Downtime - Marc Platt [46]
Game over.
The sphere jumped up onto the parapet, weaving back and forth on the edge. Beside it, Christopher, with Chillys gathering around him, stared down into the depths. There was no sign of the body.
The Marketing Facilitator watched the silver globe. Even in defeat it was impressive, he thought, this mobile manifestation of the New World computer. And now it was having its own little temper tantrum. That’s how advanced it was.
Frighteningly advanced. Maybe a little possessive too, but then it had power to protect. It was already rewriting its own systems, outstripping anything humans could do. So he must stay close to the power. He had his contacts outside, that was why it needed him. But he must come closer, closer. No one else must be as close. He must make himself invaluable. Only Victoria stood in the way. And her beloved Chancellor, always so conspicuous by his absence. And this endless search for something the computer needed so desperately. This indefinable Locus, whatever that was, or the elusive Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. But he was happy to deal with that too. It was an expensive task, but Victoria was always ready to sign blank cheques for anything he needed. Her purse was the most important asset they had and it would be suicide to get rid of her just yet.
10
By the Sea
he wind was freshening, whirling little sand devils out of T the dunes and across the wide, wild expanse of the beach.
The tide had dragged the sea far off into the distance. It left a flat exposed area of grey, rippled mud broken only by the occasional pool in which bits of upside-down sky had got trapped.
Somewhere a telephone was trilling. It mingled with the jaunty oompah of a distant military band. If there had once been bathing machines, they had all been dragged away by the tides of time.
From the dunes, the Brigadier, clad in his favourite tweed jacket and cap, surveyed the beach with a look of satisfaction.
In the distance, he could make out a group of blazered schoolboys – or were they uniformed squaddies? – kicking a ball about. He drained the cup of tea he was carrying and started down onto the beach.
The air was very bracing here. It took him back to his own childhood visits to the seaside – long family walks and building complex strategic fortifications in the sand that never withstood the advancing forces of the smallest waves.
He stopped to look at a large piece of flotsam, a London Underground sign for Piccadilly Circus, that lay half sunken in a pool surrounded by more trapped bits of upside-down cloud.
He sniffed, rather appalled at the stuff that got dumped overboard these days. He was pleased, however, to find that his cup was replenished with tea once again and drank it down smartly.
Dark stormclouds were building on the horizon. The Brigadier was sure that somewhere that phone was ringing again. Nearby, a small boy with matted curly hair was building a pyramid out of sand.
The Brigadier smiled indulgently. There was a sudden violent animal roar and he ducked, spilling the remains of his tea, as a shadow swooped in low over him. There was nothing in the sky, but when he looked down at the sand, he saw a monstrous footprint.
Distant thunder grumbled out to sea. The Brigadier crouched and ran his leather-gloved hand across the contours.
The footprint had four massively clawed toes. It took him back. The roar of lumbering brutish machines echoing through pitch-black Underground tunnels. Luminous heaving web, dead men walking and the roar of the angry Yeti. It dragged him right back to the beginning.
He stood up, alert, eyes darting round for danger, his hand pulling his revolver from inside his UNIT uniform.
There was nothing he could see. The beach was suddenly deserted, and the sand all around him was , blemished only by the single clawed footprint.
Convinced that there was no immediate threat, he tried to replace his revolver in