Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [77]
But, if anything, it seemed to be the other way around.
The stewardess was moving in a dazed fashion, following the erratic path of someone who was falling-down drunk. The dogs were guiding her, nudging her ankles when she wandered off course, flowing around her to force her to walk in the right direction. It reminded Creed of the way sheepdogs worry and cajole a renegade sheep back to the flock.
The stewardess began to wander off at an angle and the dogs quickly and efficiently nudged her back where they wanted her. They were bringing her out on to the podium.
Towards the armoured car.
Creed cursed. He tore himself away from the screen and began typing away frantically at the computer. He had to change the weapons software. He’d programmed it so the guns would automatically blast anything that came near the armoured car.
That included the stewardess.
Creed glanced back at the screen. He zoomed in to see the woman’s face. She might have been extremely pretty under normal circumstances but now there were bruises around her eyes and a dark smudge across her forehead.
Her face had the puffy unhealthy look of extreme exhaustion.
Now she was nearer he could see the stains and tears on her uniform. The stockings on her long shapely legs looked like they had been shredded.
She looked like she’d been through hell. With her dark bruised eyes she seemed waif-like and vulnerable in the moonlight.
‘Target at fifty metres,’ said the weapons computer.
Creed quickly went back to typing. He had to reprogram the weapons system so it would only aim and fire on the dogs, not on a human being. He cursed again as he typed.
The military software he was wrestling with didn’t make changes easy. He couldn’t just tell it to kill dogs and spare human beings. He had to type in some kind of description of what a human being was — general size and weight — and a similar description of a dog. Then tell the computer to recognize one and shoot it, and recognize the other and avoid shooting it.
Creed was swearing steadily now, a non-stop stream of obscenities. Sweat was running freely down his sides as he typed. He glanced up at the screen again; he wasn’t going to be able to make the changes in time.
‘Target at twenty metres from firing distance,’ said the computer as if confirmng his thoughts.
Creed stopped typing. ‘Activate voice control,’ he said.
‘Password?’ said the computer.
‘Shit,’ said Creed. He began to hunt frantically through the pile of manuals.
‘Password not recognized,’ said the computer. ‘Target fifteen metres from firing distance.’
Creed tore through the manuals. Nothing. As he flipped frantically through the pages a loose piece of paper drifted out and floated lazily in the air.
‘Target at ten metres,’ said the computer. ‘Preparing to fire.’
Creed snatched the piece of paper out of the air. On it, in large clear handwriting, it said: Litre of milk, 100 grams cheddar cheese, med. Cauliflower.
‘Target at five metres. All weapons ready,’ said the computer.
Creed turned the piece of paper over. On the other side it said: Password: Engagement.
‘Engagement!’ yelled Creed.
‘Voice control activated,’ said the computer.
‘Commencing firing pattern on all rear-mounted guns.’
‘Stop! Don’t shoot.’ Creed’s shouts were so loud they set up a painful ringing echo in the confined space of the armoured car.
‘Firing sequence aborted,’ said the computer mildy.
‘Targets now inside firing zone.’
‘Don’t commence firing until I tell you,’ said Creed. ‘And fire only on targets that have substantially less body mass than that of a human being. Is that clear?’ Creed wasn’t sure it was even clear to him.
‘Activating variable target option. Please specify new target parameters or use existing ones.’
‘What are the existing ones?’
‘To fire exclusively on targets approximating the size and shape of domesticated dogs found in western Europe,’
explained the computer pedantically.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Creed. ‘That was exactly what I was trying