Downtime - Marc Platt [103]
There was a cloudless night sky overhead. The air seemed cleansed. Without the glare of city streetlamps, the stars were clear as an infinite number of crystals.
The Brigadier took a long breath of the rich night air as he hugged his daughter. ‘It’s all right. It’s gone. This time it’s gone for good.’
There was a clatter of footsteps on the square.
‘Brigadier?’ called Sarah in the dark. She embraced him like a long-lost uncle.
‘Miss Smith,’ he said, both embarrassed and delighted. ‘I knew there was someone I could rely on. Have you met my daughter?’
Around the square, the dazed students of New World University were picking themselves up and staring at the spectacular sky.
Lights were moving on the walkway above the square.
A group of blue-bereted soldiers carrying torches was descending to the concourse. At their head was an officer in combat fatigues.
‘It’s Brigadier Crichton,’ Sarah murmured.
Lethbridge-Stewart nodded, waiting until his replacement reached ground level before letting go of Kate and going to meet him.
‘Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. Thank God. Are you all right, sir?’ Crichton saluted like a junior officer. He was plainly exhausted.
‘I’m surviving, Crichton. Against all odds.’
Crichton nodded wearily at Sarah. ‘There’s still a lot of things to clear up. It’s been a mess.’
Lethbridge-Stewart edged one of the dead silver spheres with his foot. ‘How many?’ he asked quietly.
‘Too many.’ Crichton looked at the smoking body of Cavendish, lying face down on the concrete. ‘I’ll need you for the enquiry.’
‘Of course, old chap.’ Lethbridge-Stewart glanced over to where Kate was talking to Sarah. ‘Family,’ he confided.
Crichton looked surprised. After a moment he said, ‘I’ll deal with this end. Do you need transport?’
Lethbridge-Stewart smiled. ‘No, no. I think I have somewhere to stay.’ Quite unnecessarily he added, ‘Carry on, Crichton.’
He walked slowly back to his daughter.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Well, just like old times, eh?’ exclaimed Sarah. She punched the Brigadier affectionately. ‘And I still don’t know what’s going on!’
A wave of euphoria swept over them all. What losses there had been could not overshadow the things that had been saved.
The Brigadier wanted to think about that later. He picked up his gun from the ground and pocketed it. But not in the same pocket as the photograph of his grandson.
He took Sarah on one arm and his daughter on the other.
‘Someone else can clear up tomorrow. Let’s just go home.’
From the balcony above, Victoria watched them leave together.
She shivered. Lights swung to and fro on the dark campus below. Torches and headlights. There were several fires burning in little pockets of red glow.
It was all gone, all smashed. She had nowhere to go now.
No one to talk to. Her emotions had run dry.
In the aftermath of occasions like this, the Doctor had always slipped away in the TARDIS, leaving more questions than answers. But what could she do? Would that take away the hurt?
‘Victoria,’ her father said disapprovingly, ‘to take no responsibility for our actions is both malodorous and impious.’
Sometimes her father could be priggishly self-righteous.
She walked away from the balcony and across the dark terrace.
She heard the carp swishing their fins in the pool. They needed feeding. The garden needed tending.
Let someone else do it.
She could already make out the shapes of the ziggurat buildings. There was a pale light in the eastern sky.
A new dawn.
An old world renewed.
33
Old Worlds For New
he helicopter rose out of the brown water. It swung in the T air, hoisted on chains. Water cascaded from the flooded fuselage. The Brigadier could hear the crane creaking.
In a feat of virtuoso flying, the pilot had managed to ditch the damaged machine in the Great Coker Canal. The only official injury had been to one corporal who had sustained what was claimed to be a broken arm.
‘Well, I saw it,’ Sarah told the Brigadier, ‘and it looked more like bite marks to me.’
Lethbridge-Stewart had written enough