Doctor Who_ Drift Part 1

DRIFT.

SIMON A. FORWARD.

Chapter One.

Cold perched in the trees. Talons of ice dug into white birches and the air had turned to crisp powder.

In white s.p.a.ce, nothing moved.

Then, figures came into being like sketches on a blank page, pencilled in lightly, as though expecting to be erased at any moment. They fanned wide, drawing a grey half-circle around the brown snow-capped house, closing around it like a snare. The soldiers were clad in white, darker than the white of the landscape. The house peered out as though from a burrow in the hill, like a timid rabbit, sensing the danger.

Captain Morgan Shaw hoped those inside the house were too busy fending off the cold to be on the lookout for trouble.

He clapped his gloved hands smartly together and breathed into them. The shoulder-slung SMG batted lightly Slowly, his gaze swept from the house to the scarred bark of the woods beyond; he motioned his platoon of ghosts to a stop. Beautiful, he thought, breathing it in deep. He remembered playing soldiers with Kenzie, weaving through those same trees, charging the high ground with stick-guns and snow-ball grenades. The memory was as solid as the crunch of snow underfoot.

The weather hadn't been quite as unfriendly and there'd been sunshine to make those birches gleam. They ran so fast, him and his brother, puffing like steam locos and leaving their breath hanging in the air behind them. No wind: the air had been frozen. Time too, that morning when Kenzie chucked a snow-bomb packed with shrapnel and smashed one of those self-same windows that were staring back at Morgan right Morgan, scared as a rat, had made it home first that day.

His old man had heard all about it by then and he'd waited on Kenzie, silent as the mountain, before whipping them both hard enough to crack the ice in their lungs. Winter never tasted quite as sweet after that.

Not until today anyhow, Morgan told himself.

Somewhere out in the whiteness his snipers were covering the scene, waiting for a blink from those windows. Over on his left, Bob Marotta's ammo belt was jingling like a dull string of sleigh bells. Too quiet to reach the house, but loud enough to break the spell.

'Do these people even celebrate Thanksgiving?' the big guy had asked at the briefing. Morgan had told him, 'Not this year. White Shadow is coming to gatecrash.'

Morgan was seriously back in today, twenty-plus years on, ready to play for real. This was home turf, an easy match.

They'd made the forty-yard line without so much as a tackle from the opposing team.

The old doc who used to own this house was dead. A real fearsome guy; Morgan used to reckon he was half-dead anyhow, and wished him dead more than a few times on top of that. After the wishes came true, the house had gone to ruin and this bunch had practically stolen the place. They hadn't done a lot with it either, far as he could see.

A small figure trotted out of the mist to his left, a pat on Marotta's shoulder as she pa.s.sed and fell into step beside her captain. The bulk of her parka and her pack just about doubled her size. There was a black light in her eyes and the general darkness of her seemed a defiance of nature. Wearing her bead-banded cowboy hat and feathers with an ancient sort of pride, she'd have you believe she was just the opposite.

'What do we have in there, Kristal?'

She gripped her M16 like she was ready to drive it into someone's gut. Those eyes didn't leave the house. 'Many spirits. Or one, big enough to swallow the world.'

The cold snaked around Morgan's throat. He made sure the zipper was up as far as it would go. 'Yeah, can we have that in the white man's tongue?'

Kristal snarled, a real redskin savage. Then she spat a pearl of saliva. 'Have your fun now, Captain. I don't think this is going to be the breeze you're expecting.'

She stalked ahead of him, the same way a pony can best a horse through deep snow. She'd win any argument through sheer stamina. That face of hers, flat like an owl's with a Roman beak, might have been carved out of red rock. Morgan laughed quietly and signalled to Marotta. The Gunny grinned as he came hiking over, all set to blow the house down with a little huff and puff.

'Not if we do it my way,' Morgan murmured to the air.

Well, if it came to a messy gunfight he just hoped all these screwb.a.l.l.s were from out of town. He'd hate to have to shoot anyone he knew.

By way of an answer the vampire sky flocked to the trees, to perch alongside the cold, waiting for a splash of red to quench its thirst for colour.

That chill sea of rolling white seemed a kinder world right now to Amber Mailloux than the lightly toasted living room from which she stood and gazed out, hoping to hypnotise herself with the wilderness. Some days it was so beautiful out there, she could float out over the deck and lose herself in the knitted trees. But not today. Today it was like that painting she'd gone over with a spray-can of white. Besides, there was nothing to focus on and her cheeks were burning from her shouting match.

Her face crumpled and she cried in tiny gasps.

'Listen,' said the voice that had made her stamp and scream. 'I'm not going to pretend with you. I never have. You can't kid a kid.'

He stopped and maybe he guessed how dumb that sounded. She kept staring out the window. If he saw her smirk, he'd only tell her how he'd wipe it off her face - but he'd never do that. Not Makenzie.

Daddy always kept that sort of promise. But he wasn't going to make it here for Thanksgiving. And n.o.body really cared about that except Amber.

They made like they cared, they were sorry, sorry, but n.o.body wanted him here. Only Amber - and she couldn't help that. but n.o.body wanted him here. Only Amber - and she couldn't help that.

Why should she?

Makenzie took one of his heavy steps closer; he always moved so clumsy. She wasn't afraid of him but it was a shock, when he spun her round by the shoulders to face him.

'Your Daddy hurt your Mom and I will never never like him for that, you get that?' Amber made a face like she'd tasted poison and all she saw was Makenzie's badge. like him for that, you get that?' Amber made a face like she'd tasted poison and all she saw was Makenzie's badge.

'Don't you have to go to work?'

'Don't you smart-mouth me!' Oh yeah, Makenzie could shout. After Daddy, Mom never let any of them hit her. But Makenzie, he never went further than lifting his hand to strike, and then he'd only shout a lot lot louder. For a change his voice softened. 'I could tell you I'm not happy he's not coming, but part of me would be lying. louder. For a change his voice softened. 'I could tell you I'm not happy he's not coming, but part of me would be lying. Part Part of me, because part of me really feels for you. Amber - for what you're going through. Now, maybe we could sit down and talk about that-' of me, because part of me really feels for you. Amber - for what you're going through. Now, maybe we could sit down and talk about that-'

Amber glanced at his eyes and that was a mistake.

Despite the tone, his face had stayed angry and that made her want to laugh. She drank a deep breath, thought about what she might say, then the laugh broke out as tears.

Why couldn't he just hit her and get it over with? He said he wanted to talk but he was looking at her like that time she'd sprayed over that Andrew Wyeth print. A cheap present he'd given Mom: Amber had wanted to wipe out the world for that little girl sitting lonely in her cornfield.

'Get away from me!' She screamed it like she'd wanted to scream at Daddy. And, knowing she was the only one going to make it happen, she pushed past Makenzie and grabbed her coat from the hall. She screamed it like she'd wanted to scream at Daddy. And, knowing she was the only one going to make it happen, she pushed past Makenzie and grabbed her coat from the hall.

She slammed the door behind her and stormed out into the kinder world, where the air swooped down to enfold her in its chill wings.

Martha Mailloux heard the ground crunching like a carpet of potato-chips and glanced up in time to catch the flap of a sleeve in her hair, and watched her daughter wrestling to get into her coat as she marched on past and on to the road. Not that there was a road.

Under the heaped snows, the road from Mak's cabin had only ever been a dirt-track. They'd taken the best part of a summer afternoon - yeah, a different world - hauling Martha's trailer up the G.o.dd.a.m.n mountain; Mak b.i.t.c.hing at his truck every turn, like she was some horse refusing a fence.

So long as he wasn't b.i.t.c.hing at Martha's trailer. Sure she'd moved in with Mak; it seemed the right thing to do, with her new job and all. But she hadn't really moved out of that crate-on-wheels - and Mak knew it. Maybe that was why he'd stranded the thing up here, like Noah's Ark.

Martha brooded over the piled drifts, reminding her of every birthday cake she'd done her best to frost for Amber. Yeah, springtime, maybe this flood will just melt and carry us some place where people don't beat on you with their looks.

She wiped her hair back with her sleeve, where the brush with Amber had set it loose. Glancing back at the cabin, where Mak had stepped out on deck to appeal to her with a look, she offered him a smile. Today their fight had to have been about Curt; that lame son-of-a- b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h, setting his little girl up for a fall.

She dug the shovel hard in the ground, clearing the snow from around her trailer. Something to do in place of a workout.

'What do you want me to do about it, Mak? It's between you and her.'

Martha noticed the sore silence and felt kind of sorry. She wasn't up for a fight, not with Mak. No, she was going to save her stuff for Curt - the one who deserved it all - over the phone if he never turned up. 'Can't be nothing serious, hon,'

she rea.s.sured Mak, this time with a smile loaded with the best times. 'She wasn't too upset to wrap herself up warm now, was she?'

'Guess not,' said Makenzie, drawing up the zipper on his police-issue parka. Looked like he'd decided work was more pressing than policing family. h.e.l.l of a lot easier too, she imagined, in a town like Melvin Village.

Martha rested on the shovel, listening for Mak's bootsteps beating a path to his truck. Amber was nowhere. Martha's only child would have disappeared long before she'd rounded the first bend, consumed in a cold white furnace.

One feast-fire story told of a hero who decided to mount a bold expedition to find a path around the barrier that guarded the Tesh fortress. He led his war party on a long and dangerous trek into unknown lands, keeping the barrier always to their right. Their journey carried them further and further from home until the jungle thinned around them and there was only open ground and gra.s.s. Yet still the barrier stood to the right of their path. The warriors often went hungry; for they were not used to hunting in these wide open lands and the herds of beasts would see them and scatter before them. On they walked and many wanted to turn back.

They missed the jungle and their homes, but their leader urged them on, and told them they would eat the gra.s.s if they must. But with each day the gra.s.s started to thin and the barrier still stood to the right of their path. But none would disobey their leader for he was a great hero and they believed in him.

Their journey ended in a land colder than night. There was no colour and the few trees were like skeletons. The rain was solid, so cold it burned, and it fell on the land in great mounds and stole the warmth from the fire and made the warriors shiver. No animals lived in that white wasteland and when they dug for roots they found only hard earth and rock.

They shared out the remnants of their food and began their long journey home. Their leader, the great hero, would not eat as he journeyed back with his warriors, and before he died he gave them his ration and asked them their forgiveness.

The end of the tale had often escaped Leela. She'd generally found herself wandering into that strange land, trying to see it in her mind. But no clear picture would ever come.

Now, it was as if the Doctor had delivered her to that same land, where a hero of the Sevateem had died. And yet he had told her that these lands were home to a n.o.ble people.

Leela shivered and pulled her furs closer around her. This cold smothered every scent. She blinked against the strange flakes colonising her eyelashes. She did not want to meet the tribe who could live in this place. 'Doctor, I wish to go back to the TARDIS.'

'So do I, so do I. But I've no idea where she is. I don't understand it, I can normally find my way home in any storm. Better than a racing pigeon.'

Lost. They were lost.

The feeling was by no means a new one. Still, usually the Doctor had an air of being perfectly at home with being lost.

Here, in this land at the end of the world, he worried her by looking as miserable and confused as she felt. It did not help that he also looked very silly.

The Doctor had braved this hostile land in his usual garb, but had wrapped his coat around him much tighter, with the collar high to fence out the fierce cold; and he had looped the long scarf up over his hat, tying the brim down around his ears. The rest of it wound thickly around his neck like a constrictor vine. It was, she decided, the costume of a madman.

He had halted now, some distance ahead of her, with the stance of one who has lost a mate.

'I'm afraid we've arrived at the wrong time.'

'There is a warmer season? Better for hunting?'

'Yes - no, the wrong time.' time.' He cast a hand back and waved her up. Wearily, Leela trudged forward, the He cast a hand back and waved her up. Wearily, Leela trudged forward, the snow snow swallowing her boots almost to the knee. It was a bit like wading through mud. She saw the Doctor nod disconsolately at a fallen structure, some sort of framework of metal dripping with shards like spearheads of water. 'A couple of centuries later than I'd intended. I was hoping to drop you off in a continent untouched by electricity pylons - amongst other things...' swallowing her boots almost to the knee. It was a bit like wading through mud. She saw the Doctor nod disconsolately at a fallen structure, some sort of framework of metal dripping with shards like spearheads of water. 'A couple of centuries later than I'd intended. I was hoping to drop you off in a continent untouched by electricity pylons - amongst other things...'

Leela frowned, then gasped .'Are these structures the work of invaders? Perhaps this tribe you spoke of toppled it in battle.'

The Doctor managed a grunt as he scanned the slopes. 'I doubt if these mountains have seen so much as a footprint from that tribe in a hundred years. A continent swept clean for the new tenants. A way of life systematically dismantled and scattered on the winds like ashes.'

The Doctor held up a hand and let a few of the flakes spatter harmlessly in his palm. 'You'll get your chance to spend some time with the Native American people, I promise.

Sooner, possibly later. I'm sure you'll find it worth the wait.'

He wiped his palm clean with a casual pat on his coat, then thrust both hands deep in his pockets. 'Of course, I really can't say how long a wait we might have. Could be an eternity if I can't find the TARDIS. Which would be all right for me, I suppose, but it wouldn't do much for your complexion.'

'Doctor, you are babbling.'

'Am I?' He turned suddenly very grumpy. 'Well, babbling clears the mind. It's a well known scientific - anyway, why aren't you doing your bit, instead of criticising, hmm? Your homing instincts ought to be nearly as good as mine. Think, Leela. Think.'

Leela wanted to tell him she was thinking. Instead, she sighed and searched the ghostly expanse above, behind and below.

The snowfall at the moment was a gentle swirl, nowhere near as harsh as the driving - blizzard blizzard, the Doctor had called it - but was dense enough to mask all but the grey bones of the trees below. And the wind still had teeth. She was sure they had worked their way downward, around this slope, projecting from the mountainside like a fist, clad in its glove of white. Their tracks stretched behind them like crudely carved script, but disappeared too soon for their every step to be retraced. They were badly exposed here, easy prey.

Leela tensed, like a deer in a hunter's sights.

The ridgeline above was invisible, but was marked approximately by the grey shapes that came pouring over the crest into view. 'Doctor.'

'I see them,' the Doctor informed her, teeth clenched. 'Never rains but it-' He straightened. 'Do you know, I think they're only coyotes.'

Leela opened her mouth to ask the obvious question. But the Doctor shushed her and placed an arm over her shoulder. 'They're a species of wild dog native to this land, but they won't bother us. Not if we stay perfectly still, try not to attract their attention unnecessarily.' Slowly, he encouraged her into a crouch beside him. He kept his finger across his lips.

'Unless they're hungry,' he added in a whisper.

Leela whispered back, but could not quite hide her annoyance: 'And how will we know if they are hungry, Doctor?'

Oh, I expect they'll try to eat us.'

'Doctor, we should find some better place to hide from these creatures.'

The Doctor never once shifted his gaze from the pack, which was beginning now to resolve itself into individual animals, dark and streamlined. They hurtled their way down the slope, battling against the deep snow, jostling like a teeming shoal of Horda. There was a predatory beauty to their motion, as well as a collective recklessness.

Leela was poised for a sprint.

'We'd never make it,' the Doctor told her only what her instincts had tried to deny.

She watched the staring eyes and the bounding grey forms, the rippling muscles beneath the frosted fur and the contours of ribs as they closed the distance. Many, the majority, looked dangerously lean. She had no choice but to sit still and hope that the pack would run past.

'They do look especially hungry, don't they?' observed the Doctor gloomily.

The lighter popped and Curt Redeker s.n.a.t.c.hed it straight up, sucked at the flame through his cigarette. It was the only heat left in the G.o.dd.a.m.n car. His feet were blocks of ice on the pedals and he was getting the shakes just trying to stay on the road. He drummed his hands along to Creedence's 'Lodi'. More about stopping the shakes than keeping warm.

Jesus, 1-93 was the road to h.e.l.l, but this - he'd never known Martha was going to take the kid to live with the Eskimos. b.i.t.c.h was frigid, she'd be right at home, but making him drive through this s.h.i.t to see his kid for Thanksgiving. Amber.

Sour tears and another case of the shakes: Daddy's late, Precious, days late. Daddy's sorry, honey, can't tell you. But see, your Daddy got himself dressed up and there's presents out in the trunk. Want to step outside with your Daddy, go see?

The suit was aggravating, a bad fit. Curt swallowed dry and the drunken b.u.t.terflies in his gut were coming down hard, begging for another shot. The bottle clinked around below rolling somewhere under the seat. Cursing, he stretched down.

He almost had it, but the bottle slipped loose. Suddenly, the car was sliding like a cow on ice-skates. Curt grabbed the wheel tight, breaking out in a sweat. CC.R were playing second fiddle to the sound of his own breathing. Well, hey, least he was still doing that.

Getting a grip, he scoured the slope, through the frosted windshield, a web of scratches, and all that white dirt being tossed over the hood. It was a downhill stretch, winding between trees in a fogged film. That whiter knife, that had to be a lake. And all those lines and shapes of grey, that had to be a town. A hand-painted sign, nailed to a tree, crept out of the pale murk on his right: HASTE YE BACK, it said. A quaint local feature. it said. A quaint local feature.

'Wish I could,' muttered Curt, deciding he really needed to pull over for a time-out. But he let the miles blur for a time.