02 - Timewyrm- Exodus_玖贝云文库

TIMEWYRM: EXODUS by Terrance Dicks.

CONTENTS

Prologue

PART ONE: 1951 Occupation

1. Timewarp

2. Death by the River

3. Captives

4. The Inspector General

5. The VIP

6. Investigations

7. Resistance

8. Trapped

9. The Raid

10. Vanishing Trick

PART TWO: 1923 Putsch

1. Interlude

2. Revolution

PART THREE: 1939 War

1. Rally

2. Reunion

3. The Possessed

4. Hitler's Guests

5. Day of Reckoning

6. Timewyrm

7. Gestapo

8. The Black Coven

9. Drachensberg

10. Arrival

11. Conquest

12. Ceremony

13. War Games

14. Corpse Discipline

15. Last Chance

PART FOUR: 1940 Crisis

1. Exodus of Evil

2. Bitter Victory

Epilogue

Coda

PROLOGUE: 25000 B.C.

She whirled through the space-time vortex in a cyclone of frustration and

hatred, her ego seared by the burning pain of failure. For all her parting

boasts she had been defeated, forced to retreat. It was outrageous,

unbelievable. Was she not a goddess - and more than a goddess?

Rationalization came swiftly. She had not retreated, she had withdrawn by

choice, fallen back to plan a terrible revenge. She examined the newness of her

mind, that part of her which had once been, and in a sense still was, her enemy.

She considered his strengths, his weak points. She would attack him by striking

at the world he loved. She would destroy this planet - better still, she would

ensure that it destroyed itself.

There was death and destruction enough in the age in which she had come into

being. But bows and spears and swords killed far too slowly, left the planet

itself unharmed. More devastating weapons were called for - and mankind would

surely develop them.

Free now to move through space and time she began scanning the planet's future

probabilities...

She saw warrior hordes sweeping across the plains; severed heads piled high in

barbarian encampments. She saw men-at-arms falling beneath a storm of arrows,

regiments mown down by a deadly hail of musketfire. But still the slaughter was

too slow...

She sped forwards through time and saw weary men stumbling across war-torn

terrain, caught in bloody tangles of barbed wire, dying under the withering fire

of machine guns. Death came with satisfactory swiftness now, but the threat to

the planet was still missing. But soon, very soon...

She chose a time of ferment and change when the powers of destruction she sought

were still newly discovered.

She chose a country, defeated, humiliated, yet with an awesome potential for

strength and unity and power.

She chose one man, bitter, neurotic, a failure in all he had attempted but with

forces of hatred and resentment inside him that matched her own. One single atom

in all the seething masses of humanity. How amusing to use that atom to destroy

the planet! It was easy to enter his mind, slipping between the synapses of the

brain like layers of micro-circuitry slotting between the valves of a primitive

wireless. It was easy to enter, but once inside...

As she explored the mind's potential, she found that although primitive it was

unbelievably powerful. She felt her energy levels being dammed, her circuits

inhibited, her powers fragmented. In sudden panic she tried to wrench free and

found herself held fast.

She was trapped in the mind of a madman.

PART ONE 1951 OCCUPATION

A fitting culmination to the swift succession of glorious victories that

became known as the Blitzkrieg was the successful execution of Operation

Sealion. With almost supernatural good timing, the forces of the Reich

took full advantage of the period of calm which followed the freak storms

that had decimated the British Navy.

General Strauss's 19th army landed in force on the south coast,

establishing a beach-head between Folkestone and Worthing. Thanks to the

previous defeat of the British Air Force by the invincible Luftwaffe, air

supremacy was maintained at all times. Despite the boastings of the arch-

criminal Churchill, later executed for war crimes, British resistance was

minimal and the operation was completed in six days...

The Thousand Year Reich - The Glorious Beginning by Joseph Goebbels.

Published New Berlin, 1947.

1: TIMEWARP

Beside a broad and sluggish river, a group of concrete pavilions huddled

together under a fine drizzling rain. A tall, slender tower soared gracefully

into the mists towards a grey and cloudy sky. A soggy flag hung limply from the

flagstaff at the top. At the edge of the site, in a still unfinished area, a

blue police box materialized amidst a clutter of building materials. A flimsy

stake-fence cordoned off a section of river bank, littered with stacks of

timber, concrete breeze blocks and general builders" litter, beyond which a

concrete embankment sloped steeply down to the river.

A smallish dark-haired man popped out of the police box. He wore shabby brown

checked trousers, a brown sports jacket with a garish fair-isle pullover

beneath, and a jaunty straw hat. He clutched a red-handled umbrella and peered

around him with keen grey eyes.

A brown-haired, round-faced girl in a badge-covered bomber jacket followed him

from the police box, closing the door behind her. She too looked around, though

with considerably less enthusiasm.

"I don't suppose you know where we are, Professor - or when?"

The little man, who was more usually known as the Doctor, gave her a reproachful

glance. "As it happens, I do, Ace. We've arrived in London. The Festival of

Britain, 1951!"

"How can you be so sure?"

He pointed with his umbrella. "I recognized the Skylon at once. So magnificently

frivolous! So un-British! A tower with no other purpose than to be a tower! A

symbol to mark the end of post-war austerity, and the hope of future

prosperity."

"You what?"

"England's just recovering from the battering she had in the war."

"We won, didn't we? Our finest hour and all that? People never stop going on

about it."

"You won, but only just. The whole country was exhausted. Now they're getting

over it, so they've decided to kick up their heels a bit and have a Festival."

The girl called Ace surveyed the wide expanse of rain lashed concrete. "Some

Festival!"

"Remember you're British, Ace. You're supposed to like taking your pleasures

sadly."

Ace sniffed and a raindrop ran down her nose. She studied the slender tower and

saw a sudden gust of wind unfurl the flag. "Professor?"

"What?"

"If this is England and we won the war, why's there a swastika flag on that

tower?"

The Doctor looked. There it was, the black crooked cross in the white circle

against a blood-red background.

"There was one just like it in Commander Millington's office in the Naval Base,"

Ace said helpfully. "You remember, he'd turned the place into a replica of the

cipher room in Berlin..."

"Yes, yes," said the Doctor impatiently. He glared at the flag. "Let's take a

look around."

"Hang on, Professor!"

"What?"

"Is she here, then?"

"Who?"

"Ishtar, the Timewyrm, whatever she calls herself."

The Doctor took a small device from his pocket. It was completely inert, no

sound, no flashing lights. He shook it, tapped it, and then put it away.

"Apparently not."

"We're supposed to be chasing her."

"Well, maybe we overshot, or undershot, or something. It's easily done, nobody's

perfect."

They walked along the muddy riverside path, looking for a way on to the Festival

site. Eventually they reached a place where a section of the fence had been

trodden down to provide a makeshift entrance. Probably kids, thought Ace. They'd

sooner play on the building site than visit the Festival. Come to think of it,

so would I.

The Doctor led her through the gap, out of the building-site area and into one

of the pavilions. It held a photo exhibition, a series of events pinned down in

black and white photographs. The photographs were on stands which wound round

the pavilion in a trail that was obviously meant to be followed. But there was

no one to follow it - the pavilion was empty.

Ace looked casually at the first picture. It showed a group of men in grey and

black uniforms on a stand outside Buckingham Palace. They were grouped around a

slender fair-haired man and a small dark woman with a high forehead and tightly

drawn-back hair. The woman wore an enormous jewelled crown.

The caption read:

RESTORED TO HIS RIGHTFUL THRONE, HIS MAJESTY KING EDWARD THE EIGHTH,

ACCOMPANIED

BY HER ROYAL HIGHNESS QUEEN WALLIS, SIGNS THE TREATY OF ACCORD,

FORMALLY

ESTABLISHING GREAT BRITAIN AS A PROTECTORATE OF THE GERMAN EMPIRE.

The Doctor's face was grave. "This is all wrong, Ace. There's been temporal

interference on a massive scale."

"The Timewyrm?"

The Doctor scowled at the photograph. "I never trusted those Windsors!"

Ace peered at the photographs with mild interest, faint memories stirring of

some magazine re-hash of scandals of the past. "Isn't that the Duke of Windsor?

Gave up his throne because they wouldn't let him marry some American bird? "The

King who Gave All for Love!" "

"He was a vain and silly man," said the Doctor crossly. "And he was a German

sympathizer from his early youth. Gave poor old Winston no end of trouble".

Ace shrugged. "So now he's got his throne back. Does it matter? Who cares who's

King?"

"A king is a very important symbol - and what matters is what he symbolizes."

The Doctor followed the photo trail, staring hard at every picture, every

caption. A photograph of a tall black-shirted man with a thin moustache was

captioned:

PRIME MINISTER MOSLEY ADDRESSES OCCUPIED BRITAIN'S FIRST NATIONAL

SOCIALIST

PARLIAMENT.

There were lots more pictures, meetings, ceremonies, public occasions. Mosley

was prominent in all of them.

"This bloke Mosley's doing well," said Ace.

"Sir Oswald Mosley," said the Doctor over his shoulder. "Founder of the British

Union of Fascists. They interned him when the war started, let him go when it

was over. After that he just sort of fizzled out."

"Not here he didn't. He seems to be top of the heap."

The Doctor was looking at a big photo of a miserable-looking gang of men digging

an enormous trench.

MEMBERS OF THE BRITISH LABOUR VOLUNTARY FORCE AT WORK ON THE NEW

COASTAL

FORTIFICATIONS IN CALAIS.

Ace got bored, and went and stood by the door of the pavilion, looking out.

Everything seemed normal enough. The Festival wasn't drawing much of a crowd,

but that was hardly surprising considering the filthy weather. Here and there

umbrella-carrying visitors, women and children mostly, scurried from one

pavilion to another.

The Doctor finished his tour and came over and stood beside her, staring grimly

at the swastika on the Skylon. "It's all wrong," he muttered.

"Maybe it's a joke," said Ace, attempting to cheer him up. "Medical students or

something. You know, like chamber pots on church spires."

The Doctor jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "And all this?"

"Another joke?" suggested Ace, without much hope. "You know, "If Hitler had

Won". People write books. . . "

The Doctor shook his head. "Nice try, Ace. But it's all too horribly real, I'm

afraid."

"But it can't be! The Nazis lost World War Two. We had something to do with it

ourselves, remember? Is it the Timewyrm?"

"Possibly. But it doesn't feel like her style."

"Who then?"

The Doctor stared broodingly into time. "Well, there was that meddling Monk of

course. And there were others . . .

Ace looked around the Festival. Things were a bit more cheerful now. It had

stopped raining, and a fitful sunshine struggled through the clouds. "I'm

hungry."

"How can you think of food with a major temporal crisis on our hands?"

"There's a stall over there," said Ace. "How about a cuppa and a bun?"

Picking her way between the puddles, she led the way across the wet concrete to

the coffee stall. Behind the counter a round-faced, beaky-nosed little man was

moodily polishing tea-spoons. The sign above his head read: THE COFFEE SHOP-

PROP. HARRY GOLD.

He cheered up at the approach of trade. "Morning, lady and gent! Brightening up

a bit, eh? What can I do you for?" His cockney accent was as rich and thick as a

bowl of jellied eels.

"Two teas and two currant buns, please," said Ace.

The little man reached for a huge metal teapot, and added boiling water from an

urn. He gave the contents a quick stir and poured the tea into two thick white

china cups, adding milk from a jug.

"Help yourself to sugar substitute." He nodded towards a bowl of white powder on

the counter. Next to it there was a spoon on the end of a chain. He took two

buns from under a glass stand and put them on two plates on the counter.

"That'll be a tanner, love."

Ace looked blankly at him.

"A tanner, sixpence," said the little man impatiently. "Tea's tuppence, buns a

penny."

The Doctor fished in his pocket, peered at a handful of coins from different

times and various planets, selected a small, silver coin and handed it over.

"A bob, thank you very much," said the little man, tossing it into the wooden

till behind him. He took out an even smaller silver coin and handed it to the

Doctor. "And a tanner change!"

The tea was thin and watery and the buns seemed to be made of cardboard. Hungry

as she was, Ace had a job to keep chewing, and the Doctor gave up after a single

bite.

The little man caught his eye. "I know. Tea tastes like cat pee and the buns

like an old soldier's socks."

"Ersatz?" said the Doctor mysteriously.

"What isn't, these days? Not that I'm complaining, mind you," added the little

man hurriedly. "Since the dawn of the New Order, we've never been healthier and

happier." He chanted the last few words as if repeating a slogan.

"What's ersatz?" asked Ace.

"Imitation," said the Doctor. "Substitute."

"Fake," said the little man bitterly. "Fake tea, fake flour, fake baccy...

He broke off as two youths slouched towards the kiosk. "Oh my gawd, here's

trouble. . ."

The new arrivals had brutally cropped hair and big army boots, and they wore

khaki battle-dress jackets with black trousers. Arm-bands had been sewn to the

right sleeve of each jacket. They showed a Union Jack with a swastika

superimposed. Underneath were the letters BFK. Shouldering Ace and the Doctor

aside, they leaned on the kiosk counter.

"Morning boys, what'll it be?" The little man's cheerfulness was as ersatz as

his buns.

"Two cuppas," said the first youth.

"And a pound out the till," said the second. They sniggered.

With trembling hands, the little man poured them cups of tea. The first youth

snatched up a cup, took a swig - and spat it out, full in the little man's face.

"Cat piss!"

The little man grabbed a tea cloth and mopped his face. To Ace's horrified

amazement he actually tried to smile.

"Yeah, you're right, I was saying so just now! Tell you what, I'll make you a

fresh pot, hot and strong, how about that? On the house!" He emptied the teapot

and began shovelling fresh tea in.

Seething, Ace took a step forward - and felt the Doctor's restraining hand on

her arm. His grey eyes were examining the two young men with a cold, remote

interest - like a scientist studying microbes on a slide.

Trembling with anger, Ace looked round for help. To her enormous relief she saw

the familiar shape of a British bobby not far away. Ace had had her problems

with the police in her time, but she was pleased to see this one.

She ran up to the blue-helmeted figure. "We need some help. . ."

Middle-aged, fatherly, reassuringly big and solid, the policeman might have been

Dixon of Dock Green in person. He touched his helmet. "Yes, miss? What seems to

be the trouble?"

"It's those two over there. They're bullying the coffee-stall man, trying to get

money off him."

The policeman followed her gaze. "Those two in the tunics?"

"Yes, please come!"

The policeman didn't move. "Did you happen to notice armbands on those tunics -

with letters underneath?"

"Yes, BF something . . . Why, does it matter?"

"BFK, miss. Stands for Britischer Frei Korps. British Free Corps."

"So does that mean they can do what they like?"

"That's exactly what it means." The policeman's voice took on a formal sound as

if reciting some regulation "The authority of the BFK stems directly from the

Third Reich and supersedes that of the civilian police in all cases." He

returned to his ordinary voice. "I can't interfere, and I don't advise you to

either. They might start on you next. I couldn't do anything about that either."

Touching his helmet again, the policeman strolled on his way.

Ace turned and ran back to the kiosk, where the two youths had just finished

their tea.

"All right," the first was saying. "Now, how about that pound out the till?"

"Two pounds," said the second. "Better still, make it a fiver."

"Two fivers," said the first.

The little man tried to smile. "Now come on lads, fair's fair. A joke's a joke,

and you're welcome to the tea, but..." The second youth looked at the name above

the kiosk. "Funny sort of name, Gold. Wouldn't be short for Goldstein, would

it?"

The little man went white. Before he could answer, the first youth grabbed him

by the front of his jacket and hauled him halfway across the counter. "Hand over

the cash, you lousy kike. Or we'll smash up the stall and you as well - and turn

in what's left to the Racial Affairs Bureau."

Ace lunged for the tough holding the little man over the counter. Again the

Doctor held her back.

"Wie heissen Sie?" he shouted in a loud, harsh voice. The youth let go of the

little man and swung round in amazement. He stared blankly at the Doctor.

"Wie heissen Sie, dummkopf?" bellowed the Doctor. Stepping smartly forward, he

slapped the astonished youth full across the face.

Ace looked on amazed as the Doctor delivered a second slap, a backhander this

time. It was a solid blow with all the Doctor's unlikely strength behind it, and

it rocked the youth on his feet. He staggered, and blood trickled from his nose.

"Ere," began the second youth uncertainly.

The back of the Doctor's hand smashed him across the mouth. "Sei still!" He

whirled back to the first victim. "Namen?"

"Look, I'm sorry," muttered the youth. "We don't speak German. . . "

"So? Perhaps it is as well." The Doctor sounded like every Gestapo officer in

every old war movie Ace had ever seen. "The German language would be polluted by

the lips of such scum as you. Your names! And your units!" He marched up to the

first youth, stood on tiptoe and screamed into his face. "Stand to attention

when you address me!"

The two lads snapped to a clumsy form of attention.

"Sidney Harris," said the first.

"George Brady," said the second. "London Unit Four, British Free Corps."

"So!" said the Doctor, icily calm again. "And what are your standing orders - as

regards this Festival?"

"Just keep an eye on things," said Sid Harris uneasily. "Watch out for

subversive behaviour, signs of disorder."

"Exactly. And do you see any sign of disorder here?" Once again the Doctor's

voice became a terrifying screech. "Apart from that which you have created

yourselves?"

White-faced and quivering, Sydney and George were too terrified to speak.

"You will return to your unit," said the Doctor. "You will report to your

superior and place yourselves under arrest on charges of attempted extortion."

His voice rose again. "Now! Move! At the double! Ein, zwei, ein, zwei!"

To Ace's amazement the two young men turned and ran, disappearing between the

pavilions at a stiff jog trot.

The Doctor turned to Harry Gold. "I'm sorry this had to happen. They won't

trouble you again."

The little man backed away. "No trouble, sir, I don't want to make trouble. Good

lads I'm sure, just harmless fun. . ."

"Look, it's all right," said Ace. "There's no need to be frightened of us."

The little man stared at her, his trembling lips trying to smile. He picked up a

cloth and began polishing his counter, making stiff, jerky movements like a

robot.

The Doctor touched her arm. "Come on, Ace."

Sadly Ace moved away. Then she cheered up, thinking of the two yobs doubling

away. "Well done, Professor. You certainly saw those two off in style!"

The Doctor gave her one of his enigmatic looks. "Enjoyed it, did you?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"So did I," said the Doctor. "That sort of thing gets enjoyable very quickly. We

scared the man at the tea-stall too - did you enjoy that?"

"All right, I get the point." She gave him a wondering look. "That was quite a

performance, Professor, all that screaming and yelling."

"Standard Gestapo technique," said the Doctor absently. "It's called anschnauzen

-snorting. Very useful in interrogating prisoners. If you start screaming and

yelling and hitting people straight away, they get disorientated."

"That's horrible!"

"That's just for openers," said the Doctor. "Things get nasty after that."

"Where are we going now?"

"Back to the TARDIS."

"We're leaving?"

"I'm not sure. I need to think, and I can't do it out here."

"Why not?"

"Fear - fear and evil," said the Doctor matter-of-factly. "Can't you feel it,

Ace? It's in the air, like poison. . . " He marched briskly to the edge of the

Festival Grounds, towards the place where they'd left the TARDIS.

2: DEATH BY THE RIVER

"He ordered you to what?"

Lieutenant Anthony Hemmings of the Freikorps stared incredulously at the two

miserable figures standing rigidly to attention before his desk.

"To come straight back here," said Brady.

"And put ourselves under arrest," mumbled Harris.

"On what authority?"

When they didn't reply he rose to his feet, towering menacingly over them. The

contrast could scarcely have been more marked. Privates Harris and Brady wore

the coarsely made ill-fitting uniforms of rankers in the BFK, called, though not

to their faces, the Black and Tans. They were stocky, pasty faced and pimply.

Lieutenant Hemmings himself was tall and dark and undeniably handsome. His black

uniform, modelled on that of the SS, had been elegantly tailored by a

concentration camp inmate formerly of Savile Row. Its immaculate blackness was

set off with silver deaths-head badges on collar and cuffs. His jackboots

02 - Timewyrm- Exodus

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: