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The Dying Days - Chapter Thirteen

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Earth Attacks!

Friday, May 16th 1997

'What's the latest from Portsmouth, Simon?'

'Our boys have picked up about a hundred survivors, Prime Minister. There are some photos on your desk.'

Greyhaven found the pictures next to the proposed new designs for banknotes. He stared at pictures: piles of rubble where buildings once stood, ships pitched over onto their sides, with great cracks and punctures in the metal. More victims to Xznaal's brutal efficiency. He'd never done it himself, but Greyhaven knew that some small children poured water over ant nests, to watch them suffer. The ants wouldn't be able to comprehend what was going on. Perhaps they had ant religion, with a complex set of beliefs regarding divine behaviour. Even if they found a way to communicate with their destroyer and asked him 'why?' they wouldn't get a proper answer. The best they could hope for would be 'why not?'

He hadn't been back to the Greyhaven Building overlooking the Thames since the night the Martian ship had arrived. The cleaner would have made the bed, and removed every single trace that Eve had ever been there, except perhaps for an empty jewellery box. Watching banks of red fog rage around Adisham, Greyhaven could have destroyed Xznaal then and there, but he decided to wait. The Martians still had their uses. Xznaal had told him that he would not be manufacturing any more of the Red Death - although Greyhaven suspected that the decision had more to do with the fact that the Martians couldn't predict or control the behaviour of the gas.

'Are there any of the leaders?'

Simon flipped through the report. 'None. We've found the bodies of a couple of Admirals and Generals, but no sign of the resistance command staff. They must have been in one of the other strongholds.'

'A package for you, Prime Minister,' a man announced. He had come into the room without knocking.

When the Prime Minister looked up, he saw why. It was Alexander Christian, clean-shaven in a neat blue suit, holding a small parcel.

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Simon lunged for him, and then fell back, unconscious, dragging a tea service onto the carpet with him. The sound of the crash brought a quick response, but the large man who came through the door was dealt with equally swiftly, slumping to the floor with a gruff groan.

Christian had kept the parcel in his right hand the whole time. Now he handed it over to the Prime Minister. Greyhaven didn't even try to reach for the pistol or panic button in his desk.

'Good morning, Lex. Is that an axe in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?'

'You deserve to die for what you did to my crew, and what you did to me.' Christian said curtly. 'I spent twenty years in a cell because you sold Britain out to the Martians. You're not the only one who's spent twenty years making plans.'

He pulled out a handgun, held it up.

'Believe me, if I was going to kill you, you'd be dead by now. Open the envelope.'

Greyhaven tugged out the videotape that had been slotted snugly inside. There wasn't a label on it, or a note. It had come from Crawley, according to the postmark. The delivery address had been scrawled out, but it wouldn't take a forensics team long to uncover it.

'A picture speaks a thousand words, Prime Minister,' Christian said in a low voice.

Greyhaven moved over to the little television and VCR in the corner of the room. The television screen rippled with thick diagonal lines.

'The tape's blank,' he said. Then a thought occurred to him and he flicked a little switch on the back. It was a couple of seconds before the picture flashed up. When it did, it showed a flat expanse of concrete. The tape was an NTSC recording. He didn't look back over his shoulder.

Instead, Greyhaven concentrated on the tape, trying to work out what he was watching. There was a timecode along the bottom: 5/14/97 09.05. It had been taken the day before yesterday.

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The picture was jerky, the cameraman was trying to move it around in a tight circle. He was probably undercover. There wasn't a soundtrack. The Martian ship was drifting overhead, like a storm cloud. The cameraman kept it in shot for five or six seconds, then brought the camera around. Greyhaven could see now that the ship was floating over a runway. He glanced down at the envelope again. If it was sent from Crawley, it seemed logical that this was Gatwick Airport. But Gatwick had been closed since the Martians arrived. All the airliners had been transferred over to Heathrow to help with the repatriation of the tourists.

The picture jerked again, and there was a disorientating zoom to a row of blue Transit vans parked by a hangar building. There were policemen there, opening up the back of the vans. It was blurred, a little too far for the camera to pick out many details.

The cameraman must have realised. The picture flickered, and now the timecode read 9.12. He had moved to within a hundred yards or so. There were about a hundred men lined up, all in blue and grey overalls. There must have been two dozen policeman watching over them, all of whom carried pistols or rifles.

There was another zoom. The front of one of the Transit vans now filled the screen. The white lettering was very clear: HM PRISON SERVICE. The first two letters had actually been scraped away, but their outlines were still visible.

The picture now panned back up to the underside of the Martian craft, and it took a moment for the cameraman to adjust the focus. A hatch was retracting at the front of the spaceship. As the red light began creeping out from the opening, Greyhaven could make out a dark shape the size of a large house. The shape detached itself, and began drifting downwards. It was boomerang-shaped, and built from glistening dark green metal. It was a shuttlecraft of some kind, and only took ten or fifteen seconds before it had descended the short distance to the runway. The picture panned down with it.

The policemen were ushering their prisoners forwards towards the shuttlecraft.

The picture dissolved into static. Greyhaven tried fast-forwarding the tape, to see if there were any more clips. The rest of the tape was blank.

Greyhaven's face was ashen. 'What are they doing with those prisoners?'

Alexander Christian watched him carefully. 'You don't know, do you?'

'No.'

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'That shuttlecraft was destroyed shortly after those pictures were taken. You didn't know that, either, did you?'

'A Martian ship was destroyed?'

'That's the reason they attacked Portsmouth. Revenge for their loss. They are vicious, war-like. They'll destroy everything, you included.'

'I can control them.'

'You're too clever to trust Xznaal, old chap, and we know you've got something up your sleeve. Whatever it is, use it now. You won't get another chance.'

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield

Much has been written about the Battle of London, very little of it by people who were actually there, as I was. The day began sitting in the officer's mess of the UNIT encampment, a map of Berkshire hanging on one wall, a map of London on the other. All of us knew that we would be writing history. We were full of that gung-ho spirit that seizes all sections of a population at time of war. Whatever your politics, whatever your thoughts about the rights and wrongs of the situation, you are always glad when "our boys" win and the enemy's boys don't. It's always been the same from the streets of ancient Uruk to the common room of a twenty-seventh century university. You forget that the enemy feels the same, you forget that every civilisation, even your own, falls in the end. I'd seen empires topple - including my own, but that's another story - yet I was swept along as much as anyone.

'This will be a two-pronged attack,' Lethbridge-Stewart announced. He seemed ten years younger, I thought. There was a bounce in his step, determination in his voice. The other soldiers were listening to him now.

He slapped his swagger stick against the first map. 'Step One: a small assault team led by Captain Ford takes out the refinery. Ray has agreed to go along, and he'll show you where to plant explosives for maximum effect. Primary objective is to destroy production facilities and any stocks of gas already prepared. The secondary objective is to capture the Martian scientist, Vrgnur.'

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I raised my hand, and the Brigadier took my question. 'Could I go along with that group? I'm the only one who can talk to Vrgnur, and I know a little about Martian shuttlecraft.'

Lethbridge-Stewart nodded. 'That's where your expertise will be most useful,' he agreed. 'Now, we know that the warship hasn't come back to the refinery since it dropped off the shuttlecraft. That means that the warship doesn't have the gas on-board and if the Martians want to use it, they will have to go to Reading to collect it. Because the gas in crucial to their plans, it also means that when the refinery is attacked, they'll rush to defend it.'

Lethbridge-Stewart crossed the room, passing the rows of officers. 'And that leads us to stage two. All Royalist units will converge on London. We'll move in along all major routes - our forces will head straight down the M4 and at the moment the bombs go off destroying the refinery, we'll be in Westminster.'

Bambera had kept quiet ever since she'd handed over command to Lethbridge-Stewart, but now she was speaking. 'The Martian ship might stay behind to guard London, even if the refinery is threatened.'

I shook my head. I'd talked this through with Alistair, and we had agreed what would happen. 'The Martians are interested in themselves, not humans. When the refinery is threatened, they'll move.'

'And when that happens,' Lethbridge-Stewart said, 'our aircraft will attack it. They'll try to box it in, and bring it down. If that doesn't work, they should at least delay its return to London.'

'That still leaves the Provisional Government,' Bambera said. 'A lot of their forces are committed in the north, I know, but there are plenty left behind. They'll know we are coming - we can't keep half a dozen military convoys a secret.'

Lethbridge-Stewart smiled. 'They will know we are coming, Brigadier Bambera, because we will tell them. We will tell the world.'

End of extract

Xztaynz was showing Xznaal some 'medieval' art. The religious subject matter and naive rendering failed to interest him. One more day, and they would have visited every room in the National Gallery, and seen every painting that was not publicly displayed. The National Portrait Gallery sounded unpromising - all those rows upon rows of ugly primate faces - and so they'd skip that. Next week, they would scour the British Museum. The large fossils and Egyptian exhibits were going to be of particular interest, Xznaal could see that just from the catalogues that Staines had supplied. The walls of his palace on Earth, the White Tower, were now lined with human art from this place.

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A human came towards them, with that nervous scuttling motion that they had. Xznaal recognised that this was a female. They were smaller than the males on the whole, and wore brighter cloth. This one had red talons, and they were sharpened. No doubt this was to protect her offspring from predators until they had finished dropping from her mammal body and were able to defend themselves. It seemed a most unhygenic arrangement. She was holding a communicator in her paw.

'Good morning, Home Secretary. Er... Your Majesty.' Whenever he left the confines of his ship, Xznaal was always careful to wear the Imperial State Crown, as now, yet for some reason the humans failed to accept this symbol of authority. The human race lacked the discipline and respect for their leaders of a civilised people.

He waved a claw. 'Good morning.'

'This is Miss Helmond,' Xztaynz explained. 'What do you have to tell us?'

'The Royalist terrorists have launched an attack on London, Home Secretary. Our spotters report that they have blocked off the M25 and they are moving in on most of the major routes.'

'That's suicide,' Xztaynz objected. 'It's a co-ordinated assault?'

'They've taken over local radio stations, there's going to be a broadcast at mid-day. That's the same time that the Queen... the, er, ex-Queen,' she corrected herself quickly, 'will address the UN General Assembly.'

Xznaal hissed. 'What iss happening?'

'They can't possibly succeed, your majesty. We outnumber them, we are holding a string of defensive positions, we have the warship, we - '

'Enough. We will return to the ssafety of the Tower. Have Gerayhayvun join uss there.'

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield

Bessie streaked through the countryside at an implausible speed. The UNIT Land Rover following them was struggling to keep up.

I tried to dredge up what I could remember of the local traffic laws. None of the carefully-designed, non-culturally specific road signs that lined the route made the slightest bit of sense to me.

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Beside me, Ray was hanging on for dear life, unable to put his trust in the sophisticated inertial maintenance system that the Doctor had installed. The two soldiers in the back - Captain Ford and Sergeant Jenkins - were also looking a bit green.

'Professor,' Ray whimpered, 'I'd feel safer if there was a seat belt.'

'Are we nearly there?' I asked. We'd been on the road for twenty minutes so we ought to have been by now.

'Nearly.' Ray seemed subdued.

'Are you OK?' I asked. We were all nervous - even the trained fighters. Combat was like public speaking or acting - if you aren't nervous, you're not only doing something wrong, you're too stupid to realise.

'Benny,' Ray asked, 'Are you really from the future?'

'Yes,' I replied.

'So we make it? Humanity survives? We are your ancestors, and this is all ancient history to you.'

'It doesn't work like that,' I said.

'But it must do.'

'No.'

'So what happens if this doesn't work?' Ray asked.

I thought about the question and tried to remember what the Doctor had told me about such things. The trouble was, he had said something slightly different every time I had asked. 'I don't know,' I admitted. 'I'll just be an anomaly, a glitch in the system. Something for future historians to ignore or come up with wild theories to explain away. I guess I'll just be retconned.'

Ray paused for a moment. 'I don't mean just for us. We'll die, I know that. But what about my kids?'

'This will work,' I assured him. 'This has to work.'

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Ray's voice was even softer than normal. 'But what if it doesn't?' he repeated. 'It's a fair question,' he added.

Captain Ford leant forward. 'We'll succeed,' he said, with such a sense of certainty that I almost believed him myself. 'But if we didn't then mankind would survive - the Martians can't fight us in the deserts, can they? They'll stick to the Arctic areas: Scandinavia, Alaska, the Falklands. We'd have strongholds and hideouts. Just think about all the army bases around the world, all the nuclear submarines. The Martians might be more advanced, but that didn't stop the Afghans from beating back the Russians or the Vietnamese from defeating the Americans. When the human race is forced to fight for its own territory, we fight.'

My mind raced with images of Rome falling to the Vandals, fuel air bombs sucking the oxygen from Iraqi air raid shelters, Daleks killing half the human population of the galaxy and overrunning whole planets without even leaving their ships. Billions had died defending their home territory. But despite all the wars, all the invasions and killing, the human race had survived. Arguing with the Captain's sentiments seemed childish, cowardly. I found myself wondering how many young soldiers down the ages had died not wanting to speak up and say that they were scared.

'It's almost time for the broadcast to start.'

As the digital clock on the dashboard flipped over to midday, I turned on the radio. I'm copying the next bit from a history book, a fat blue paperback with a scary eye on the cover. As the author died five hundred and thirty one years ago, I doubt he'll mind, and even if he did he's out of copyright, so nerr. I have to resort to the history books for this part of the story, because at the time we were driving to the refinery, I was unaware of events elsewhere in the country and the rest of the world.

SAS teams and other elite squads had secured the radio transmitters. In every town and city with a resistance cell, people knew that something was coming, that something was going to be broadcast at midday. Photocopied fliers were placed on car windscreens. In St Helens Square in York, the Town Crier read a proclamation to a crowd of Royalists. Elsewhere, loudspeakers were set up, and hastily-arranged press conferences were held in loyal embassies around the world. They were told that the resistance was going to make an announcement.

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At mid-day, they heard a voice that they recognised. An Oscar-winning actor, reading from Henry V. Next a recording of Ray, explaining about the poison gas and Adisham. After a few second's silence, Lethbridge-Stewart spoke. He introduced himself, then:

'I am the commanding officer of the force that will liberate London. Not just from the Martians, but from those that betrayed you to the Martians. I serve Xznaal, Greyhaven and the rest of their Provisional Government notice: this is their last day in office. Our army is already mobilised. It is a small force, but it is larger than Henry's at Agincourt, and we have right on our side. The Provisional Government has lied to you: its members have been in league with the Martians for many years in their attempts to gain power. Now they have power, they use it against their own people: the air-raid on Edinburgh, shooting on civilians in Bradford, cutting off the water and electricity supplies in Chester and York. Thousands of people have died, but this is only the beginning. I saw for myself the effect of the Martian gas on Adisham. Unless they are stopped, the Martians will wipe out mankind with their new weapon.

I don't mean to scare you: rest assured that the Martians can be stopped. With your assistance, they will be stopped today. We would ask those Londoners wishing to evacuate to head south, down to Kent. Those who wish to join us are equally welcome - you can help us by cutting power and telecommunications lines, by barricading the smaller roads and by preventing the Provisional Government's security forces from barricading the major ones. Hopefully, we will not have to fire a single shot to end the Martian Occupation. It is now a quarter past twelve. Our tanks will be in Ealing, now. God willing, the Provisional Government will have fallen within the hour.'

The speech finished, the broadcast cut to live coverage of the Queen's address to the United Nations. She had been informed of the effort to retake London and had given it her blessing. Her speech began by wishing Lethbridge-Stewart and his men luck. As she spoke, her advisors were outside, preparing to hand out press releases and lobbying ambassadorial staff.

Without any help from UNIT, details of the damage inflicted on the Martians in Portsmouth and the location and plans of the EG refinery had found their way to New York via the Internet. Pictures, text and sound files were downloaded onto the new computer newsgroups and bulletin boards that had been set up around the world. These had eventually found their way to the world's military and media.

At an emergency session of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the President ordered that if the Martian ship left British airspace it was to be shot down, by any means necessary.

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Unaware of events elsewhere in the world, half a dozen trained UNIT men followed Ray through the refinery and I followed the soldiers. Ray knew which routes the guards patrolled. The place was swarming with them, apparently, but I didn't see a single one. The troops were hand-picked by Captain Ford and moved through the base swiftly and silently. No doubt if we had come across any of the patrols, the UNIT men would have dispatched them with the same efficiency - each carried an automatic pistol with silencer, and enough knives to fill a cutlery drawer. Our main weapons were the packs of thermite explosive we carried in special belt pouches. Even I had three packs - each was about the size of a paperback book but packed enough punch to bring down a house or blow open a tank. The UNIT boffins had told us that the high explosive generated enough heat to incinerate even the most deadly nerve agents. When I had challenged them, suggested that they might free the Martian gas rather than destroy it, they were proud to announce that mankind had devised much more virulent materials than the substance released over Adisham. The bombs would work, if enough of them were planted in the right locations.

Back in Windsor Forest, as soon as Lethbridge-Stewart had finished his briefing, Ray had drawn a map for the refinery assault team. He'd helped to build the plant four years ago, and he knew virtually every pipe and wire. To me, the refinery complex looked like an alien city, with pressurised skyscrapers and pipelines instead of pavements. In a way, of course, it was an alien city: the first Martian colony on Earth. The silos had been designed by Vrgnur for the sentient gas, and duplicated conditions on Mars. Behind the stainless steel, Vrgnur had been propagating something entirely inimical to man. At the time I knew little about the Red Death. Later, I would have time to search the ancient Martian texts and I would learn of an assassination weapon capable of passing through the narrowest gap in relentless pursuit of its target. In the scarce atmosphere of Mars it was subtle, invisible. But when it fed on the abundant elements of Earth's atmosphere, it became bloated and bloodthirsty.

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I ran my finger along a polished pipe no thicker than my arm. Just the slightest crack, just the tiniest break, and it would escape. Everything would die from the smallest microbe to the last blue whale. That didn't frighten me so much as the knowledge that the thing in these silos had killed the Doctor.

The UNIT force began splitting up, hurrying along carefully-prepared routes.

End of extract

The box on the screen informed Dave that 87% of the information he had been amassing had been released into cyberspace. It would be appearing on various bulletin boards and inboxes.

'There's a crowd gathering,' he noted. They'd been listening to the radio, and they'd heard Lethbridge-Stewart's proclamation. Now a steady stream of people was heading up towards Whitehall.

'The Brig's a legend,' Oswald continued. 'Some skywatchers think he's a myth, a codename. UNIT go in for that: the scientific advisor is always called "the Doct-" '

Dave grabbed his arm. 'Come on.'

Lethbridge-Stewart checked his watch. 12.20 and they were in Chiswick. They were a little ahead of schedule. He was sitting besides Bambera in the staff car. Three of the tanks headed the convoy, then the armoured cars. The staff car was next, followed by the Land Rovers. The other two tanks brought up the rear. Motorcycle outriders were scouting ahead.

Outside, crowds were beginning to line the streets. It reminded Alistair of a royal visit. Some people were even waving little plastic Union Flags. Ordinary people were falling in behind the military convoy: policemen and firemen, even postmen in their uniforms. Socialist Workers and members of the British Legion weren't walking hand-in-hand, but they at least had common purpose.

'You were right,' Bambera conceded. 'it looks like we've got a fair few people on our side.'

'There's no sign of Government forces. We'd have expected a road block by now, at least.'

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'Perhaps they are weaker than we thought,' Bambera suggested.

The radio crackled. 'Greyhound, this is Trap Seven.'

'Receiving. Where are you?'

'Tower Hill. There's quite a crowd gathering. It's like the Royal Wedding, sir.'

'Spare me the Dimbleby commentary, Corporal. How many people and what's their mood?'

'Thousands. It's a carnival.'

'Any sign of the Provs?'

'They are keeping a cordon around the Tower, they've sealed off Downing Street. Defensive positions only at the moment, sir. We've had a lot of defectors.'

'Very good. Inform me if the situation changes.'

'Roger that, Greyhound.'

Bambera was smiling, not a common sight. 'It looks like we've got all sorts of people on our side.'

The Prime Minister looked out over London. Through fifty-one millimetre 13 ply laminated glass was the familiar skyline, with its familiar Martian warship.

It was so big. On the way to one of his meetings with Xznaal he'd stopped off at a newsagents by Fenchurch Street station. The shop was selling postcards showing the capital's latest tourist attraction. That had been on Saturday morning, not more than thirty-six hours after the invasion. Not that there were many tourists in London any longer. Before the Martians had come, the Tower of London had two million visitors a year - millions more buzzed around it without wanting to pay to get in. Now the streets and pavements around the walls were all but deserted for the first time in centuries. Many Londoners had fled the city to the Home Counties. The evacuation hadn't been orderly, dozens had died under the wheels of cars and vans and lorries charging away from the Capital, on both sides of the road. Most were living with friends or relatives, or in guest houses. All the foreigners had gone, too. London hotels were empty, facing ruin. Walking along the deserted streets, the only language you heard was English. It made the city seem smaller, less alive. It was alive now. Even behind the bullet resistant window pane - no glass was truly bullet proof, four shotgun blasts at close range would be enough to penetrate it - the Prime Minister could hear the sounds of Londoners in Trafalgar Square, demonstrating against him.

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'Mussolini once said that ruling Italy was easy,' Greyhaven said.

'He was a friend of yours, was he?' Christian asked, adjusting his pipe.

'He said it was easy but utterly pointless,' Greyhaven finished. He reached into his pocket, checking for something he knew was there. 'Mussolini had a vision that his country could be great again, but he was a fool and he allied himself with a monster. He ended up strung from a lamp-post by a mob of his own people.'

Alexander Christian stood there, impassive. Greyhaven smiled at him, not expecting a response. Finally, the Prime Minister tapped at his intercom.

'Tell me, how would I get to the Space Museum from here without those rioters tearing me apart?'

'We can arrange an escort, Prime Minister.'

'Do so. I will be downstairs in two minutes.'

Greyhaven combed his hair into place and slipped a fountain pen into his pocket. 'If you'll excuse me, Colonel, I have work to do.'

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield

The Martian ship was unguarded. It was exactly as Ray had described it, and as I had expected from my excavation of the "ship's graveyard" at Tharsis. It was a V-wing, roughly the same size and shape as the pinnacle of human aviation at the time of the invasion, the B2 stealth bomber. It was built from a glistening green ceramic material, the name of which eluded me. I caught Ford's attention, and motioned that I was going in. Ford indicated that he would finish planting his explosives before joining me.

There were two ways into the shuttle: the main hatch at the front, and the cargo doors on the underside. Both were open. I chose the latter, edging forwards. A couple of fork lift trucks sat snugly in the shadow of the Martian craft. Without even realising that I had slipped into Sherlock Holmes mode, I deduced from the tyre tracks that the fork lifts had been active recently. The cargo hatch looked like the bomb bay of a Lancaster bomber. As I approached the opening, the cold air from inside was wafting down.

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I ducked underneath one of the cargo bay doors, poking my head up into the body of the ship. The shuttlecraft's hold was tiny, and there was only dim Martian lighting, but I could see that it had been packed solid with metal cylinders. Captain Ford was already out of sight and I certainly couldn't call out for him. The tiny UNIT walkie-talkie in my pocket was also useless for the moment - we'd agreed at the briefing that this phase of the operation was being conducted under the strictest radio silence.

Everything was going according to my plan - the one that I hadn't shared with UNIT. I took a last look around to make sure that no-one had seen me, then pulled myself up into the shuttlecraft. I sat on the edge of the hatch for a moment to congratulate myself for being so quiet. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the twilight, and I could feel the goosebumps developing on my legs and arms. It wasn't uncomfortably cold, though. The magnetic engines were on, and throbbing with power. Like every machine of its complexity, the shuttle was on the brink of being alive. Noises that the ship's builders couldn't have explained surrounded me, a hiss there, a clank here.

I was heading for the communications rig. All Martian equipment is bulky. The communicator was the size of a telephone box, too big to slot into the cockpit. They tucked it away down here. I turned the corner.

The vast Martian scientist filled the alcove. He had his back to me. I edged away, trying not to make a sound. Vrgnur hadn't seen me and was deep in a hissing, grunting conversation. I wasn't sure, but it was almost certainly Xznaal on the other end of the line. Like any language, there was a world of difference between the textbook Martian grammar and the colloquial form. The sound didn't carry very well in the thin air, either. Despite all that, I could tell that the conversation was coming to an end.

I backed into something solid, the size of a tree trunk. I pulled back, thinking it was another Martian, but it was merely a metal tank. I caught myself from screaming, sighing with relief, laughing and from making all the other little noises I was planning at that moment.

The gauge said that the cylinder was full to capacity. I bent over to double-check, resting my hand on the side of the container. Almost before my fingertips had touched the cold metal, whatever was inside surged towards them, clattering against the side like a bird in a cage.

I realised what it was.

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Outside, Captain Ford and his men were planting explosives around an empty refinery. The poison gas had already been piped into the shuttle. The thing that had killed the Doctor was in here with me.

End of extract

'Sir,' the human female Hellmond squeaked. 'I've just had a phone call from Downing Street. The Prime Minister isn't going to the Tower. His car is being escorted to Trafalgar Square.'

'What?' Xznaal bellowed, sweeping around.

'Did he explain why?' Xztaynz asked quietly.

'He is going to the Space Museum, sir,' the female said.

Xznaal glared down at the two humans. 'Why?'

'I have no idea,' Xztaynz muttered. He struggled with some mental activity - a feat of memory, perhaps. 'Unless he... he said something about an insurance policy, and that... the Orbiter.'

Xznaal's eyes narrowed. 'We musst follow him.'

Extract from the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield

Have you ever heard the expression "her mind raced"? In adventure stories, when faced with insurmountable odds and imminent death, the author tells us that the heroine's mind "races". My mind did no such thing. It sat there, nursing the mental equivalent of a hamstring injury. The primal instinct in these circumstances ought to be "flight or fight" - kill or run away. I stood there.

I managed to muster enough presence of mind to duck out of sight as Vrgnur detached himself from the communications alcove. In something akin to his native atmosphere, his breathing was quiet - I hoped that I could say the same about myself: Martian hearing was acute, possibly sharp enough to pick up the sound of a human heart slamming against a ribcage. Although I couldn't see or hear Vrgnur, I could feel his vast bulk moving across the deck of the shuttle, the metal reverberating with each footstep. Vrgnur paused, close to me. There was a wrenching sound, a pneumatic hiss and then the cargo bay doors slammed shut. I was trapped in here, alone with the Martian.

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Within seconds, Vrgnur was lumbering out of the hold, away from me. "Relief" seemed like a rather small word to describe what I was feeling. The Martian scientist was heading away from the hold to the cockpit. I checked my watch. I had only a little over a minute to get clear before Captain Ford set off the bombs.

I eased myself out of my hiding place and tried to find the control that opened the cargo hatch. It wasn't difficult - the lever was four foot long, and bright red. It wouldn't have been out of place in an old-fashioned signal box. To Vrgnur, releasing the control would have been as easy as changing the gears of a car. But humans found it less easy, as I quickly discovered when I tried to apply all my weight to get the thing to budge.

Reader, I swore.

The sound echoed around the cargo hold, and didn't go away however much I wished that it would or however much I gritted my teeth.

Twenty seconds later, I still hadn't been killed by a Martian, so I decided that Vrgnur hadn't heard me. He would be safely strapped into his pilot's cradle by now, a chunky visor over his eyes, his claws tugging at the controls. Which would mean...

The shuttlecraft lurched skywards on a column of magnetic energy. At precisely that moment, I could hear the rumble of explosions outside. It was like being caught in a tidal wave.

As a train begins slowing at the end of every journey, when it's coming into the station and everyone is standing up, draping their coat over their arm ready to leave, there's always someone who contrives to pitch over and crash around, unable to manage even basic co-ordination. That person is generally me.

I tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on the metal deck.

Before I pulled myself up, I unzipped one of the pouches on my belt, and tugged out one of the thermite packs. It was wrapped up in cellophane like a packet of cigarettes or a box of chocolates. I located the little strip and unwound it, slipping the bomb from its wrapper. Like all military hardware, like most things designed for men, it was black and ergonomic with little LEDs and ridges in the plastic so that it was easy to grip.

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I checked the timing mechanism - usually the first thing to go on the things. The bomb was working. I slid the control on the top, arming it. I could set the timer by tapping the little buttons, just like setting a digital watch or a VCR, or I could just press the red button and save myself the wait. One explosion would be enough to depressurise the shuttle. However much Vrgnur struggled with the controls, the ship would drop like a stone and dash itself against the English countryside. I was actually reaching for the button when I remembered my plan to end the invasion. I glanced back at the communications rig. There was an adhesive strip on the back of the bomb. I attached the device to the nearest metal cylinder. For a few seconds the gas scuttled away at it, but I was already crossing the hold.

Vrgnur had deactivated the communicator. I examined the display and tried to twist one of the dials. It took a moment for my puny human wrists to get the dial to turn, but the holoplate began rezzing up. Martians had different colour and depth perception to a human, but I had seen enough Martian murals to work out what was going on.

I flicked a stiff switch, establishing the interplanetary carrier wave, then sat back - it was going to take a while before I would be able to tell whether it was working. I didn't have a while. The logo of the Martian Communicators Guild appeared in the hologlobe. I selected an open channel, cleared my throat and began speaking in what I hoped the Martians would recognise as their own language.

'This is Professor Bernice Summerfield of the clans of the United Kingdom. Our world has been invaded by the Lord Xznaal. Unable to win in combat, he formed an alliance with traitors and now skulks in his warship, afraid to leave its confines. We have heard legends of the mighty warrior race of Mars, and frankly we are shocked by this cowardly behaviour. He now loots and plunders our world for its weapons, raw materials, and best soldiers. I can't imagine what he's planning to do with all of them. He said something about going back to Mars and, er, what was it again? Oh yes "showing that stunted git Paxaphyr where he can stick the sword of Tubarr". Anyway, as I say, his warship is here now, along with his finest warriors. All of them here. And not there. Just thought you would like to know that. Er... byeeee.'

End of extract

I tugged the 'off' control, took a deep breath and waited. I had done all that I could for the moment. What happened now depended on others.

Greyhaven parked his Aston Martin on a double yellow line and bounded up the steps of the National Space Museum. The five-minute car journey had taken three times as long - they'd had to take a different route to avoid the crowds of people converging on the Square as if it were the venue for the cup final. The Prime Minister was waved through the various security barriers and into Mission Control. He paused to catch his breath. Theo Ogilvy, the Mars 97 mission controller, was there.

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'Prime Minister, this is - '

Greyhaven swept past him, slotting a computer disc into a terminal and tapping a few keys.

Xznaal grabbed him and threw him against the back wall.

Greyhaven struggled to concentrate. They had got here first, but he had managed to reach the terminal. Was his program running? Staines was staring at the bank of monitors. 'The Orbiter is still holding its position.'

Greyhaven stood. The Martian towered over him. 'I know of your planss. Xztaynz told me.' Xznaal raised his huge right claw and fired the gun on his wrist. The computer terminal pulsed and shattered.

'Staines isn't bright enough.'

'Oh but I am,' the Home Secretary said, stepping forwards. 'You were planning to send a signal to the Mars Orbiter. You opened the airlocks before by remote control. You were planning to drop a bomb or something.'

Greyhaven looked over at him, and when he spoke there was a tone of respect in his voice. 'The Mars 97 is powered by two atomic reactors. If the computers receive the right signal they can be set to misphase, and send each other critical. From this room, by sending a simple command sequence, it is possible to pilot the Orbiter to any point on the Martian surface and then detonate it. The explosion would be the equivalent of a one hundred megaton bomb. You can probably guess which part of Mars I targeted.'

'The Argyre,' Xznaal grunted. The territory of his own clan. He checked the instruments once again. 'The Orbiter has not moved. You have failed.'

The Martian pointed at Greyhaven's legs and fired his sonic disruptor. Every bone below the knee joints shattered. The Prime Minister buckled, unable to do anything but scream for the first couple of seconds.

Staines was smiling. 'You thought I was stupid, didn't you Teddy? You underestimated me, you see.'

Xznaal ignored him. 'Why?' he asked.

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'Because you killed Eve,' Staines explained, trying to get back into the conversation. 'That blonde slip of a thing. Really, Teddy, I told you that she'd be trouble.'

'Staines, you really are an idiot,' Greyhaven said through clenched teeth. 'The fact that my so-called ally tried to murder an entire village full of innocent people, including a woman I was fond of didn't help, but I've always known that this... thing would try to betray me. He thinks that we're animals. What were you going to use those prisoners at Gatwick for? Medical experiments? Target practice? Food?'

The Home Secretary bent over him, smiling. 'The Martians need a workforce. You said so yourself.' Greyhaven could feel himself blacking out, but forced himself to remain conscious. 'Their population has seen rapid decline over recent centuries. Those criminals would have been put to useful work on Mars.'

Greyhaven's body was screaming at him, telling him that his only hope for survival was to lapse into unconsciousness. Greyhaven knew better than that: he wasn't going to survive. He only needed a minute more. 'Do you remember the words to "Rule Brittania"?'

Staines laughed. 'Of course. I even prefer it to "Martian Albion".'

'"Britons never shall be slaves."'

'Xznaal and myself are partners, Teddy. We knew that you'd try to double-cross us. The Martians are helping to solve prison overcrowding - those men are the lifers, the habitual criminals, the least desirable of the undesirable.'

'The scum of the Earth,' Xznaal hissed in agreement.

Staines was smiling his idiot grin. 'The Martians are our natural rulers, Teddy. They are superior beings. Do you know how long Martians live? There are some alive now that were born when Shakespeare was writing.'

Xznaal stepped forward.

'And you think that the Martians will let you have any power?' Greyhaven rasped. 'They see our state-of-the-art science - our computers, lasers and nuclear reactors - and they sneer at them. To Xznaal, the pinnacles of human art are finger paintings. Our greatest philosophers speak platitudes not fit for the playground.'

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The Martian raised his arm.

'It's going to kill the human race like a farmer sprays his crops, and with the same compassion for the insects. I knew that all along. I also knew that the Martians were weak - most of them are impotent, those that aren't are diseased or disordered. Look at that thing. Ask him why he needs constant blood transfusions. Ask him whether that massive brain of his can function without stimulants.'

'Marss iss dying, itss people are dying.' Xznaal admitted. 'But we have thiss world, we will adapt it to our needss. Vrgnur has prepared plans for the first colonies. Within a century, this planet will be Aress-formed - its temperature lowered, its atmosphere thinned. We will ssurvive. You think that your puny human intellect iss a match for mine?'

Greyhaven laughed.

'Iss he deliriouss?'

'No, I'm not,' Greyhaven snapped. He tried to stand up, but couldn't. He settled for straightening his tie. 'King Genius, you have overlooked one small detail.'

'Indeed?' Xznaal hissed scornfully.

'Yes,' Greyhaven said, only needing to block out the pain just long enough to finish one more sentence. 'The fact it takes five minutes to send a radio message from Earth to Mars.'

Staines and Xznaal spun to face the monitors.

Greyhaven winced as he tried to grin. 'My signal should be arriving... now.' The room was becoming dark, it was closing in on him.

The Orbiter's telemetry began to alter, the altitude was dropping. The retros were firing. The nuclear reactors began redlining.

The computer interpreted the data, plotting the course of the Orbiter as it skipped down through the thin Martian atmosphere. It was past the equator, streaking over the Vallis Marineris and the Noctis Labyrinth, crossing the Mare Erythraeum several times faster than the speed of sound.

If the Martians lived underground, Greyhaven reflected, they probably couldn't hear the Orbiter slicing its way down. The atmosphere there was so thin that sound wouldn't carry too well. But the perpetual Martian twilight would be gone. The Martians were scared of fire, and now their sky was ablaze.

The Orbiter detonated, right above the Argyre. The signal ended abruptly.

Greyhaven was still laughing when Xznaal broke his neck.

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From the memoirs of Professor Bernice Summerfield

A little over ten minutes after I had sent my message, a Martian Lord appeared in the hologlobe. Unlike Xznaal, he wore his armour streamlined, complete with cloak. Moving in his own gravity, and breathing Martian air, he was graceful as a dancer.

'Bernicesummerfield,' it said, 'I am Balgrar of the clan Thaumasia. Your news is grave. We Martians value honour above all. Xznaal has shamed our race, and let me assure you that he does not represent our people. He is the leader of but one clan, the Argyre, and their attack on your world was not sanctioned by the Grand Marshall. Know then that all on Mars stand with you against the Argyre and that a punitive expedition of war-barges is even now on its way to - '

The picture disappeared, vanishing in an explosion of static that almost made me jump from my seat.

'What the f- '

Martian hieroglyphs were flashing up across the screen. It told me that there wasn't a problem with the hardware at this end and that it was trying to re-establish a link with the Martian communications network. I bit my lip.

The screen flashed up an answer: there had been a massive electromagnetic pulse and all communications would be impossible until the equipment was reset or replaced. I stared at the hologlobe, and all I could think was that the static swirling around the three dimensions of the hologlobe looked like maggots in a bucket.

There had been a nuclear explosion on the surface of Mars. Either the Argyre were firing them, or the rival clans had launched them in retaliation. Either way, millions of Martians were dying as I sat there. When Xznaal discovered that his home world was at war, that there would be nothing to go back to...

I had one option left. I was back across the room in seconds, my finger stabbing towards the detonator. I didn't even think. It didn't occur to me that this might be the action that released the Red Death, that the bomb might only crack the cylinder casing rather than obliterate the gas completely.

The merest moment's consideration and I might have realised that pressing the button would destroy mankind.

I truly thought I had nothing to lose. But as one claw caught my wrist, another encircled my neck and I was yanked into the air and away from the bomb, I realised that I was wrong. It could get worse. And at that moment, as I felt Vrgnur's cold breath on the back of my neck, I knew that it was over. Whatever we tried to do, however bravely we fought, wherever we hid, the human race was going to be hunted down and driven to extinction by creatures such as this: a species cleverer than we were, stronger than us. More relentless, more powerful. This was the end.

End of extract

NEXT WEEK: Benny confronts Xznaal.