Downtime - Marc Platt [86]
The Intelligence launched an array of tomahawk missiles from a cruiser in the Gulf. It played with them like toys in the air over Baghdad, engineering near misses, weaving smoke trails, finally letting them drop useless and unprimed into the desert.
Workers in nuclear power stations across the globe struggled to maintain their safe systems, as sudden inexplicable interference threatened to drive all their reactors critical. There were explosions in Andhra Pradesh and the Ukraine.
From every connected television receiver in the world, the Intelligence looked out and watched the humans on sofas and floors, eating, sleeping and performing other unrecognizable functions.
From every loudspeaker and tannoy system came the sudden thunderous burst of maniacal alien laughter.
A sudden alarm ran through the web. Instantly several million eyes turned inwards.
Christopher Rice sat in the chair in Victoria Waterfield’s office in the New World Administration Block. His slumped head jerked into life and stared into the glare of the computer terminal.
Unauthorized personnel were moving across the quadrant towards the building’s entrance.
‘Intruders,’ whispered the voice in Christopher’s throat.
‘Go and greet them properly.’
The eyes of the Yeti behind his chair flared angrily and the brute lumbered away on its mission.
Harrods pulled at the skein of web that covered the doorway into New World reception. He followed the Brigadier warily into the dark foyer. It looked as if it had been abandoned for years. An eerie glow came from the blank terminal screen on the reception desk, lighting the web that hung in festoons from the ceiling.
Harrods sniffed. ‘Sir, something rotten in here, sir. I can feel it.’
The Brigadier smiled grimly. ‘Too quiet.’ He marched on past the desk towards a lift door in the back wall.
Harrods was certain they should have gone to his garage first. They were sure to have found something to use as a weapon there – a tin-opener or chair leg or something – if the Chillys hadn’t been and cleaned it out by now. But they’d seen neither sight nor sound of a Chilly since they’d arrived. He saw the receptionist’s terminal flare for a moment. In the half-light, he was sure it swivelled towards him.
‘Let’s start at the top,’ said Lethbridge-Stewart and pressed for the lift. The door took an age to open.
Rather against his better judgement, they stepped into the clinical interior and he pressed for the doors to close. As the machine began to judder upwards, Harrods looked down at his grubby boots and said, ‘Did you ever go to the Variety shows, sir? Loved the Variety, I did.’
The lift appeared to judder to a complete halt and the lights dimmed. The Brigadier jabbed at the control panel but nothing happened. He turned to Harrods and found he was looking at Danny Hinton.
The boy looked decidedly pale.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said sheepishly.
‘I give up, Hinton,’ complained the Brigadier. ‘Am I asleep or are you dead?’
Danny shrugged. ‘Never did philosophy, sir. You’re in the lift. I’m in the computer system. We have interface.’
Nothing had really surprised the Brigadier for years. Not until he’d seen his daughter that very afternoon. He tried to take everything in his stride, but there were times when he was sorely tested. ‘So I’m talking to a ghost in a machine, am I?’
The boy nodded. Strangely, he didn’t seem to be that distressed about being dead.
‘And what’s the warning this time?’
Danny edged closer. ‘The Intelligence has got into the logic systems of New World’s computers. I snuck a ride too. It’s a virus. It’s already spreading across the Internet...’
‘Transmitted from this building?’ interrupted the Brigadier.
‘Well, we’d better put a stop to that.’
The boy seemed in earnest. He nodded towards the control panel. ‘I’ll take you in, sir. As far as I can.’
‘And what do I do when I get there?’
The boy was gone already, but his voice lingered. ‘Trust me.’
‘That’s what you said before,’ the Brigadier muttered.
‘Sir?’ asked