Doctor Who_ The Dying Days - Lance Parkin [117]
I tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on the metal deck.
Before I pul ed myself up, I unzipped one of the pouches on my belt, and tugged out one of the thermite packs. It was wrapped up in cellophane like a packet of cigarettes or a box of chocolates. I located the little strip and unwound it, slipping the bomb from its wrapper. Like all military hardware, like most things designed for men, it was black and ergonomic with little LEDs and ridges in the plastic so that it was easy to grip.
I checked the timing mechanism - usually the first thing to go on the things. The bomb was working. I slid the control on the top, arming it. I could set the timer by tapping the little buttons, just like setting a digital watch or a VCR, or I could just press the red button and save myself the wait. One explosion would be enough to depressurise the shuttle. However much Vrgnur struggled with the controls, the ship would drop like a stone and dash itself against the English countryside. I was actually reaching for the button when I remembered my plan to end the invasion. I glanced back at the communications rig. There was an adhesive strip on the back of the bomb.
I attached the device to the nearest metal cylinder. For a few seconds the gas scuttled away at it, but I was already crossing the hold.
Vrgnur had deactivated the communicator. I examined the display and tried to twist one of the dials. It took a moment for my puny human wrists to get the dial to turn, but the holoplate began rezzing up. Martians had different colour and depth perception to a human, but I had seen enough Martian murals to work out what was going on.
I flicked a stiff switch, establishing the interplanetary carrier wave, then sat back - it was going to take a while before I would be able to tell whether it was working. I didn't have a while. The logo of the Martian Communicators Guild appeared in the hologlobe. I selected an open channel, cleared my throat and began speaking in what I hoped the Martians would recognise as their own language.
'This is Professor Bernice Summerfield of the clans of the United Kingdom. Our world has been invaded by the Lord Xznaal. Unable to win in combat, he formed an alliance with traitors and now skulks in his warship, afraid to leave its confines. We have heard legends of the mighty warrior race of Mars, and frankly we are shocked by this cowardly behaviour. He now loots and plunders our world for its weapons, raw materials, and best soldiers. I can't imagine what he's planning to do with all of them. He said something about going back to Mars and, er, what was it again? Oh yes "showing that stunted git Paxaphyr where he can stick the sword of Tubarr". Anyway, as I say, his warship is here now, along with his finest warriors. All of them here. And not there. Just thought you would like to know that. Er... byeeee.'
I tugged the 'off' control, took a deep breath and waited. I had done al that I could for the moment. What happened now depended on others.
End of extract
***
Greyhaven parked his Aston Martin on a double yellow line and bounded up the steps of the National Space Museum. The five-minute car journey had taken three times as long - they'd had to take a different route to avoid the crowds of people converging on the Square as if it were the venue for the cup final. The Prime Minister was waved through the various security barriers and into Mission Control. He paused to catch his breath. Theo Ogilvy, the Mars 97 mission controller, was there.
'Prime Minister, this is - '
Greyhaven swept past him, slotting a computer disc into a terminal and tapping a few keys.
Xznaal grabbed him and threw him against the back wall.
Greyhaven struggled to concentrate. They had got here first, but he had managed to reach the terminal. Was his program running? Staines was staring at the bank of monitors. 'The Orbiter is still holding its position.'
105
Greyhaven stood. The Martian towered over him. 'I know of your planss. Xztaynz told me.' Xznaal raised