Doctor Who_ Unnatural History Part 10

The Doctor appeared in the doorway, clothes miraculously arranged and b.u.t.toned. 'Ah, Fitz. How was dinner?'

Sam wiggled her eyebrows at Fitz suggestively. He said drily, 'I don't usually take part in an occult ceremony on the first date. Kyra's got a map of energy lines running through the city. She showed me some pretty serious stuff. You'll want to have a look at it.'

The Doctor nodded and clapped his hands together. 'The more we can tell the Time Lords, the better.'

'Hey,' said Sam. 'When is that cube thing coming back?'

'About now,' said the Doctor. 'Catch!'

Sam's hands leapt up to catch the cube.

Nothing happened.

The Doctor's eyes stayed fixed on where the cube should have appeared.

The rest of his body slowly came to rest, like a wind-up toy whose spring had finally run down. He managed a couple more tentative steps, and finally sagged against the wall. All he could manage was a tiny shrug.

'Well,' he murmured. 'I'm open to suggestions.'

Day Zero Minus One The ones who aren't scared of the idea of aliens tend to see them as being above us somehow. Ancient sources of knowledge and wisdom, who can solve all our problems or give us the punishment we deserve. And I can dig that. They want Daddy in the sky, that great unreachable father who towered over them when they were kids.

But then all the other Big Daddy baggage gets attached to that. What you know, what you can do, you figure none of it can measure up to him. Daddy's better than you 'cause he's older, right? He's more significant. He's bigger than you.

Well my daddy couldn't run a word processor to save his life. I knew stuff he'd never understand, just like he did for me. And so I got to have a life he didn't not worse, just different. How come people forget that our own life, our world, can be just as interesting as Big s.p.a.ce Daddy's?

And yeah, my daddy was an alien too. From Tijuana.

Eldin Sanchez, Interesting Times Interesting Times, 7 November 2002

Chapter Six.

The Unnaturalist.

Fitz walked up the hill, into position. He was learning to pace himself on these steep streets. Chinatown was full of detail, full of ornamentation, just like in London; street lights dressed up as red lanterns, curved wooden thingies on the corners of roofs, characters picked out in gold on red signs.

The others should be almost ready. They'd dropped him off a couple of blocks away, said they'd give him ten minutes to hit his mark before they made their move.

Early morning, not many people, not much going on. Fitz stopped outside a restaurant, pretending to examine the menu taped to the window. The reflection gave him a good view of the street, the alleyway that led back between two shops.

The menu caught his eye for a moment, handwritten in rich, complex strokes.

He'd never learned to read Chinese, not properly, even after months in the Collective. He grimaced, pushed the memory to the back of his mind.

There was a row of newspaper vending machines lining the pavement. Fitz pushed a quarter into one and took out the paper, still watching the alley.

He'd left the trench coat and fedora in the Bug, and put on a ghastly blue-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt and a vast pair of sungla.s.ses. With his unkempt hair free of the hat, he was about as disguised as he could get without theatrical supplies.

It wasn't until he leaned casually against a wall and started pretending to read that he realised the paper was in Chinese too.

A few minutes later, the Doctor quietly parked the Bug in a narrow street which formed a cross with the alley.

Sam had already spotted Fitz loitering out on the main street, at the mouth of the alleyway. 'He stands out like a sore thumb,' she told the Doctor.

'You have to admit,' said the Doctor, 'he doesn't look much like the man the grey men attacked yesterday.'

69.'Right,' said Sam. 'What do I do?'

The Doctor opened the door, leaving the engine running. 'You speak very nicely to any police officers who happen to come along, and a.s.sure them your uncle will be back in a moment to move the car.'

'And if a dozen guys in grey turn up?'

'Honk the horn,' said the Doctor. 'But not too early.' He shut the door behind him.

Sam turned in her seat, trying to see in all directions at once, and wondering if she could manage to drive the Bug if she had to.

In the alley, the back of a shop was open, workers chatting while they opened crates of fish and vegetables.

The Doctor strode past them, towards the back wall, towards the scar. It bent the s.p.a.ce around it, softly; he could feel those invisible curves as he walked, like a gentle pressure, pushing him to the side. You wouldn't be able to walk right up to the scar, touch it, unless you knew it was there and aimed yourself at it.

Which was exactly what Sam had done, of course.

The Doctor stopped, a few feet from the scar. It hadn't destroyed her, he reminded himself again. It had changed her, brought different aspects, different possibilities to the fore. It was little different from the renewals he underwent at unpredictable intervals.

Three years ago as the clock chimes he had lain bleeding in this alleyway on a cold and dangerous December evening. Hours later he had shed one cold skin for another, stumbling out into a new life, tangled in a shroud.

A day after that, the Eye of Harmony deep inside the TARDIS had opened wide, and the damage to s.p.a.ce-time had begun, like a small s...o...b..ll beginning its swelling roll downhill.

He could see the TARDIS, locked deep inside the labyrinthine structure of the scar. He could follow the way s.p.a.ce was crumpled and crinkled in there, like an old handkerchief, the way the TARDIS's structures were bent and warped to reach every corner of the wound, to bind it together, hold it safe. All her strength diverted to her police-box plasmic sh.e.l.l, trying to hold herself together.

He'd known she wasn't ready for this, he'd known. When he'd first set course for the San Francisco anomalies he'd detected, he'd felt the shaky vibrations in her floor under his feet. She'd been so badly damaged at their last port of call, she needed more time to heal. In the end he'd made her hold off, and they'd 70 spent weeks doing nothing more strenuous than tracking down and gathering the flotsam they'd lost into the vortex when she'd been ripped open.

But now she was being torn apart. Again. This time because he'd put her there.

Her cries. . .

The TARDIS's cries were like a constant aching in the back of his skull, like a headache that threatened but wouldn't come on. She hurt, she hurt, she was outraged at this treatment. Wasn't he going to save her? When would he save her?

'Soon,' he whispered. 'Today. I hope.'

He was lying. He'd let her die, if it came to that. If freeing her meant putting the city at risk from what was coming.

'No,' he said, but they both knew it was true.

The alley around her was too grey for comfort, the walls too close. Sam kept twisting and turning in her seat, trying to watch the Doctor, the street, everywhere, feeling grey eyes on her. Ready for a quick getaway. Her stomach was clenched with excitement and a little fear.

This is kind of fun, she thought. But imagine doing it every day.

She craned her neck to look at the Doctor, who stood before the scar like a mourner at a funeral. His face was too young to look so lost. It didn't have enough lines to bring it out.

She'd almost reached out and gently touched his arm as he'd got out of the car, but she'd thought better of it. Somehow it felt like that would only be adding to his problems.

It had all seemed so simple the previous night the angry bits of her and the scared bits and all the other bits had all wanted the same thing. Now in the cold morning light, as he stared at the bit of s.p.a.ce he'd warped and mangled, she couldn't shake the sense that she'd almost done something really dangerous dangerous.

Better just let that one pa.s.s.

Sam turned the rearview mirror and pulled the sticking plaster off her forehead. The cut was surrounded by a yellowing bruise. She wondered if it would leave a scar.

Something in the reflection caught her eye. That had to be a bit of grey, closing in on them from the end of the cross-street.

Come on, hurry up, try to grab us. This was taking too long for her nerves to stand.

71.Fitz peered over the top of his paper for the fiftieth time.

There was a grey-uniformed man across the street. He was standing at a postbox, turning a letter around and around in his hands, as though trying to decide whether to post it.

It wasn't really a uniform, thought Fitz, so much as just very dull clothes, hard to describe. He'd been trying hard to blend in all week, but these guys could blend in with a wall.

The man just stood there, fiddling with the letter. From time to time he raised his grey head, glanced towards the alley, then across the street. Then back to the postbox, turning the envelope in his hands as though he was stuck in a loop.

Fitz watched as the man looked across the street again. What was he There!

Another one of them, leaning on a big grey van, flipping through the pages of a street directory.

'They don't know where we are,' the Doctor had said back in the hotel, while Fitz tried to unstick his eyelids and wondered how the Doctor had got into his room. 'But they found us at the alley. That means '

'They know about the scar,' said Fitz. 'They were watching it.'

The Doctor nodded. 'Now it's their turn.'

The Doctor came striding back out of the alley, fast, and slid into the Bug. A moment later the Bug pulled out and raced away.

A moment after that, the grey men's reinforcements showed up. A man walking down the street, slowly, eyes down. Two more silently emerging from a bus. This must have been exactly what happened the last time, thought Fitz they spotted us, they sent for their friends, and then they clobbered us. Only this time we knew they were coming, and watched for the watchers.

The grey men milled around a bit, like ants who've lost the trail. Fitz watched them from behind his newspaper, hoping he didn't catch their attention as they grouped and regrouped, taking turns to stare down the alley.

Five minutes later, Sam walked up to Fitz. She was wearing his fedora, crammed down over her dark hair, and a denim jacket b.u.t.toned down the front to keep the wind out.

'There are six of them,' he murmured.

'What are they doing?' said Sam.

'I don't know, really. They've just sort of been wandering around.'

'Didn't they try to follow us?'

Fitz shrugged. 'They started but gave up. It's like they only had half a set of instructions. They don't know what to do next.'

72.An elderly woman was unlocking the door of the restaurant. 'There's nothing to do now but wait until they go,' said Fitz. 'See where they lead us. Fancy some tea?'

The Volkswagen's brakes whimpered a little as he rode them the whole way down the hill. But, while it might squeak a bit, it never really complained. A real trouper, the old Bug was, and it fitted the Doctor like a comfortable slipper.

There was still one more chance, one more person who may be able to help.

If I could find him, he thought.

Sam would be fine. Fitz would take care of her. Good at keeping himself out of danger, he'd keep her her out of danger, too. Find out more about the grey men, follow them home, but stay clear of trouble. out of danger, too. Find out more about the grey men, follow them home, but stay clear of trouble.

The Bug was the perfect car for a time traveller. You could drive it on any road on Earth throughout at least half a century and not look out of place.

Focus on what you're doing. Focus.

He'd start his search at the campus of the University of California, Berkeley.

Perhaps someone there would have a forwarding address, a half-remembered phone number, a hint, a clue. It was worth a try. At this point, anything was worth a try.

The screeching started halfway down Powell Street.

For a moment he thought it must be the car. Loud metallic jingling in his left ear, drilling its way through his head to the other side. He gritted his teeth, gripped the wheel, insisting it was not there not there as it burrowed through. His eyes stayed fixed on the road. as it burrowed through. His eyes stayed fixed on the road.

Finally it faded, and he exhaled and tried to piece together the broken crock-ery of his thoughts.

His right hand jerked sharply, suddenly, spinning the wheel. A car on the other side of the road blasted its horn and swerved away. The Doctor spun the wheel back hard with his left hand as his right hand marionetted up and down.

At the first chance he pulled over. Turned the wheels to the kerb, pushed the gearstick into neutral, waited for the symptoms to subside. His right hand was still clenching and jumping. The tremors, the sharp reds, all the different signals pa.s.sing through his body, as someone poked at his brain. Like an experimenting child. Hey, what does this b.u.t.ton do? Hey, what does this b.u.t.ton do?

Concentrate on something. Anything that wasn't part of all this. Three point one four one five. . . So twice five miles of fertile ground. . . A Delphonian, a Tythonian and a Tersuron walk into a bar. . . The punchline was spiralling away from him, lost.

73.He clambered out of the Bug and stared at its customised Y2K number plate until it stopped bending into the fourth dimension.

Finally it was over.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat from his face. He was going to have to rely on the tender mercies of public transport. Let them do the driving he'd devote every bit of his mind to saving the city.

To a bus stop, then.

Better turn the engine off first. At least he hadn't had the presence of mind to lock the door when he'd got out.

He stumbled towards the nearest Muni sign. The whole world seemed to be rotated at an odd angle. Then again, he was on a hillside.

The next bus was heading down towards the Transbay terminal. That was good. The bus driver gave him an odd look as he climbed aboard. That was bad. He paid the fare with something or other and settled into a seat.