Chapter 12: Lines
Amongst the ocean of green and brown, a single shot of black fired across a country lane. It was moving well above the speed limit, but it was handled with the expert precision of a surgeon and the delicacy of a delicatessen.
It was a perfectly carved Aston Martin DB7, roaring its way through the country with a 5.9L V12 engine, the needle on the speedometer tapping the 70.
It had faced a few specks of traffic in the opposite direction on the motorway, but it had managed to break free of the hordes as soon as it made its way onto the rutted lanes.
Inside sat its very proud owner, one Sir Fisher. He sat back in a single exact movement, so his tailored suit remained crease-free.
'Is it much longer?' he asked Alistair, who was sat in the driver's seat. 'Only, I'd like to make a call in a minute.'
'Just a few more minutes, sir.' Alistair replied gruffly. 'I don't want to push the car too fast, see. One slip and it's all over, isn't it?'
'Then don't slip.' Sir Fisher muttered dourly. He glanced through the windshield, examining the incoming target. A solid block of brown, a shape he'd come to find very familiar over the years – the Centre.
Around three hundred metres away from the Centre, the car swerved to the right suddenly, taking a turn down an almost hidden junction. The brakes squealed into action as the car slammed to a halt, propelling its dual passengers forward a few inches.
'Are we there yet?' Sir Fisher asked, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
'Yes, sir.'
Alistair pressed down the handbrake, before retrieving the keys from the slot. He stepped out of the car, using the fob to lock the doors behind him.
As he slammed the door shut, Sir Fisher producing a mobile phone from his pocket, bulky and ungainly. He stabbed in a string of numbers, before raising it to his ear. The dial-tone rang in the air, then crackled into life:
'Is it time?' asked the voice at the other end cautiously. 'Are we go?'
'Yes. Go.' Sir Fisher answered, checking his watch. 1.03. Still plenty of time before the deadline. 'We're in position.'
'Alright. I'll spread the word.'
'And be careful! You know how much this is worth, and you know what's coming to you if you fail. Now get on with it.'
The phone went dead. Sir Fisher muttered something under his breath, tucking the phone back into his pocket.
'Alright, then.' he said to Alistair. 'Time for our part, it would seem. Get the kit out of the car.'
Alistair nodded silently, walking towards the boot of the car. Inserting the key, he turned the lock and it clicked open.
Mel dropped herself against a wall, taking a series of panting breaths. Insistently, she willed herself to take quieter breaths, make as little noise as possible. They may be safe for the time being, but the guards could still be right around the next corner.
The group was waiting for Lois to plot the route outside the Centre and away into the distance. As it were, that was easier said than done.
'Okay, if we carry on past the west corridor,' she thought aloud 'then we can slip out through the fire exit.'
'Won't it set the alarm off?'
'Probably. Frankly, I don't care. If the fire brigade come, they could at least bring the police with them.' Lois replied, scoffing at the thought.
Eric mopped his brow, the torturous combination of stress and exercise clearly taking his toll.
'And then what?' he asked Lois, crumpling the handkerchief into a rough ball.
'Beg your pardon?'
'I mean, what happens after we get out of here, out of the county, even? Where do we go, what do we do?'
'Well, I've arranged for an escort.' Lois offered, crossing her arms.
'Hardly time for a date, is it?' the guard murmured under his breath.
'But what good is it going to do us, Lois?' Eric asked, shaking his hands in the air. 'They will never forget today. From now on in, we're staring down the barrel of a gun.'
'Sir-'
'No!' Eric protested, his voice reaching a shout. 'There's only so far we can run! Sooner or later, probably sooner, we're going to be overrun. And no amount of good press or police escorts are going to get us back.'
'But surely they'll see you as the victim?' Mel asked. 'I mean, you are the one who was bombed, after all!'
'Does history see the Greeks or the Trojans as the heroes? In times like this, Miss Bush, the heroes are those that act, no matter how vulgar or inapposite. The suffragettes, the revolutionaries, all of them. As long as they act under a flag of future, then they will always be pardoned. They will always be the heroes.'
'I see...' Mel responded quietly, not wanting to press the subject any further. 'Shall we start again?'
Lois nodded to her, before standing up straight and taking a deep breath.
'Let's move.'
And with that, the group started to move down the corridor, creeping away from the frying pan and towards the fire.
The regular electronic beat passed through the air, like a cybernetic metronome. Sir Fisher and Alistair watched it, the former resting his face in his hands, the latter staring at it intently.
'I think it's nearly done.' Alistair said, as he strode over towards the machine. 'It said five minutes.'
The beat paused on a fermata for a few seconds, before stopping. Finally, a trio of high-pitched beeps sliced at the air, and the machine fell silent.
'Alright, let's look at the readings.' Sir Fisher ordered, peering at the large monitor attached to the device. A complex diagram of green lines filled the screen, before it tilted onto its side and formed a cube, composed of meshes of more green lines.
'Is that the Centre?' Alistair asked, perplexed by the result.
'A 3D image of it, yes. Can you see those red dots all around it? They're life-signs – well, bundles of heat. It can lock onto the average temperature of a human being. Very neat bit of tech. Now, all the guards we have posted in there have got chips on them. If we key that into the scanner…' Sir Fisher explained, tapping a few buttons on the machine's side 'then we can work out where the others are.'
Most of the red dots glowed blue for a second, before vanishing from the screen. A cluster of green dots remained in one corner.
'There we are.' Sir Fisher finished. 'Just send that information to the others, and we can start.'
He raised the phone to his ear, then dialled the number:
'Okay, they're in the north-west corner, ground floor. Good luck.'
Lois ran up to the window, pressing her face against it. Quickly and eagerly, she scanned up and down the countryside.
'The coast seems clear.' she said, turning back to the others.
They were stood in the kitchen of the Centre, which mostly went unused, in all honesty. Every now and then, they'd have a guest over and want to put on a show, but most of the time, the kitchen was a ghost town.
Fortunately, it was located in the north-west corner of the building, away from Eric's office and, more importantly, the attention it was carrying.
Through the window, she could see the village of Dibton, a scant few perfect collections of brick and glass in a valley. It had sat in this place for 500 years, and would do so for centuries to come.
Mel had managed to locate the kettle, and had set about brewing half a dozen cups of tea. Various quantities of milk and sugar were deposited, then handed out. Personally, she had never been that big a fan of tea, not since the incident in Tabby and Tilda's flat, but she had just about convinced herself that she wouldn't be eaten by OAP lesbian cannibals…again.
'Any sign of the escort?' she asked Lois, handing her a cup of tea.
'Don't think so, no.' she took a swig from the mug, before recoiling – far too much sugar. 'Then again, the traffic'll be hell getting here, all the tourists escaping. Have you got a car we can use?'
'Sorry, I got the train.' Mel replied. Using the reflection in the glass pane, she cast a hasty glance at Eric, who was sat in the corner quietly. 'Is he alright?'
'He's, er…not good with pressure.' Lois answered nonchalantly, not taking her view off of the window. 'Should've seen him at the Paris treaty last month. Effing and jeffing all the way home.'
'I don't want to seem presumptive, but is he the best person for the job, then?'
Lois let out a small laugh. She's answered this question a million times before.
'That would depend. Are you likely to tell anyone?'
'No-one.'
'Good. Then no. He's way above his head, if you ask me. What he really needs is a letter of resignation, give him a bit of peace.'
'Would you take over?'
'Not in a month of Sundays. Jobs like this, I've seen what they do to people. They fritter away their lives to get it, then it decays whatever years they have left. You've got to be careful what you wish for.'
There was a flash in Mel's mind. Like a circuit being completed, a pipe being cleared, it all suddenly seemed clear. Quickly, she replayed the last few minutes in her head, trying to find the exact train of thought.
'Wish…' she muttered, her eyebrow cocked with confusion. 'Wish!'
'Hm?' asked Lois, drinking from the mug. 'What was that?'
'What the Doctor said to us before, through the…the thing! Don't make any wishes!'
'Well, he was being metaphorical, wasn't he?'
'I thought that too, but what if it was literal? You heard what he said – they're nigh-on omnipotent. What if they could grant wishes?'
'Like a sort of…extra-terrestrial genie?'
'Something like that, yes! It might explain all the differences…'
'What differences?'
'That's what got the Doctor's attention, you see. He said that there were differences, changes to the timeline. That's why he sent me to investigate here. What if the changes were caused by wishes?'
'Sent here to investigate us?' Lois asked, tilting her head slightly.
'Oh.' Mel said bluntly, realising her mistake. 'I can explain later-'
'No need.' sighed Lois. 'To be frank, that's the least of my worries. One more double agent; that's all we needed.'
In the surrounding area, an order was given. A single, monosyllabic utterance, spread across the countryside like butter across bread: Go.
Around a hundred people stormed into action, running into their positions and awaiting further orders. They were all ready to strike, spring into action. It had been planned, researched, discussed, confirmed, informed, rehearsed and finalised dozens of times over the months, until every single cog knew its part in the machine, and every single cog knew exactly when to tick and exactly when to turn.
On the perimeter of the battlefield, Sir Fisher was waiting, prepared to deliver the next round of orders to his lieutenant. He was rather too old to be taking part in the main event, so he was satisfied to remain on the side lines and supervise the event. However, he was a stalwart supporter nonetheless.
'Arm.' he said into the mobile phone, maintain his gaze on the Centre. The word was understood all around, as a hundred safeties clicked off and a hundred volunteers braced themselves for the imminent combat ahead.
Gently, Sir Fisher took a deep breath, preparing himself for the moment before him. The gears of history were grinding into place. He raised the phone once more:
'Fire.'
'What's that?' Mel asked, lowering her now empty cup onto the windowsill. Lois glanced at her:
'What's what?'
'That sound…'
Lois listened for a second, before shaking her head.
'I can't hear anything.'
'In the distance,' Mel explained 'just barely audible.'
Eric arose, his head slanted to one side.
'I can hear it.' he agreed, peering curiously at Mel. 'A kind of…rattling, isn't it?'
'Could it be an earthquake?'
'In England?!'
'It's one of those days…' Mel explained with a snigger. As she glanced back at the window, her eyes grew wide with fear. 'Oh no…'
'What is it?' Eric asked, joining her. He saw it as well.
In the distance, atop the nearest lip of the valley was a hazy black line, blurred by the distance. However, as it got closer, it was soon clear what it was.
A row of black-clad figures, charging towards the Centre.
'What are they?' Lois asked, using her hands to improve her sight of them. 'Soldiers, police, what?!'
'Whatever they are…' Mel said resignedly 'I don't think they're good news.'
The black line got closer and closer, until each figure was clearly defined on its own. Mel was able to make out a weapon in each of their hands, aimed directly at the kitchen.
They stopped a few metres away from the Centre, the weapons raised so the sights matched up perfectly to the eyes. Each of the figures wasn't in commando gear, or even riot uniform. It was hoodies, shirts, jeans, anything black they could get their hands on. It wouldn't do them the slightest bit of good in battle, but it'd give them a uniform to defend.
'Do they want us?' Mel asked, slowly backing away from the window. 'Or are we just in the way?'
'Possibly both…' Eric responded, as the group formed a knot in the centre of the kitchen. 'Possibly neither.'
'Very helpful, sir.'
'Thank you.'
The nearest figure released their weapon. As it dangled on a length of rope around their torso like a messenger bag, they grabbed something from their pocket. Mel only released what it was when it was too late.
'Get down!' she cried, dropping to the ground of the kitchen. A black orb sailed through the air, smashing through the kitchen window and dropping to the ground with a clatter.
A grenade.
