Dr Who let the gun drop off the edge of the walkway, took Jason's hand and ran.

A horrific explosion of blood blossomed from the monarch, splattering against her bodyguards, blinding them and tarnishing the centre's sparkling gla.s.s.

The Queen fell.

The blaster hit the road with an extended clatter.

A whirling ball of fury cannoned into Jason's solar plexus and brought him down. He felt the concrete hit his back, looked up and registered the snarling face of the Doctor's companion, Ace. Her right hand was raised and poised to bring a gun b.u.t.t down on his head.

Time snapped back to normal and people began to scream.

The Doctor's skin crawled with freezing dread and his stomach felt as though it had been scooped out. This couldn't be happening to his timeline! He pushed through the horror-179 stricken onlookers at street level, stepped over a rope barrier and crested the steps to the centre. Feigning authority amidst chaos, he was able to reach the Queen's side unchallenged.

She lay in an undignified sprawl, surrounded by staff who, for all their concern, were unable to do much. The Doctor knelt beside her, cursing himself for failing to prevent this. Someone registered his presence, belatedly, and a harsh voice demanded to know who he was. 'Don't worry,' he threw over his shoulder, 'I'm a personal friend of your chief.' When in doubt, try name-dropping. 'Still Paul Condon, isn't it? Such a sweet man.' He needed to inspect the wound, so he reached down and peeled the Queen's half-melted blouse open. A strong hand gripped his collar and yanked him into the path of a hurtling fist. He reeled and steadied himself to find a half-circle of rifle barrels aimed at him.

He covered his eyes and shook his head. The security men were uncertain about him so he followed through the momentum of his spin, ducked and slipped through them before they knew what he was doing. If Dr Who and Jason had done what he thought, he was needed elsewhere.

Dr Who gripped Ace's wrist and wrenched it so that she dropped the gun. She cursed as he pulled her away from Jason, allowing the young man to regain his footing. She had had one chance and she hadn't been fast enough. If only there had been less people about; if she could have risked just shooting at him!

She struggled as Dr Who pinned her arms without effort and stared as Jason rose before her, face dark and eyes burning, infuriated by her attempt to subdue him.

It could have ended then, but for the pet.i.te form of a red-headed woman. She came hurtling along the walkway and into Jason, who staggered and almost fell again. 'Come on you lot,'

the new arrival shouted in a voice which Ace found strangely familiar, 'don't just stand there, help us!'

Encouraged by her spirited lead, a few people started forward.

One tackled Dr Who, and Ace felt his hold on her releasing. She pulled away but didn't look back. She knew that he wasn't important; the other woman seemed to realize that too. Whilst 180 the rest of the volunteers concentrated on the older man, Ace and her rescuer rounded on the true architect of their misfortunes. As Dr Who vanished beneath a tide of bodies, they rushed Jason, but glanced painfully off a yellow force sh.e.l.l; a barrier which vanished an instant later, so that most people didn't even see it.

Jason ran forward, tears in his eyes, and tried to drag the increasingly bloodthirsty vigilantes away from his friend. Ace went for him again and managed to achieve a headlock. She needed a few seconds to knock him out, but she didn't get them.

Dr Who was somehow free and beside her, with a replica of the blaster which had brought down the Queen. He was planning to kill her!

She let go of Jason and knocked the weapon from him. It discharged into the air and a circular gap appeared in the crowd as its const.i.tuents pulled away in panic. Dr Who took advantage of that distraction. As Jason spluttered and gasped for breath, he grabbed his companion's shoulders and muttered: 'We're leaving.'

Ace leapt for them, but the air rippled and then they were both gone. She collided with a bench and hit the ground, beside the red-haired woman who apparently had made the same mistake.

They locked eyes and froze, each peeling back the unkind years in the other's face and widening their eyes in happy recognition.

'Mel!' Ace cried.

'Ace!' Mel shouted, simultaneously.

Then Mel's brief joy visibly drained and turned to disgust as she took in the combat armour and gun. 'What has he done to you?'

McCracken couldn't believe his eyes.

By a mere fluke, he had been looking in the right direction, towards the walkways, when the unthinkable had happened. He had seen the a.s.sa.s.sin's face, before the panic had begun and the crowd had stolen his view. And now he could see it again.

The short man ambled with an astonishing nonchalance, past 181 the still royal convoy and up Commercial Street towards the city centre. He had found time, somehow, to change his jacket from chocolate brown to cream, perhaps a.s.suming that that would be disguise enough. McCracken hesitated, remembering the gun and its stomach-churning effects. But the killer's walk was deceptively fast: he was disappearing into the voyeuristic rabble already streaming towards the Forge. Spurred on by fear of losing him, McCracken ran.

It wasn't easy. His quarry meandered, weaving skilfully through the pedestrians in a manner which sought to frustrate pursuit. But McCracken was determined and, by the time the a.s.sa.s.sin had reached the busy Castle Square junction, he had almost caught him. He relayed his position by radio, his words coming out in a breathless staccato. Then, as the crossing light showed green, he followed the villain to the far side of the road and pounced.

McCracken patted the cream jacket down, relieved to feel no trace of the murder weapon. He must have disposed of it. He read out the statutory rights, so agitated that he stumbled several times over the new, four-paragraph warning. The short man gazed at him with unnerving intensity and made the constable feel like he was the guilty party. He didn't resist, but McCracken was taking no chances. He produced his handcuffs and manacled their wrists together, then pushed his prisoner back into the road, heart swelling as he realized the importance of this moment. He, Andrew McCracken, was bringing in the man who had killed the Queen of the Commonwealth! He could hear the wail of police sirens approaching from the crime scene.

Too late, he thought triumphantly. Even Inspector Waddell back home would have to crack a smile for this one.

Only as he waited for the third lane to clear did McCracken notice that the cuffs were hanging empty from his wrist. He cast about in panic and saw the suspect, back on the pavement and heading away. In a surge of desperation, he leapt after him, bringing cars to a screeching halt and causing a minor traffic accident. Horns blared furiously, but McCracken barely heard.

He raced onto High Street and saw the killer, some way ahead, 182 still practising that easy gait of his.

McCracken reached him at the edge of the pedestrianized shopping area. He grabbed him, spun him with more force than was necessary and slammed him against the wall, arm twisted behind his back. 'I don't know how you did that, Houdini, but this time I'm keeping a hold on you!' He glanced over his shoulder: his reinforcements were fighting their way across the junction. Any second, they would scream towards him, to find they weren't needed.

The suspect squirmed and, for a heart-stopping second, almost managed to slip from under him. McCracken increased the pressure of his grip and, only then, saw the blue wooden structure on the periphery of his vision. An old-fashioned police box. He hadn't known they still existed outside his home city. It was disused, of course, but one door was open and that gave him an idea. A blow for traditional policing! He pushed the prisoner inside and closed the handcuffs over the handles of both doors, effectively locking them. Let's see him get out of that one, he thought.

Four squad cars squealed to a halt on the paving stones and the officers of several forces leapt out, eager for action.

McCracken greeted them with a broad grin and dreamt of his inevitable commendation.

183.

20.

Royal Flush

UNIT soldiers had searched Buckingham Palace thoroughly, alert for suspect packages or devices. They had found nothing untoward, and leave had been given for the building's occupants to return. The Yeomen of the Guard took up their lonely positions once more; the kitchen staff resumed their preparation of overdue lunches; in the Palace's own police station, a uniformed sergeant pored over an empty report form and searched in vain for a way of explaining the day's events.

Their renewed tenure didn't last long.

The feeling, some said later, began with a queasy sensation in the lower stomach area. It quickly grew into a nerve-wrenching terror and an absolute conviction that the building itself was driving them out. To the considerable surprise of Captain Tavistock, pages, courtiers and the last of his own troops erupted wildly onto the forecourt and ran as if for their lives, some screaming, many clambering over railings rather than divert their course towards a proper exit.

In less than five minutes, the day's second evacuation of the Palace was complete. Tavistock, himself repulsed from the east gate, by a force he couldn't explain, knew that his problems were only starting.

On a faraway world called Detrios, cloaked figures ma.s.sed and marched in grim columns along subterranean byways. At frequent intervals, they encountered black-uniformed security patrols. The guards always averted their eyes, for fear of causing offence. Not many of them, therefore, saw what was coming.

A would-be G.o.d called Enros had begun his attack on the 184 rulers' abode. The escape of the alien Christopher had seeded doubts in his followers' minds, so Enros needed this victory to prevent their flowering. He had planned to mount such an operation soon anyway. His power on Detrios was immense, but he would not be happy until it was formalized.

Enros wanted everything. He was no longer prepared to call someone else 'Superior'.

Back on Earth, beneath the tarpaulin roof of a UNIT jeep, two former Adjudicators shared a long-antic.i.p.ated reunion.

'I'm so glad to see you!' enthused Chris.

'Turn around,' ordered Roz.

'I was worried you were dead.'

'Hold the cuffs out behind you.'

'Did you square things with the soldiers? Have you got the key?'

'I've got a a key.' She produced her blaster and shot a bolt through the chain, allowing Chris to part his wrists. 'By the way, it's good to see you too. Come on.' key.' She produced her blaster and shot a bolt through the chain, allowing Chris to part his wrists. 'By the way, it's good to see you too. Come on.'

With the satisfaction of red tape thoroughly severed, Roz slid out of the vehicle and turned to see what was keeping her partner.

He was no longer there.

'Perhaps you should move behind the lines, miss,' suggested Captain Tavistock kindly. 'Things might get a bit dangerous here.'

Bernice folded her arms and glared at him. 'Oh, playing with bombs again, are we? Why don't you skip the egotistical military chest-beating and admit that you don't know what the h.e.l.l you're dealing with?'

'When I need advice from you, young lady -'

'It'll be too late!' Benny snapped. 'And if you call me "young lady" once more, I'll boot your gonads so far up your internal tract you'll be able to taste them!' Tavistock winced. Benny, pressing her advantage, knelt down by the gate and extended a cautious arm. Her hand tingled as if she'd received a mild static shock. 'This isn't just a wall that you can throw grenades at. It's 185 a field of some kind. Chances are, if you use physical force against it, you'll make it stronger.'

'Where's the Doctor?' Tavistock asked. 'Could he penetrate it?'

'I'm sure he could,' said Benny scathingly. 'I'm only one of his bimbos, after all.'

She became aware of the whining of a jet engine and she looked upwards. The early evening sunlight glinted off a silver wing. Benny picked out the UNIT logo on the plane's underside and she groaned theatrically. 'More testosterone-charged apes!'

'Looks like the new CO's arrived,' said Tavistock.

They stood as the craft descended vertically at the near end of the Mall. The noise was deafening and, even sheltered by the Victoria Memorial, Benny felt a blast of air which swept her hair back and stung her eyes.

'Oh, honestly!' she muttered. 'How ostentatious can you be?'

The rebels' meeting had dissipated into a series of small, indecisive knots of people, spilling out of the confined but and into the desolate city. Rokk had tried shouting, hoping to drive some sense into the minds of those who were starting to accept Enros's lies. With some of them, he had been successful. But a unified fighting force this was certainly not. He was beginning to realize that an alternative plan was needed.

He swept his foot through a dust mound, watching as it billowed up into the rich black sky and drifted, obscuring the Miracle with a grey haze. Rokk was starting to resent the steadfast presence of the shining crystal, which had given the cultists' leader such an undeserved boost in his popularity. He turned away from it and cast searching eyes over the closest of his disconsolate comrades, wondering which of them he could trust.

He smiled as Myrg sidled up to him furtively. He had sent his friend on a spying mission two segments ago, although no one but themselves knew about it. Rokk was even more pleased when Myrg reported the news that he had most wanted to hear: that the cultists' attack on the Ruling Family had commenced.

'How are things going?' he whispered, drawing Myrg to one 186 side.

'The cultists are winning. The security forces are better equipped, but Enros has more people and the element of surprise. And they're fighting for keeps too. They don't care whether they die or not, just so long as they do what their "Great Lord" wants.' Myrg spoke those words with derision.

Rokk nodded thoughtfully. 'Enros won't have much protection then. He'll have sent as many people as possible out to fight. This is our best chance to get him.'

'And our last. If Enros does come to power . . .' The sentence didn't need to be completed. 'Do we have enough support?'

Rokk looked doubtful. Not for an all-out attack, no. But Sang'sta is behind us, and Harp'r and maybe Feeni. And we still have three robes from the church.'

'You're saying -'

'We send in a small commando force. We don't even tell the others in case they go all soft on the idea and try to stop us. In disguise, we have as much chance of penetrating the cultists'

lair as thirty of us with sticks and battle cries have. Once we're in there, we can prove once and for all that Enros's death won't have any effect on the rest of Detrios.'

Myrg grinned. 'I can only think of one way to do that. And it sounds good to me!'

The Merlin T-22 Vertical Take-Off and Landing aircraft was still experimental, but Brigadier Winifred Bambera had requisitioned the prototype on grounds of speed, comfort and, more importantly, making a d.a.m.n good entrance. She could almost hear bra.s.s fanfares in her head as she jumped out onto the tarmac, adjusted her beret and slapped her swagger stick into her armpit to show that she meant business.

Her personal staff fell into formation and step behind her as she marched towards Buckingham Palace, suppressing a smile at the sight of a TV crew beyond the evacuated area. Bambera enjoyed creating an impression, particularly one which was recorded for posterity. She also enjoyed looking over a sea of camouflage jackets and blue helmets, knowing that all this was hers to command. Now if only the top bra.s.s would heed her 187 complaints and remove those G.o.dd.a.m.ned wings from UNIT's polar projection logo, Brigadier Bambera would be truly happy with life!

'Who's in charge here?' she rapped as she arrived at the Palace and her entourage halted.

'I rather think I am,' replied a slender, dark-haired woman on the young side of middle age.

A pleasant-looking male officer wearing Captain's insignia pushed her aside and saluted Bambera, less precisely than she would have liked. 'Tavistock, ma'am.'

'I'd prefer "sir" actually, Captain. Who's this?'

'She's one of the Doctor's girls, sir.'

'But surprisingly,' the woman said with heavy irony, 'I have a name of my own too.' Bambera ignored her.

'Have you contacted General Lethbridge-Stewart, sir?'

'It's Bernice, if you're interested.'

Bambera almost spat with anger. 'Lethbridge-Stewart's semi-retired, Captain! Why does everybody expect me to keep running to him?'

'Bernice Summerfield.'

'I've met the Doctor before, I can handle the squirt myself.'

'Yes, nice to meet you too.'

'What's the situation?'

Tavistock moved aside, allowing Bambera to approach the Palace more closely. The air around it shimmered like. a heat haze and she blinked, not sure whether to believe her own eyes.

'It appeared without warning, sir,' Tavistock said. 'It compelled everybody inside the grounds to leave, and no one has been able to return.'

'It's a physical barrier then?'

Tavistock shook his head. 'It's just a feeling you get when you try to pa.s.s through it.'

'Like the Ganymede Rhinoceros Stunt Olympic Team has decided to use your diaphragm as part of a novelty trampolining act,' Bernice Summerfield volunteered.

'How very poetic,' Bambera muttered. 'Don't mind if I try it myself, do you?' Without waiting for an answer, she lowered 188 her head, stuck her lip out in determination and barged forward.