fredbassett

Title : The One That Got Away, Part 1
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Becker, Lester, Connor, Abby, Matt, Emily
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 3,192
Summary : It’s big, slippery, and decidedly unwanted.
A/N: Written for the <primeval_denial> Art Challenge for this artwork by eriah211. Thanks to lukadreaming for the beta. This is for the wonderful artwork of eriah211 HERE. many thanks also to her for creating this lovely cover and icon for the fic.







“Put the kettle on, Becks!” Connor called cheerfully, foiling Becker’s best efforts to sneak through the rec room to the kitchen without being noticed.

Matt looked up from the hand of cards he’d been studiously staring at and commented, “Need to work on your ninja skills, mate.”

“Did someone mention coffee?” Emily said, walking in behind him, wearing the innocent expression that Becker had long since learnt to distrust.

“I could just kill you all now,” Becker muttered. “Not a jury in the world would convict me.”

“He loves us, really,” Connor said. A moment later, he slammed down a card on the table and yelled, “Snap!”

Matt leaned back in his chair looking bemused. “I thought you said we were playing poker?”

Becker seriously considered banging his head on the wall, but before he could act on the idea, speakers throughout the ARC broadcast the chorus of Jingle Bells ear-splittingly loud, bringing both the card game and any prospect of an extra-strength hit of caffeine to an untimely end.

“It’s June, for fuck’s sake,” Becker said as he narrowly beat Matt in the rush through the doorway.

“She likes Christmas,” Connor commented, as they arrived in the Control Centre at a run.

“Ladies and gentleman, we have another disruptive challenge to rise to!” Jess announced, spinning around on her chair to face them, looking like a brightly-dressed pixie on top of a toadstool.

“I knew letting her go on that civil contingencies training course was a mistake,” Lester said to no one in particular, appearing in the doorway of his office and dispensing a Level 5 glare at all and sundry. “Ms Parker, I think I prefer the finale of the 1812 Overture to Jingle Bells. I withdraw my objection to the sound of cannon fire with immediate effect.”

Jess pouted but obligingly killed the noise with one press of a shiny purple fingernail. “You’ll never guess where this one is!”

“Aberystwyth?” Becker hazarded. They were overdue for an anomaly in Wales and that was as good a guess as any.

“Wrong. Westminster Bridge!”

This problems that location was going to cause was worth it for the look of severe pain that flitted across Lester’s aquiline face at Jess’s cheerful announcement. It made him look as if he had a bad case of wind, but Becker refrained from pointing that out. Which was probably wise, in the circumstances.

“Told you it was a disruptive challenge!”

“No, Ms Parker, I think you’ll find that anything that necessitates my presence in the field is a genuine emergency. On this occasion, I believe we can dispense with the sort of gobbledegook I’ve spent a long and – although I say it myself – distinguished career dispensing. In fact, to use the vernacular, this is a fucking disaster.” Lester clapped his hands loudly. “Well, what are you all waiting for? A gilt-edged invitation from the Prime Minister?”

* * * * *

“Any news, Jess?” Becker asked, as he weaved in an out of the traffic, making liberal use of both the horn and the flashing lights all their black Range Rovers were now equipped with.

“You’re about to run into fog,” Jess told him, her voice coming over the speakers in the vehicle. “The Met Office has just put out a hazardous weather warning for the section of the Thames between Hungerford Bridge and Lambeth Bridge.”

“This is hardly the time to indulge in the British obsession for discussing the weather!” Lester snapped. “Is there any news of what’s happening with the anomaly?”

“Yes, there are two Marine Police Unit boats at the scene. The anomaly is under the third arch up from the south bank and that’s where the fog seems to be originating from. Hence the weather report.”

From the brief glance that Becker spared him, Lester looked like someone had just driven a spike into the middle of his forehead. “Then why isn’t the area being evacuated?”

Jess treated him to one of her patented disdainful sniffs. “It is. It has been since I got the first report of what was happening. The current classification is Local Emergency. I’ve spoken to the Gold Commander and she’s diverting all available traffic units to clearing the roads. Westminster Bridge has been closed to all pedestrian and vehicular traffic. She is liaising with the Serjeant at Arms at the House of Commons and is considering whether or not to order an immediate evacuation of the Palace of Westminster.”

Someone appeared to be twisting the spike in Lester’s head, if the expression on his face was anything to go by. His voice appeared to have risen half an octave as he said, “Are you sure it’s fog?”

“Well, no one has gone purple in the face and collapsed yet,” Jess said, sounding as cheerful as she always did in the middle of a crisis – sorry, disruptive challenge. “The Met Office says it looks like fog to them, possibly evaporation fog, although my new best friend, Dave, says it might also be something called advection fog. The Environment Agency has someone on the way with testing kit, ETA three minutes before you. For the moment, if it looks like fog, acts like fog, smells like fog…”

“Yes, Jess, we get the picture,” Matt said quickly from the back seat, no doubt hoping to avoid a minor explosion from Lester.

Becker hit the horn, swerved around a white transit, flipped a rude sign at a bloke in a Beamer, and accelerated hard. If he really tried, he could knock at least a minute off their arrival time and win the sweepstake. The sight of Lester’s knuckles whitening as he clenched his hands in his lap was simply a bonus.

Maybe next time their usually desk-bound boss wouldn’t be quite so keen to breathe down their necks on a shout.

* * * * *

They met the first of the fog by the time they reached Chiswick, and at Chelsea Embankment, Becker gave up any thought of the sweepstake and was simply concentrating on getting there in one piece. Visibility was down to a car’s length ahead and traffic was virtually at a standstill. He spent as much time up on the pavement as he did on the road, with pedestrians flattening themselves against the river wall as the ARC convoy made as much speed as they could.

By the time they turned off Millbank and flashed their ID at the harassed copper manning a hastily-erected barricade, Becker could barely see beyond their front bumper. Jess gleefully pointing out that they’d made rubbish time didn’t help. The sweepstake had apparently been won by one of the cleaners who’d made a lucky guess whilst seizing the opportunity to tidy up Lester’s office.

“The nice man from the Environment Agency says it’s definitely just fog,” Jess said a moment later, which didn’t do much to lower Becker’s irritation levels. “The Serjeant at Arms has decided against evacuation at the moment and Brigadier Cooke has recommended that Her Majesty remains in residence at Buckingham Palace for the moment, but he wants to be kept in the loop every 15 minutes, even if nothing changes. Would you like to take over liaison with him yourself, Lester?”

“I’d hate to disrupt the smooth running of your operations centre, my dear,” Lester said magnanimously. “I’ll only step in as Government Liaison Officer should matters significantly worsen. In the meantime, please do carry on.”

Becker grinned. It was a well-known fact that Brigadier Leslie Cooke, the Palace’s new Director of Security, was an awkward bugger at the best of times. He and Lester and had loathed each other since an entertaining contretemps over the best way to deal with a herd of skittish hadrosaurs in Windsor Great Park. Matt had been adamant that they weren’t going to be used for target practice by anyone, including royalty, and Lester had backed him up. Relations between the ARC and the Palace had taken a downward turn at that point, no doubt fucking up Lester’s chances of a knighthood even further.

“Are we there yet?” Connor demanded in a high-pitched whine from the second of the ARC vehicles driven by Abby, his voice coming at them all through the in-built speakers on the dashboard.

“If he wants an ice-cream or the toilet, I swear he won’t see another birthday,” Lester said under his breath.

“Now you see what I have to put up with,” Becker told him, opening the door of the Range Rover and letting in a blast of cold, very damp air.

“It reminds me of my own time,” Emily said, coming towards him from the second vehicle, staring around her at the thick fog in amazement. “But without the smells.”

“Nice to know some things have improved.” Lester accepted a headset radio that Matt handed him, and eyed the wall of grey fog with irritation. “Don’t let me cramp your style, ladies and gentlemen, I’m simply here to observe.”

Connor’s mutter of ‘Yeah, right,’ wasn’t quite as sotto voce as their resident genius had no doubt hoped, and when he realised that, Connor promptly homed in on a huddle of people from the Environment Agency, who were busy taking some readings on a selection of kit they’d set up at the end of the bridge and started talking technicalities.

Wishing he’d picked up his jacket from the back seat, but not wanting to look like a wimp by going back for it, Becker told his security teams to check the cordons at either end of the bridge and to liaise with the police to clear onlookers from at least a 100 metre section on either side, both up and downstream.

“Jess, can you patch me through to whoever’s in charge of the River Police?”

“They don’t call them that any more!”

“Yeah, whatever…”

“Putting you through to Sergeant Marks now…”

“Captain Becker, Head of Security, Anomaly Research Centre. Any chance we can get a look at what we’re dealing with from one of your boats?”

“Be my guest.” The voice held a distinctly Liverpudlean twang. “Go over to the south side of the river, I’ll pick you up from there.”

“On our way.” Becker resisted the urge to tell the man he was a hell of a long way from the Mersey. “Matt, I’m going to take a look from the water. Are you coming?”

Matt shook his head. “Take Connor. I’d like a reading on how strong the anomaly is and whether he can get any fix on where it goes to, then I want it locked up as tight as the office petty cash. I’ll stay up here with Emily and Abby and see if we can spot anything in the water.”

“You’ll be bloody lucky. I can’t even see the sodding water from here.” With Lester at his side and Connor following on behind with one of the security team carrying the equipment, Becker strode across the deserted bridge.

He stood with Lester by the river wall, staring out into the gently swirling fog. He could just abut make out the surface of the water. The fog was lying at a fairly low level, and through the occasional break in the low-lying cloud, or whatever it was, Becker could just about make out the imposing mass of Big Ben, rising like a pointed finger out of the mist.

The police launch was tied up at the bottom of an iron ladder that led down to the water. Lester took one look at it and announced with a disdainful sniff that he would coordinate activity from on land, clearly not wanting to put one of his best Savile Row suits at risk. Becker climbed quickly down the ladder, jumped onto the gently swaying deck and then held his hands out to grasp the large box of kit one of his men was lowering down.

“For fuck’s sake, don’t fall in!” Becker yelled, as one of Connor’s feet slipped on the rungs.

“Not helping, mate,” Connor grumbled.

Sergeant Marks, the man Becker had spoken to on the radio, was short, stocky and in his mid-40s, with close-cropped hair and heavy, greying stubble. His grip was confident without being bone-crushing and Becker liked the man’s air of quiet authority.

From water level, Becker could just about make out the sparkle of the anomaly under one of the arches. Making sure not to get closer than ten metres away, Marks instructed his pilot to hold station in the river while Connor set up his equipment. As soon as he had the locking device mounted on its tripod and ready for action, Connor pulled out another of his clever gizmos, the little box of tricks that sometimes managed to tell him what time period they were dealing with on the other side of the anomaly.

But on this occasion, the display did nothing more than flicker like a dud Christmas tree light, never settling on any date for more than a fraction of a second. After a few minutes, Connor shrugged and stuffed the hand-held monitor back into its carrying case.

“No go on the date, Matt,” he announced into his radio mic. “My guess is that it’s too early to tell. We’ve had this problem before.”

“How early is early?” Becker demanded.

Connor shrugged again. “Hard to say. Could be anything upwards of 360 million years ago. Maybe even earlier. I’ve had no luck at all getting readings on anything from as long ago as that.”

“Is that good or bad?” Becker demanded. Even after so long, Connor could still be irritatingly vague. “Give me something to work with, Conn. What might have come through?”

“I would if I could, mate, believe me. Could be anything from a few blobby things without a backbone to a giant mutant tadpole. I really haven’t got a clue. The fossil record is pretty crappy that far back. But there again, the machine might just have decided to play silly buggers.”

Muttering that it wasn’t the only one, Becker turned to Sergeant Marks, about to ask him to return them to the shore, when something bumped against the boat, rocking them all on their feet. Instinctively, Becker grabbed hold of one of the straps on Connor’s life jacket.

“What the fuck was that?” he demanded.

“Tree trunk?” Marks hazarded, but Becker could tell from the look on the copper’s face that he wasn’t convinced by his own explanation.

“Get that thing locked,” Becker ordered. “Can you drop some sort of anchor and hold the boat in position?” he asked Marks.

“Within limits,” Marks said. “But if you need to keep that gizmo pointing at your anomaly, you’re going to need someone to stay on the boat.”

“There could be something in the water.”

“I appreciate that and I’m not an idiot, Captain. I’ve got a job to do, the same as you. Nobody said it was always going to be easy or safe.”

“I’m staying as well,” Connor said quickly. “No argument, Becks. If we drift off-station, I’m going to have to reset the locking device.”

“He’s right, Becker,” Matt said softly, chiming in over the radio link. “Put two of your men on board with them to ride shotgun. You’re more use to me up here. If something’s come through it might not even still be in the same vicinity. We could end up anywhere along the river.”

Becker acknowledged the sense of Matt’s words, but that didn’t mean he had to like the plan. The second police launch ferried two of his men over, armed with both EMDs and conventional weapons, and took Becker back to the riverside.

“The fog’s spreading,” Jess announced, just as he reached the top of the bank. “Brigadier Cooke is getting twitchy and I’ve had the Gold Commander asking if we need to convene COBRA.”

“Tell them I’ll get back to them in five minutes,” Lester said, not talking his eyes off the police launch as Connor activated the locking device and the anomaly abruptly shrank into a huge version of the Koh-i-Noor diamond. His boss looked at Becker, not bothering to hide the concern on his face. “There’s something down there, isn’t there?”

“Almost certainly,” Becker conceded. “And with our luck it’ll be the giant mutant tadpole not the blobby things with no backbone.”

“Is that boat rocking more than it was a moment ago?”

A startled yelp in their ears provided a rapid response to that particular question. The Marine Policing Unit’s boats started bobbing around like a cork and they could see the pilot fighting for control while Connor and Marks did their best to stop the locking device going overboard. Matt and several of Becker’s men ran to the west side of the bridge, EMDs raised to their shoulders.

For a moment, nothing happened, but then an enormous sinuous black shape rose out of the water, twining itself around the bridge pillars and gliding up and around the top of the bridge. It looked like a gigantic, steroidal eel, and Becker really, really didn’t like it. The bloody thing had to be at least two metres thick, maybe more, and he couldn’t even see where it began and ended, so had no means of estimating its length, but it was unlikely to be less than 30 metres long.

“Definitely not the blobby thing with no backbone,” Lester said more calmly than Becker felt. “Jess, increase the inclusion zone by another 100 metres! Matt, can your EMDs handle this?”

“Finding out now!”

Becker saw the current leap from Matt’s weapon to the shiny black skin of the creature. The undulating body continued to slither through and around the bridge, dripping with water, exhibiting no effects at all from the charge it had just received.

“Keep away from it!” Connor yelled. “We’ve got dead fish floating in the water!”

“Wasn’t intending to get up close and personal with it,” Matt said, retreating out of the path of what looked very much like a huge, eyeless head. The creature reminded Becker of an enormous, glossy black earthworm as it rippled in and out of the water. “Hitting it again on a count of three, highest setting!”

Normally that would have been the cue for Connor to start mentioning phasers on stun, but at that particular moment, their resident geek appeared to be too busy stopping his locking device going over the side of the boat.

“Matt! Do I open it or keep it locked?” he demanded.

That wasn’t a decision Becker would have wanted to take. On the one hand, with the anomaly open, their monstrous visitor might decide to return to its own time, but there was always the possibility that something else might just decide to join the party.

“Open it!” Matt ordered. “The EMD’s are having no effect at all and we haven’t got any weapons big enough to make a difference. We’re just going to have to hope it wants to go home.”

“I might be prepared to reconsider your request for a tank, Captain Becker,” Lester said. “Jess, I want air support and I want it now. And clear the entire river of traffic.”

“On it,” Jess said.

“And patch me through to the Gold Commander…”