Doctor Who - The 8th Doctor - 17 - Beltempest by Jim Mortimore

Author:Jim Mortimore
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Jones, Samantha (Fictitious Character : Dicks), Cults, Solar Eclipses, Space Opera, General, Science Fiction, Doctor Who (Fictitious Character), Fiction, Media Tie-In
ISBN: 9780563405931
Publisher: BBC Pubns
Published: 1998-10-31T07:00:00+00:00

***

For two days the Geiger counters clicked, while clocks ticked away the moments remaining to those whose lives they measured.

Two days - yet for Harome Janeth it had been a lifetime. He ran now, stumbling through the shelter tunnels hollowed into the rock beneath First Town's City Hall. He moaned as he ran, doubled over, clutching his future in his aching arms. He talked to the future. Reassured it, sang to it, even. He told it of its mother, how beautiful she was, how brave. He voiced silent words which told of her love and his fury. Their loss. His words were gibberish, sentences incomplete, the ramblings of a madman. Harome didn't care. All he knew was pain and fear and it had broken him.

Now he was running from his feelings, from his fearful memories.

Running from the friends who would have stopped him. Running into the future because the past was too much to bear.

The Mayor had forced him to come here. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be out there. With those for whom there was no room. He wanted to be one with the lightning. The lightning that lathered their world with invisible death, the lightning that he had seen in Maresley's eyes in the moments and seconds before her life ended. The lightning he now felt sparking sheets of flame behind his own eyes. Maresley. Oh dear, Lord, Maresley!

One life over, another begun. Tit for tat. Maybe it worked like that for the gods but not for a man. Harome wanted more. He wanted it all. A child.

A mother. A wife. A life for them both.

And, if he could not have all, then he would have nothing.

Behind him came the sound of running feet. Shouts.

'Harome! Stop!'

'It's your child Harome! Think what you're doing!'

But Harome did not stop, did not think. He was long past either, light years past. Clutching the squealing bundle of life he had helped shape close to his chest, Harome scrambled out of the entrance to the shelter, lifted his face to the sky and gave his son to the lightning.

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