Not too fast,’ he whispered, ‘don’t spook him.’ Beyond terror now, Keefer was filled with an icy elation. ‘Take your time friend,’ he said. ‘You know the traffic computer’s got me trapped. Wait for the perfect shot... Wait.’
With fifty metres to go Keefer yelled his triumph: Too late you scuffler!’ and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The drive howled with power. Keeping his foot on the accelerator, Keefer turned the wheel hard towards the shoulder. The tyres screamed as the runner began to slide. As the rear slewed round he hit the brakes. The runner rolled. It heaved from the road, turning slowly in the air. Too late the assassin pulled the trigger of the gun and high-velocity bullets spewed through the floor. The last thing the shooter must have seen was the underside of the old Mythmotor as, wheels still spinning, it crashed down towards him. For one aching moment it seemed to hang in the air; then with ponderous grace it landed squarely on its wheels, flattening him into the motorway.
Keefer released the safety casing, unlocked the runner door and stepped out. The elation had gone, as it always did, and he was left frightened and angry. ‘Murderous scuffler,’ he whispered, forcing the words through a dry, constricted throat. ‘You’re supposed to notify a contract. I’m supposed to know you’re coming. Neither of us earn like this, you stupid amateur scuffwit.’
Reaction was making his legs weak, so he walked to the verge and sat down heavily. On the motorway vehicles continued without pause. None of the passing witnesses interrupted their travel programming to stop or to report what they had seen, assuming that the Central Traffic Computer would be responding. Since it had not been controlling his runner, however, the computer had registered neither breakdown nor accident. Keefer was on his own.
The unthinking acceptance of the control computers’ power to deal with routine problems and dangers was one of the things that