Doctor Who: Transit Read Online Free Page A
thousand every second.
Let them walk, thought Ming.
Acturus Terminal (Stunnel Terminus)
Verhoevan was inventing new words to describe the PR executives who had started to swarm in the terminus. One of them was trying to persuade Verhoevan into a pair of white coveralls.
'Why?'
'Because,' said one man, 'it looks more scientific.'
Verhoevan noticed that the coverall had the 'Event Horizon' logo picked out in navy blue on the back. Event Horizon was the President's own public-relations firm. 'More scientific?'
'For the media,' said the man, waving vaguely down the station where the media ENG's buzzed through the air, jostling with the security monitors for the best viewing angles. 'After all, you are going to be on the podium with the President.'
'What podium?'
'The Presidential Podium, a bit of an honour for you really.'
Verhoevan realized that halfway down the station a podium was being assembled out of prefab teak blocks. 'You realize, of course,' said Verhoevan, 'that your podium is situated directly in line with the Stunnel gateway.'
'Is that a problem?'
Only if the train overshoots, thought Verhoevan.
'I'd hate to have to tell the President,' the man put some bite into his voice, 'that there was a problem.'
Verhoevan sighed and accepted the coverall. The PR executive gave him a halogen smile. 'I think you will find that it fits.'
After the man had gone Verhoevan turned to find his entire staff staring at him. 'I don't know what you're looking at,' he said, brandishing the coverall at them, 'you're all going to get one too.'
STS Central - Olympus Mons
By 10:15 GMT the second shift of controllers had taken over in the pit. These ones squinted blearily at their screens and tended to react badly to loud noises. Up in the duty office, Ming, who'd been awake for thirty-six hours, chewing zap for the last eight, was trying to stay awake by calculating her overtime. They were getting media and security feeds from Acturus Terminal. The media were still getting the best viewing angles, especially the Bad News Show. On the repeater screen the Sydney-Kyoto commuter line went dark. Ming touched her pin mike. 'What happened to TransCancer Three?' The zap side effects made her own voice echo uncomfortably inside her head.
'Sorry, Boss,' said the sector manager, 'wrong switch. Do you want us to put it back up?'
'Just one in three,' said Ming, who didn't like the Japanese, or Australians for that matter, and wasn't going to do them any favours. She started to search through the pile of empty Kwik-Kurry cartons on her desk, somewhere underneath was another packet of zap. Or had she swallowed them already?
'Big increase in VIP shuttle activity,' said a voice.
'Destinations?'
'Acturus Terminal.'
'That's the security detachments moving in,' said Ming. 'Where's Murphy One?' Murphy One was the President's private train.
'Still at Reykjavik.'
Ming glanced at her terminal, available power reserves were now 53 per cent, customer complaints were topping a billion.
Three and a half hours to go.
Beijing
Kadiatu woke up alone in Pei Hai Park. She lay still for a long moment, sprawled out on the yellow summer grass and watched the little mobile clouds watering the flowers. She closed her eyes and stretched, letting the grass prickle along her legs. When she sat up she wondered where her hangover had gone. The sun was rising, a pale gold light that turned the ancient city walls a dusty orange. The White Pagoda cast a shadow through the mist rising from the lake. Apart from herself the park was deserted. Kadiatu stared at the lake for a moment and thought, why not? She'd pulled the T-shirt off over her head when she realised it wasn't hers. It was made from white German cotton and when she touched it to her face it smelt of blond hair and rose petals. Dropping the shirt on top of her jacket she ran down to the lakeside.
There'd been eight of them, riding a flat-top with some crazy idea about chasing midnight around the
Let them walk, thought Ming.
Acturus Terminal (Stunnel Terminus)
Verhoevan was inventing new words to describe the PR executives who had started to swarm in the terminus. One of them was trying to persuade Verhoevan into a pair of white coveralls.
'Why?'
'Because,' said one man, 'it looks more scientific.'
Verhoevan noticed that the coverall had the 'Event Horizon' logo picked out in navy blue on the back. Event Horizon was the President's own public-relations firm. 'More scientific?'
'For the media,' said the man, waving vaguely down the station where the media ENG's buzzed through the air, jostling with the security monitors for the best viewing angles. 'After all, you are going to be on the podium with the President.'
'What podium?'
'The Presidential Podium, a bit of an honour for you really.'
Verhoevan realized that halfway down the station a podium was being assembled out of prefab teak blocks. 'You realize, of course,' said Verhoevan, 'that your podium is situated directly in line with the Stunnel gateway.'
'Is that a problem?'
Only if the train overshoots, thought Verhoevan.
'I'd hate to have to tell the President,' the man put some bite into his voice, 'that there was a problem.'
Verhoevan sighed and accepted the coverall. The PR executive gave him a halogen smile. 'I think you will find that it fits.'
After the man had gone Verhoevan turned to find his entire staff staring at him. 'I don't know what you're looking at,' he said, brandishing the coverall at them, 'you're all going to get one too.'
STS Central - Olympus Mons
By 10:15 GMT the second shift of controllers had taken over in the pit. These ones squinted blearily at their screens and tended to react badly to loud noises. Up in the duty office, Ming, who'd been awake for thirty-six hours, chewing zap for the last eight, was trying to stay awake by calculating her overtime. They were getting media and security feeds from Acturus Terminal. The media were still getting the best viewing angles, especially the Bad News Show. On the repeater screen the Sydney-Kyoto commuter line went dark. Ming touched her pin mike. 'What happened to TransCancer Three?' The zap side effects made her own voice echo uncomfortably inside her head.
'Sorry, Boss,' said the sector manager, 'wrong switch. Do you want us to put it back up?'
'Just one in three,' said Ming, who didn't like the Japanese, or Australians for that matter, and wasn't going to do them any favours. She started to search through the pile of empty Kwik-Kurry cartons on her desk, somewhere underneath was another packet of zap. Or had she swallowed them already?
'Big increase in VIP shuttle activity,' said a voice.
'Destinations?'
'Acturus Terminal.'
'That's the security detachments moving in,' said Ming. 'Where's Murphy One?' Murphy One was the President's private train.
'Still at Reykjavik.'
Ming glanced at her terminal, available power reserves were now 53 per cent, customer complaints were topping a billion.
Three and a half hours to go.
Beijing
Kadiatu woke up alone in Pei Hai Park. She lay still for a long moment, sprawled out on the yellow summer grass and watched the little mobile clouds watering the flowers. She closed her eyes and stretched, letting the grass prickle along her legs. When she sat up she wondered where her hangover had gone. The sun was rising, a pale gold light that turned the ancient city walls a dusty orange. The White Pagoda cast a shadow through the mist rising from the lake. Apart from herself the park was deserted. Kadiatu stared at the lake for a moment and thought, why not? She'd pulled the T-shirt off over her head when she realised it wasn't hers. It was made from white German cotton and when she touched it to her face it smelt of blond hair and rose petals. Dropping the shirt on top of her jacket she ran down to the lakeside.
There'd been eight of them, riding a flat-top with some crazy idea about chasing midnight around the
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