Doctor Who_ Head Games Part 16

Chris's thoughts lost all cohesion: his memories drifted, pulled apart on a sluggish tide.

Kat's face. Her expression of hopelessness. Dragged away to die.

All his fault. Why hadn't he listened to her caution?

Chris moaned and retreated into deeper slumber. The guilt didn't hurt so much there.

The crystal was beautiful. It twinkled with a thousand lights, illuminating the black sky as it looked benignly down on its sheep.

123.

He was lying on his back on a stone altar, in the cultist's Great Hall, hovering between consciousness and sleep. He hadn't noticed the hole before, directly above him; the crystal above that. A direct line to the cultist's Miracle.

He dreamed a few minutes more and, when he next sensed reality, it was with curiosity at the realization that his shirt had been stripped from his chest. Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles. It reminded him of a vidfilm, but he couldn't think which one. It didn't matter. Chris was happy to be here. He was having a nice dream, on the whole.

He awoke, next time, to the sound of chanting. A low, mournful tune vocalized by many guttural voices. His nostrils twitched at a sweet, almost sickly scent and he stared up at the hooded face which loomed into view, blocking out his sight of the glistening crystal.

Chris blinked and light was shining in his eyes again: a delicate spark from a metal sliver. A knife, he saw. Sharpened to a keen point. Raised above his chest. He giggled insanely at the prospect of its fall, thinking only of the light preparing to enter him, to warm and comfort his hollow body.

He closed his eyes and prepared for Paradise.

Chris remembered disapproving of the wheezing, groaning sound which interrupted the harmonious moment. He felt dismay as the beautiful singing devolved into a series of frightened yelps.

He woke from his worst dream yet and cried out as white light stabbed into his tender retinas.

Chris sipped at hot coffee. He was sitting in bed, propped up by pillows and fighting drowsiness. The Doctor was leaning earnestly across him, seated by the bedside, telling him everything, though only a fraction of it penetrated his mind.

'I am not the man who plotted to destroy Detrios.' That seemed quite simple. Silly of him to think it, really. 'As I said before, that was my evil double.' Science-fiction cliche or what!

But, somehow, that suited the Doctor. 'You've been an unwitting accomplice of his since he first recruited you.' Oops .

. . bit of cognitive dissonance there. He'd never even met the 124 real Doctor? 'I a.s.sumed you were complicit with his schemes, which is why I tried to trick you by pretending to be him.' No, that sailed straight over his head. 'I could see from your reaction that I was happily mistaken.'

Chris didn't remember the cup being taken from him, but the brown stain on the sheets told him why it had been. 'You're still suffering an adverse reaction to some type of sleeping drug,' the Doctor said (no, 'Dr Who' he had introduced himself). 'I suggest you stay here and sleep it off. My friend and I have an important mission.'

Dr Who stood up, but Chris reached for him. He gripped his wrist with more strength than he thought he possessed.

'Kat'lanna,' he croaked. The alien looked confused, so he added: Detrios.'

'Ah. I see. Well, maybe later. Right now, we have the Doctor's most evil and dangerous sidekick to collect.'

'No!'

Dr Who looked down on him pityingly. 'This is more important, Chris. Whilst any of the Doctor's friends remain at liberty, I feel sure they will press ahead with his plan to completely obliterate Detrios.'

That made sense, sort of. Chris let go, reluctantly. He felt oblivion rushing to claim him.

'That's good,' said Dr Who. 'You do understand. And you are on my side now, aren't you?'

'Your side,' Chris muttered as he sank back into darkness.

He surfaced a second later to hear an unfamiliar young voice, enquiring in concern about his newest friend's health.

'He'll be all right, Jason,' Dr Who said confidently. 'He's seen the light now.'

125.

14.The b.i.t.c.h Is Back20 January 1994. 7.59 a.m.

The older man had his arm around the woman's neck. Her feet kicked out and found his shin. He dropped her and she twisted, knocking him aside. She seemed more interested in the guy behind him, the one with the blond hair and short pants.

She leapt for him.

And froze in mid-air.8.55 p.m.

The picture raced backwards until the figures disappeared.

Will Beecham manipulated the controls and found their point of arrival. He paused the tape again. One frame, the cafe was empty - the next, it became a battleground. The image wavered, blurred by arrested motion.

He wondered if anyone had tampered with the film. He dismissed the notion immediately. What would be the point?

He watched the sequence again, in soundless monochrome, allowing it to run on. The time signature, a digital image in the screen's bottom left corner, notched up another minute.8.00 a.m.

The woman and her target crashed into tables and scattered chairs. The other - the older, shorter man with black hair and a question mark-patterned jersey - was on her, but she shrugged him of and drove her fist into his companion's stomach. He doubled up in pain, and then both men were gone, as suddenly as they had arrived.9.05 p.m.

Beecham blinked and the woman was gone too. The time 126 signature still read 0800. The whole event had taken place in under a minute.

There had only been two people in the building: Ian and Lisa, in the kitchens. Two witnesses to the extraordinary incident. Even they had not seen much. 'The woman shouted two words as she arrived,' they had reported. 'They sounded like "come from".'

n.o.body could work out what that might mean.

Beecham used the jog shuttle to spin the tape back and forth.

He was trying to read the lips of the intruders. He needed all this to make some sense. He wasn't in luck.

He gave up on that segment. There was more to view. He was watching it all for the third time now.

He wound the tape on and pressed 'play'. The screen lit up again with its rigid perspective of the cafe's dining area. It took a moment's twiddling for Beecham to locate the second occurrence.

His staff came into view on the monitor. They were tidying up, shuffling furniture to hide the fact that broken chairs had been removed. They would have to open up late today.

As if she was nothing but a conventional visitor, the woman arrived at 0914. She walked in through the street door this time.9.14 a.m.

Dorothy McShane had decided to pay a visit to the cafe in Glebe; her first one since the Doctor had left.

She caught her reflection in the door gla.s.s above the CLOSED sign, dark hair tied back and trenchcoat drawn about her to hide the organic thing straddling her shoulders. The hopper's breathing rippled the fabric of her fake backpack, but she hoped n.o.body would notice. The rebuilding in Paris, 1873, was going well and Dorothy had remembered her other responsibilities. A few jaunts to acquaint herself with the new hopper, a quick trip to run a message for Benny, then she had come here. To the cafe; its existence a side-effect of a hole punched through s.p.a.ce-time by a woman called Kadiatu in a rogue time vessel. That rift was her responsibility. Her job was to make sure that nothing nasty bred in its cracks. This seemed a good place to start.

127.

'What happened?' she asked, barging through the door.

Should she have checked earlier?

'Sorry, madam, but we're closed for the moment.' The duty manager; tall, bronzed, wavy sandy hair.

'Never mind that, what happened?'

'We don't know,' admitted one of the waiters, righting a table. Someone else was brushing wood splinters onto a shovel.

'We found it like this. You were here last time, weren't you?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'All the weirdness, six months ago. You must think we never have a quiet day.'

If you'd like to come back in ten minutes?'

Six months ago? Time travel! Ace thought. Who needs it?

Still, she could worry about that one when it came up. For now, she needed to find out what had gone on this morning. Kids, she hoped.

She was halfway through the door, intending to wait within sight of the window - just in case - when she heard it. That familiar noise, like a key sc.r.a.ped along a piano string only much slower.

To Ace's considerable surprise, the TARDIS arrived.9.16 a.m.

Jason looked disdainfully at the woman on the screen, standing unruffled as cleaners fled for cover about her. 'She looks the worst of the lot,' he commented. 'I admit, I was a bit unsure about our mission, with that nice-looking Melanie and Chris in there. But this one obviously blows up worlds in her spare time.'

Dr Who's hand hovered over the door control. 'And are you ready to stop her?'

He nodded, reaching beneath the console for a large stick and weighing it in one hand. 'Ambush prepared. Go lure her in.' Dr Who went outside and Jason slipped behind the door, following his progress via the scanner.

He grinned as Ace stepped forward to greet her visitor, unsuspecting. 'I need you,' Dr Who said. 'Get into the TARDIS, I'll give you details en route.' Ace nodded and moved 128 to obey. Jason tensed and shifted his grip on his weapon.

Then, to his horror, the woman whipped around and punched his faithful friend in the bread-basket. She grabbed Dr Who's shoulder and applied a nerve pinch, which fortunately didn't work. The beleaguered alien struck bravely back and the pair became locked in close combat.

Jason dropped his stick (a bad move, he realized immediately) and rushed out to join the fray. He hurled himself onto Ace and pummelled her, but she threw him. He lashed out blindly, but she twisted and he ended up punching Dr Who instead.

Likewise, his friend's attack went awry and the good guys fell, entangled. Now Ace was above them, gun drawn. 'Right,' she said with ice in her voice, 'I spent enough time with the Doctor to know that you're not him. Who are you?'

'We're heroes,' Dr Who proclaimed loftily. 'We have come to arrest you, you evil miscreant.'

She laughed, incredibly. 'You what?' But she had made a mistake: her attention was entirely on Dr Who. Feigning queasiness and half-turning, Jason reached into his blazer and produced . . . hmm, what could it be? Ah . . . a sonic-powered weapon-destruction device.

Ace whirled, too fast, as Jason primed the machine. She fired . . . but the blast was deflected by a circular, red-and white-striped shield which appeared on his arm. Simultaneously, Jason activated the sonic device and Ace's precious gun evaporated.

Dr Who went for her in that instant and brought her down.

'Surrender! I would hate to take your life, it's against all I believe in.'

'Believe in this!' Ace snarled. She knocked him back with the heel of her hand and laid into him, punching again and again until he reeled into the counter.

'Leave him alone!' screamed Jason. This time, his pocket held a rifle. Dr Who was down, unconscious and bloodied, and Ace turned her attention to him.

Now come on,' she said, reaching for the gun, 'you're only a kid, you don't want to go down for murder, do you?'

129.

'I am not!' he protested. 'I'm a grown-up. I'm . . .' He faltered as he tried to remember the year. 'Well, I was sixteen now. But I'm from the future, so I'm even older. So there!' He stuck his tongue out.

Somebody grabbed him from behind. Jason squeaked and fired, but the rifle jerked upwards and he brought a shower of plaster down upon himself. He fell back and Ace leapt, pushing the courageous waitress aside. 'I'll handle this.' She had won, Jason realized, in panic. She was going to torture and mutilate and kill him . . .

That was when the wildly improbable happened.

The room exploded and Ace staggered back, coughing and spluttering in thick smoke which didn't bother Jason one bit. He knew, deep down, that the flames were the doing of his own subconscious, as had been the shield. They wouldn't harm him.

It was sad that the girl must die, but then that's what you got for shooting at goodies.

The despicable Ace yelped painfully as burning air coalesced into a fierce, red sphere, centred upon her. Two seconds later, she was gone and the cafe was back to normal, unscathed by the brief inferno. The staff had evacuated, but Dr Who was up and well and moving across to Jason's side.

'Is she dead?' he asked. 'Did I disintegrate her?'

He shook his head. 'She transferred through time.'

'Without a TARDIS?'

'She had something on her back.

'So what do we do?'

Dr Who produced two handheld plastic devices. 'With these portable time-transference machines,' he said, 'we can lock onto Ace's fourth-dimensional trace. According to my readout, she's travelled forward to just past five to three this afternoon.

We can follow and pounce when she least expects it.'9.21 a.m.

Barely half a minute after the last of the intruders had faded, the woman appeared again, in midair over a table. She hit the ground running, dived over the counter and left the camera's view.

130.

When her pursuers arrived a moment later, they stood, presumably confused by her absence. Then she leapt out, caught them unawares and landed on the younger man's back. She knocked him over, turned and smashed the plastic contraption from his companion's hands with a roundhouse kick. It fell and shattered, the pieces skittering beneath a table.

The woman disappeared. The boy followed immediately afterwards.