Downtime - Marc Platt [79]
Nothing beat the view from the cockpit of a Hercules. That’s what he really wanted back. But the bird-boy was his best bit of luck since a delivery lorry had taken a corner too fast and he’d dined out of tins of spaghetti hoops for three weeks.
Danny knew what was what. Best stick with Danny and he might get some too. He watched the heron as it followed them on great lazy wings.
The tiller arm jerked and nearly had him over the side. It pulled at him, suddenly getting a life of its own. He guessed something was jammed on the rudder and struggled to work it free.
The tiller jerked again and hit him full in the chest. The narrow boat was starting to turn in towards the bank. Harrods pushed his whole weight at the arm trying to keep the course steady. As he puffed for breath he saw, further along the bank, a group of Chillys staring out across the water.
‘Sir, sir,’ he muttered to himself.
He could feel the pull of their collective thoughts. The bleeders were pulling the boat towards them just by sheer bloody-minded willpower. They weren’t having him. Not old Harrods. Not bloody likely. He put all his weight against the tiller, but he could hear the engine revving up too. They were having a go at that as well.
One of the Chillys, who seemed to be the leader, was holding something towards the boat. It gleamed metallically in his hands.
The Mananda was going faster and faster. It hit the bank with a crash of mud and timber. Harrods practically fell into the cabin.
‘Sir. We have company, sir!’
The others were still picking themselves up off the floor.
Overhead they heard the thump of boots on the roof. The Mananda was being boarded. Faces were appearing in the windows. Faces in yellow peaked caps, hanging over from above, staring hungrily in at them.
Kate panicked. ‘Get them away! Get them off here!’
‘Everyone out now!’ shouted the Brigadier. He turned for the door and found Danny blocking his exit. The boy reached for the little chesspiece.
‘I’m sorry, Brigadier,’ he said. He had a green pallor and looked feverish.
‘Out of my way, Hinton.’
The boy was shaking his head apologetically. ‘I didn’t know. I swear it.’ He was staring at the heads in the windows, drawing on their power. The energy in the room was almost tangible. It made Danny look huge.
Harrods grabbed at him. ‘What are you on about?’
With one flick of his arm, the boy sent the old tramp tumbling backwards onto the kitchen floor. His eyes never left the Brigadier. His hand was covered in web. It was reaching out like a claw. ‘I warned you, didn’t I? Don’t trust anyone!
The Intelligence used me to seek you out. It’s taking new forms now. I’m the trap!’
The Brigadier reached into his jacket. ‘I’m warning you, Hinton. Stand back!’
‘Give me the Locus!’ yelled the boy. He lunged for the piece as the Brigadier pulled out his Browning.
‘No!’ Kate was shouting. ‘No guns! Not in here!’
All around the windows, the Chillys turned their heads to stare at the cabin entrance.
The Brigadier heard a sound that filled him with dread. A high-pitched repeating blip. ‘Get back!’ he shouted as a silver sphere, the size of a croquet ball, rolled into the doorway and stopped at the top of the steps. It rocked a little in its place as if surveying its victims.
Instinctively everyone pulled back. Only Danny remained, pushed frozen against the wall, a look of abject terror on his face. The sphere dropped casually down the steps. It rolled towards him.
It leapt.
Danny’s hands closed over the sphere as it plunged into his chest. There was a crack of breaking bones. He stumbled forward choking, a hole torn in the front of his sweatshirt.
There was no blood. The sphere had been cleanly absorbed.
No one dared move. They could still hear the bleeping. The cabin was alive with energy. As they watched, the shape of Danny Hinton began to grow. Little storms of electricity played over his expanding, darkening body. He yelled and the yell coarsened