Read Online Doctor Who: Remembrance of the Daleks by Ben Aaronovitch, Nicholas Briggs, Terry Molloy - Free Book Online
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nitroglycerine. With chemicals taken from the chemistry lab she synthesized her own, graduating to making nitrocellulose and then industrial grade gelignite.
One evening she hit upon nitro-nine, a forced recombination of the nitrate solution with a minimal organic stabilizer made up from shredded cornflake packets. Nitro-nine had awesome destructive powers – it was also very unstable.
But then. Ace figured, so was life.
Mike leaned on the steering wheel and stared gloomily after the Doctor. ‘I wonder what he’s up to?’
Rachel was trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position for her legs under the dashboard and wondering why she as chief scientific adviser rated only a Ford Prefect. ‘Who knows?’ she said flippantly. ‘He has alien motives.’
Mike turned to her. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, I don’t think he’s human.’
Mike’s expression grew concerned. ‘And Ace?’
‘Oh, she’s not an alien,’ Rachel said slyly. ‘You’re all right there.’
The young man looked relieved. ‘Good,’ he said, quickly adding: ‘I wouldn’t want her to be foreign, would I?’
Rachel suppressed a laugh.
‘Here comes the Doctor,’ said Allison. ‘Looks like he’s carrying something.’
‘Looks like a toolcase,’ said Mike.
More magic, thought Rachel.
7
Saturday, 12:13
Ratcliffe started when a section of the wall slid noiselessly up into the ceiling to reveal a large flat screen. It took him a few moments to resolve the sharp grey lines and red blobs into a recognizable picture. It was like one of those hideous abstracts that decadent people thought of as art.
Except, he realized, it was an aerial view of the immediate area. A green symbol flashed near the centre on what Ratcliffe was sure was Coal Hill School. Angular letters in orange crawled across the screen.
‘The enemy is about to start moving,’ came the gritty tones of the voice.
‘You think Group Captain Gilmore suspects us?’ asked Ratcliffe. ‘Alerting the military now could cause problems.’
‘Not the paltry military forces of your world – the real enemy: the imperial Dalek faction, Ven-Katri Davrett, may their shells be blighted. Soon it will be war.’ The voice held a note of grim satisfaction. ‘Are you ready for war, Mr Ratcliffe?’ It was almost an accusation.
‘Yes,’ said Ratcliffe. ‘This country fought for the wrong cause in the last war. When I spoke out they had me imprisoned.’
‘You will be on the right side in this war.’
A soldier opened the door of the Mercedes and snapped a salute; Gilmore clambered out and returned it. He had managed a catnap during the short journey from Whitehall to Hendon – it was the only sleep he had been able to grab in the night and morning spent arguing with his superiors.
In the end the Army, sensing a possible embarrassment for the Royal Air Force, had agreed.
He had been left for three hours in a musty Ministry of’
Defence anteroom as they deliberated. Dead generals in dark oil paintings stared down at him while he waited. The Air Marshal emerged from the conference room in a billow of cigar smoke. ‘It’s your show now,’ he had said, passing Gilmore a thick sheaf of notes – the Rules of Engagement.
Gilmore was met by his batman at the entrance to Maybury Hall. ‘Coffee,’ he told the man, ‘black, three sugars, in two minutes in my room.’ The man nodded and scuttled off.
Gilmore strode up the corridor and opened the door to the duty room. Staff came to rapid attention in their seats.
Sergeant Embery snapped to his feet. ‘Evacuation plans,’
Gilmore passed him the thick document, ‘implementation immediate.’
The aroma of coffee filled his room. On the spare cot-bed, his batman had laid out fresh battle fatigues. The walnut handle of his service revolver protruded from the holster placed neatly on the folded squares of khaki cloth.
Gilmore washed in a white enamel basin with cold water from a matching jug. Cold brought a
One evening she hit upon nitro-nine, a forced recombination of the nitrate solution with a minimal organic stabilizer made up from shredded cornflake packets. Nitro-nine had awesome destructive powers – it was also very unstable.
But then. Ace figured, so was life.
Mike leaned on the steering wheel and stared gloomily after the Doctor. ‘I wonder what he’s up to?’
Rachel was trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position for her legs under the dashboard and wondering why she as chief scientific adviser rated only a Ford Prefect. ‘Who knows?’ she said flippantly. ‘He has alien motives.’
Mike turned to her. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, I don’t think he’s human.’
Mike’s expression grew concerned. ‘And Ace?’
‘Oh, she’s not an alien,’ Rachel said slyly. ‘You’re all right there.’
The young man looked relieved. ‘Good,’ he said, quickly adding: ‘I wouldn’t want her to be foreign, would I?’
Rachel suppressed a laugh.
‘Here comes the Doctor,’ said Allison. ‘Looks like he’s carrying something.’
‘Looks like a toolcase,’ said Mike.
More magic, thought Rachel.
7
Saturday, 12:13
Ratcliffe started when a section of the wall slid noiselessly up into the ceiling to reveal a large flat screen. It took him a few moments to resolve the sharp grey lines and red blobs into a recognizable picture. It was like one of those hideous abstracts that decadent people thought of as art.
Except, he realized, it was an aerial view of the immediate area. A green symbol flashed near the centre on what Ratcliffe was sure was Coal Hill School. Angular letters in orange crawled across the screen.
‘The enemy is about to start moving,’ came the gritty tones of the voice.
‘You think Group Captain Gilmore suspects us?’ asked Ratcliffe. ‘Alerting the military now could cause problems.’
‘Not the paltry military forces of your world – the real enemy: the imperial Dalek faction, Ven-Katri Davrett, may their shells be blighted. Soon it will be war.’ The voice held a note of grim satisfaction. ‘Are you ready for war, Mr Ratcliffe?’ It was almost an accusation.
‘Yes,’ said Ratcliffe. ‘This country fought for the wrong cause in the last war. When I spoke out they had me imprisoned.’
‘You will be on the right side in this war.’
A soldier opened the door of the Mercedes and snapped a salute; Gilmore clambered out and returned it. He had managed a catnap during the short journey from Whitehall to Hendon – it was the only sleep he had been able to grab in the night and morning spent arguing with his superiors.
In the end the Army, sensing a possible embarrassment for the Royal Air Force, had agreed.
He had been left for three hours in a musty Ministry of’
Defence anteroom as they deliberated. Dead generals in dark oil paintings stared down at him while he waited. The Air Marshal emerged from the conference room in a billow of cigar smoke. ‘It’s your show now,’ he had said, passing Gilmore a thick sheaf of notes – the Rules of Engagement.
Gilmore was met by his batman at the entrance to Maybury Hall. ‘Coffee,’ he told the man, ‘black, three sugars, in two minutes in my room.’ The man nodded and scuttled off.
Gilmore strode up the corridor and opened the door to the duty room. Staff came to rapid attention in their seats.
Sergeant Embery snapped to his feet. ‘Evacuation plans,’
Gilmore passed him the thick document, ‘implementation immediate.’
The aroma of coffee filled his room. On the spare cot-bed, his batman had laid out fresh battle fatigues. The walnut handle of his service revolver protruded from the holster placed neatly on the folded squares of khaki cloth.
Gilmore washed in a white enamel basin with cold water from a matching jug. Cold brought a
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