Island of Death (32 page)

At first there was just surprise, and a babble of voices. But when the second missile landed, and part of the volcano wall collapsed not so very far away from them, the disciples at the front of the queue panicked, and tried to run for it, with catastrophic results.

Two young men from Cambodia, friends who’d joined up together, were thrown off the path by the sudden crush of bodies coming downhill. One landed on his head and was killed outright, and the other fell over two hundred feet, breaking an arm and three ribs.

A small girl of sixteen from Alabama, known to her friends as Little Nell, was near the bottom of the path. She didn’t have time to turn as the tidal wave of bodies came down. She was crushed underfoot and died, her neck broken.

The panic, out of all proportion to the real danger, spread rapidly, in spite of the efforts of the guards in charge, and by the time all those fleeing reached the clearing at the bottom of the path to join the ones who were waiting, chaos had taken over.

To Jeremy and the others right at the back, the explosions had been remote enough to make the reaction of the others more of a surprise than anything.

But Jeremy had a strong sense of self-preservation, developed at Holbrook, partly from working out strategies to keep out of the way of the known bullies, and partly from learning how to avoid the more unpleasant demands of school life, such as the compulsory cross-country run.

So when he saw - and heard - the wave of terror coming towards him, he quietly moved away from the growing turmoil into the shelter of a group of shrubs nearby, and stood watching, poised to take off if it came anywhere near him.

In the event, the whole crowd streamed past towards the comforting familiarity of the village. He was left alone, apart from the dead, the injured, and some of the guards who’d kept their heads.

He came out of hiding. ‘Excuse me...’ he said to the nearest guard.

The guard, a tall Dubliner, who had been staring open-mouthed into the sky, turned to him. ‘What?’

‘Does this mean that we’re not going to get our rewards?’

The guard stared at him. ‘How the feck would I know?’ he said, and turned away to survey the disaster left behind.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ he said. At least five were lying on the ground, unmoving; one woman was sitting with her head in her hands, which were red with blood; another was wandering aimlessly towards them, her hands outstretched as if she were blind. A guard came up to her, and she collapsed into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

‘You’d better come and give me a hand,’ went on the Irishman, going over to the recumbent figure of a man who was gently moaning and had a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth.

Well, really! Treating him like a servant! The guards were presumably paid for the job. Let them get on with it. What did he know about first aid, anyway?

It was then that he had his bright idea. This was his chance. The whole point of coming all the way from England, first to Bombay and then on the long voyage to the island, was so that they could get their rewards, whatever they were.

And when they’d got things sorted out...

He walked across the clearing to the bottom of the path, and sat down on a convenient stone. When they queued up again, he was going to be right at the front.

Sarah’s mind was working overtime as she peered out at the blueness that filled the windows at the front of the bridge.

Even if they came out of the mist, the assault was surely over. The others would be in no fit state. Or could she fire the missiles herself? No, no, no, that was a ludicrous idea. In any case, even if she could, would she want to, knowing the Doctor was still up there? For that matter, the Doctor wasn’t always right. Maybe the world wasn’t really in such clanger.

But what was she going to say to the Brig? He’d be back in his way-hay playboy mode, likely, even without a bottle of whisky inside him.

She’d just have to play it by ear.

Her mind was still knitting itself into a ravelled mess when she became aware that the mist was fading. She could already see the cliffs, not so far ahead.

She jumped as she heard two explosions. What now, for God’s sake?

She turned to go up top. But she paused at the door before she left the safety of the covered bridge, and looked for’d again. Had the mist absolutely gone? There’d be no point in going up if she was going to join them in la-la land.

No, it was all right. The cliffs were pin-sharp... A bit near, weren’t they?

Out of the door. No smell. Up the ladder. Yes, there was the blue cloud well astern of them.

‘Full ahead, both engines. Steady as she goes...’

The t-r-r-ring t-r-r-ring of the engine-room telegraphs, repeated back from the engine room.

It took a moment to sink in, what Pete had said, and what it meant. She could feel the wind in her face as the ship speeded up. What was he up to? He was heading straight for the cliffs! He’d have to give the order soon, or they’d...

She saw his expression as he leaned over the edge of the bridge, looking ahead: a vacuous smile of pleasure, of anticipation, of...

‘No!’ she cried. ‘Stop!’

They all looked round, even the Cox’n, who was steering.

All of them on the bridge from the CO to the signalman had the same expression, an expression of glee. Small boys on a roller-coaster ride.

‘Sarah! Where’ve you been?’ cried the Brigadier. ‘We’re going to have a party! Tell you what, UNIT can buy us all a bottle of fizz. No, a case! I’ll fiddle it on my expenses.’

By now, the ship was approaching its maximum speed.

HMS
Hallaton
was on course to smash straight into the cliff; and nobody was doing anything to stop it.

The Doctor didn’t know whether to watch as Dame Hilda made the effort to turn’ as she called it. Somehow it seemed an intrusion on a moment of extreme intimacy, a sort of voyeurism. But she didn’t seem to mind one way or the other.

She’d gone into another space entirely, a depth of concentration that quite removed her from the little rocky cell where they were imprisoned.

As she continued, her chanting became more intense, more passionate, but the volume didn’t increase as it had when he was watching and listening to the whole Skang group.

Yet it seemed to be working. It took longer, as she had implied, but eventually her voice abruptly stopped and there appeared the strange shimmering that had heralded the moment of transmutation before.

But this time the process hadn’t been nearly so overwhelming to watch. All the Doctor had felt was that his mind was going slightly out of focus, and as the image of Dame Hilda started to ripple he was aware that it was all happening in his brain, rather than a few yards in front of him.

But just when he expected the change (and he was determined not to miss the moment), the mirage effect faded away.

Hilda dropped her head. She was as out of breath as if she’d just run a champion’s one hundred metres. She swayed, as if she were about to pass out, and gratefully accepted the Doctor’s help as he guided her back to her chair.

‘It’s no good,’ she said at last. ‘I couldn’t quite reach. It was just beyond my grasp - a few inches from my fingertips.’

This was a disaster! It was their only hope of escape.

She shook her head. ‘I know quite well that this old body has no substance. I know that I’m not really an old woman.

But knowing it with my mind - Hilda’s mind - just isn’t enough. It has to be experiential. And after the last few days... Do you realise that if I lost my concentration, the village and the temple would disappear? I just haven’t enough Skang energy left.’

The Doctor, who had squatted next to her, holding her hand, stood up and walked to the gap in the window they’d managed to make so far. He gazed down into the empty amphitheatre.

They weren’t going to get out.

They were going to have a view from the royal box of the last act of this comedy - and the consequence would be tragic: the wiping out of everybody on Stella Island, if not the whole human race.

This was turning out to be one of the best operations he’d been involved in since he joined UNIT, thought the Brigadier.

He hadn’t taken enough time off in the past. Whenever he went on leave there always seemed to be some family duty to be taken care of. Things were going to change in the future!

His ruminations were interrupted by a shout behind him.

Ah, Sarah! To be honest, he hadn’t even noticed that she’d disappeared. But he was glad to see her come back even if she wasn’t a Betty Grable. Pretty enough, though, and the only female on board after all!

‘Sarah! Where’ve you been?’ he cried. We’re going to have a party! Tell you what, UNIT can buy us all a bottle of fizz. No, a case! I’ll fiddle it on my expenses.’

There was a general cheer from the others on the bridge, even Bert Rogers the signalman, and the two lookouts.

But Sarah wasn’t even listening. ‘Look! Look!’ she shouted, pointing ahead. ‘We’re going to crash!’

What the devil was she talking about? He could see the seafront quite clearly now, with its row of shops and bars, but it was still a good six or seven hundred yards away.

Pete Andrews was actually laughing. Was it meant as a joke?

Evidently not. His laughter stopped and he watched open-mouthed as Sarah jumped forward and grabbed the brass handles of the engine-room telegraph, pulling them back to full astern.

This was beyond any sort of joke.

After an astonished moment, the telegraph answered. But by then Sarah had turned and launched herself at the Cox’n, who was so taken by surprise that he lost his balance and fell onto the deck.

But before she could touch the helm, Pete Andrews had leapt forward and grabbed her round the waist, lifted her bodily and swung her away from the wheel. She was frantic.

She was screaming. She was kicking and beating at Andrews with her fists.

He was still laughing.

‘God Almighty!’

What? What now? The Brigadier swung round. Bob Simkins had appeared in the doorway that led to the bowels of the ship.

The Cox’n was getting to his feet. Diving forward, Bob shouldered him out of the way, grabbed the wheel and spun it to starboard as far as it would go.

The ship had hardly slowed at all, and as it answered to the helm it listed to port, and the Cox’n, who had staggered back against Pete Andrews and his hysterical burden, fell over again.

The Commanding Officer had stopped laughing. He dropped Sarah, who was sobbing with rage and desperation, and charged across the bridge to Bob, and tried to pull him away from the wheel, watched incredulously by Bert and the lookouts.

The Brigadier found it equally incredible. The two most senior naval officers on the ship brawling like a couple of fourth-formers, for God’s sake!

He almost lost his balance as he rushed to stop them before they could do anything they’d regret. But as he was trying to pull them apart, he felt a tug at his arm, and a voice screaming in his ear, ‘No, sir! Look!’

It was the signalman, and like Sarah before, he was pointing towards the shore.

Despite himself, the Brigadier glanced round. The ship, still turning, was less than twenty yards from the black cliffs, and still slanting towards it.

Sarah and the Cox’n, just back on their feet, froze, along with everybody else. Nobody could move. They could all see it now; and there was nothing to be done.

They waited for a time out of time, an endless moment.

Except for the rumble of the engines and the wind in their ears, silence...

The
Hallaton,
still travelling at disaster speed with her helm hard astarboard, reached the top of her turning circle, and started to swing away from the cliff.

It was so near, you could have counted the eggs in the boobies’ nests.

Alex Whitbread, still in Skang form, looked out over his brothers and sisters (though the individual Skang were themselves sexless) as they took their seats, and revelled in his moment of triumph. The ongoing bliss of unity, controlled by his intention and his alone, was compounded with the deep satisfaction of his human persona at achieving his ambition.

They had overcome all the obstacles. He could feel throughout his body the rising force that told him that the optimum time was fast approaching for the descent of their parent swarm - the collective individual that was the Great Skang, at once the object of their devotion and the very core of their being. Once Alex’s position had been ratified (he laughed to himself as the dry human term sprang to mind), nothing could stop him from becoming the de facto ruler of the world.

Everybody knew the form of the ceremony; it was so much part of their evolutionary heritage that it was as instinctive as the urge of a bird to make a nest. Their survival depended on it.

The first thing to happen would be the Prime Assimilation.

This would be the sign, the trigger, that would bring down their Beloved, who would grace the Mass Assimilation of the rest of the faithful with the divine presence, absorbing the psionic energy of their vital young bodies, as a token of the richness that would be offered as soon as the Earth had become theirs.