Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [104]
So you race up the hill towards it, two strong legs driving you on, another two strong legs pulling you forward.
Another two legs?
Four legs?
You stop, panting on the hillside in a lather of confusion. Four. The thought of the number four hurts your head. But you make yourself think about it.
The number one is easy to understand, as is the number more‐than‐one.
But the number more‐than‐one, as you know, can be split up, splintering into unequal fragments, like a brittle yellow bone under gnashing teeth. And one of those fragments is called four.
You stand on the hillside, your pink tongue darting and steaming, catching your breath, wondering what is causing your head to ache.
Then you realize that it’s because you’re thinking and it’s not a sensation you’re accustomed to. It’s almost physically painful. You strain at these concepts.
The dancing chemicals that form your mind are accustomed to accommodating far simpler thoughts. Nonetheless these chemical coalesce obediently, forming more complex patterns in the beautiful kaleidoscopic soup of brain chemistry.
They form unfamiliar patterns, shaping unfamiliar thoughts. And the electrical network that wires the heavy grey jelly of the brain works with the patterns, firing signals and sending messages, coordinating these changes in the intricate dance, each chemical pattern spreading its new message and passing on the strange new thoughts.
You realize you are thinking and your name is Jack.
Inside your mind there is an explosion like the birth of a new star. Impossibly complex patterns of thought formed.
Where am I? thought Jack.
I’m not inside a frigging dog, am I?
* * *
Chapter 24
In the darkness of the hangar the cylinder glowed with an eerie green light that reminded Creed of an aquarium. It was made of some kind of specially reinforced glass so it could withstand the pressure of the fluid inside. It was about two metres high and half a metre in diameter, more than adequate for its contents.
Vincent Wheaton floated in the cylinder, his head rocking back and forth at the touch of some micro‐currents in the liquid. His hair drifted in a dark corona around his pale face.
‘He ain’t dead,’ said Mr Harrigan.
The big Texan still looked drawn and exhausted. He was claiming jet lag after the flight from New York, but Creed suspected that the incident in Canterbury had taken its toll on the old man. The news was still full of terrible, vivid images: injured women and children lying in the street; a priest staring, blank with shock; the raw gaping crater where the cathedral had once stood.
IDEA was to blame for that whole mess and the old man knew it.
‘He may look dead,’ said Harrigan, ‘but he’s just fine. That’s a life‐support tube, full of nutrients. He’ll stay in there, perfectly safe, until we revive him.’
‘And when will you do that?’ said Justine. She didn’t turn to look at Creed or the old Texan. She kept her eyes on her husband, floating pale and silent in the green liquid.
‘Just as soon as you help us find your friend, dear.’
‘I keep telling you, Mrs Woodcott is not my friend.’
‘And our computers keep telling us that you know more about her than anyone alive. Listen, girl. All you have to do is take Creed to London with you and find her for us.’
‘What happens if I can’t?’
‘Now, let’s not think negative.’ The old man smiled and called out. ‘Webster, Artie, give us a hand here, will you?’ The two men came forward out of the shadows of the hangar. ‘Artie, see if you can get the ground crew to help load Mrs Wheaton’s husband onto the plane. Webster, be so kind as to keep the lady company while Creed and me have a little chin‐wag. Come along, son.’ The Texan nodded his big head towards the open door of the hangar and Creed followed him out into the night.
The sky was clear and Creed could see the stars glittering above the airport tower. They were like runway lights that had floated up into the darkness. He walked along slowly beside the Texan, breathing the night