Doctor Who_ Unnatural History Part 35

It was filled with old oaken furniture in a vague sense of disarray books in piles, clothes dumped on the four-poster bed like their owner was about to walk in and clean them up. It all looked impossibly homey surrounded by the nebulous walls a stage full of props, but with the barest hint of scenery.

So this was her room. Just the way she'd left it.

The corner of the bed was wrinkled, in just the spot she always sat on at home. A tangle of cords and clips that was either rock-climbing equipment or bondage gear lay in a heap beside the bed. An acoustic guitar was propped up against the wardrobe.

I'd always meant to learn the guitar, she thought. And get outdoors more.

On the old-fashioned writing desk, a holographic photo of some bloke who looked a bit like Fitz but a lot more cute. Jane Eyre Jane Eyre, with an Amnesty International bookmark about six pages in. An old Star Trek Star Trek novel, the bookmark two thirds of the way through. An ecology textbook and a biography of Simone de Beauvoir. novel, the bookmark two thirds of the way through. An ecology textbook and a biography of Simone de Beauvoir.

A few blank postcards, never sent.

A sc.r.a.pbook. Sam opened it at a random page. A train ticket, a torn bit of greenish paper, a newspaper clipping. We are not alone: UFO conference comes to Newbury.

It was like reading someone else's diary. Sam closed the sc.r.a.pbook, guiltily.

She turned helplessly around, looking at the room, feeling the weight of all her things things pressing in on her. pressing in on her.

'If you don't want to stay in here,' Fitz said hesitantly from the doorway, 'There's some s.p.a.ce in my room. . . '

He was hesitating just outside, so she reached out a hand for him to join her.

'She's done so much. . . ' she whispered.

'She's always starting things,' Fitz said, wandering into the room. 'But they don't finish. She's been talking about another rock-climbing trip to Grimsbridge for weeks now, but something always comes up. And this. . . ' He hefted the Freeze-Frame 215.

guitar by its neck. 'I was teaching her a few chords. Just for fun, you know, someone to play with. And it was a gas. She said she'd always meant to learn it. But after a while, we never seemed to get back to it. . . '

'Maybe someday,' she said.

They sat down next to each other on the bed, sitting thigh to thigh, eyes meandering around the room rather than daring to look at each other. A lone b.u.t.terfly randomed in and settled on the desk, wings heaving.

'He needs her,' Fitz said. His voice was gentle, but somehow resolved. 'Sam, I mean. He needs someone who really believes in the things he does. I think that's why I've been trying to clean up my act lately. I don't know how he'd hold up if his only friend was a cowardly cynical old sod like me. . . '

She gave him a stern look. 'If you keep saying things like that, I might have to snog you again.'

'My point is, he needs a Sam Jones. And you're doing a better job at being Sam Jones than I am.' He exhaled sharply through his teeth, and bugged his eyes out. 'For one thing, if I don't have a smoke soon I'm going to eat my own head.'

Now it was her turn to feel shaky. 'I don't think I'm good enough.'

'You're good enough for me.'

They had enough time for a brief kiss, and then Fitz said he was heading back to the console room. She could understand: the bedroom was freaking him out. But she wanted to stay a little longer. She wandered over to the writing desk, flipping through the sc.r.a.pbook just once more.

Maybe someday, she'd said. She hadn't thought about what it would mean when she'd said it.

Except that when she walked through that door, the Hunt would be sweeping through pretty much constantly. Whatever version of her made it back here if any of her did might not even want want to go with them. No matter how sure she was what she wanted, it might just be true for this one moment even if that moment in here was stretched as long as she could manage. She still couldn't shape the future. to go with them. No matter how sure she was what she wanted, it might just be true for this one moment even if that moment in here was stretched as long as she could manage. She still couldn't shape the future.

Unless.

She stood there, staring at the things on the desk. Somehow she could feel the seconds ticking again, louder and louder, faster and faster. Closing in.

Finally, she picked up a postcard. She sat down on the corner of her bed and began to write.

Chapter Nineteen.

Buying Time.

There was dark, and wild water, and the Hunt all around. Anything else was up for grabs.

She was standing next to Fitz near the base of the Golden Gate Bridge he in a knee-length leather coat, she in her denim jacket. Ahead of them the Doctor's coat whipped in the wind. A series of posts linked with waist-high chains marked the edge of the land.

You couldn't see the water, but you could hear it, and you could feel it. Great waves were slapping up against the rocks, spraying their faces, spilling up on to the road. Was the tide coming in, or going out? The waves crashed together, black water fighting itself in confusion.

To their right, to the east, San Francisco was a shape made of lights, curving around the sh.o.r.eline. Somewhere in there, the scar was wide open.

The Wild Hunt was moving through continuously now not starting and stopping, just ebbing and flowing. It made Sam think of trips to the seaside, standing out in the water, the steady lift and suck of the waves. She kept her feet firmly planted, riding out each rushing ripple.

The Doctor had brought something from the TARDIS, something he had dragged across the floor, and then gingerly lifted out and carried down to the edge of the water. Now he bent down, unwrapping layers of black cloth from the shape. It was a triangle, a thick wedge, about three feet tall.

He handed bunches of black silk to Fitz and Sam, the long scarves whipping in the wind. Sam scrunched hers down, trying to keep a grip.

It looked like a huge metronome, made from frosted green gla.s.s, filled with swirls of white. Sam crouched down beside it. Two triangular panes of gla.s.s, with a heavy pendulum trapped between them, some kind of complex mechanism beneath it. The Doctor ran back to the shattered blur in the night that was the TARDIS, trailing the ma.s.s of black silk.

She glanced up at Fitz. He said something that she couldn't hear. She turned, following his gaze out into the Bay.

217.

The Kraken was coming up out of the water. She could barely make it out it was still far away, but she knew at once what it was. The impression of something rising the sense of a tentacle, stretching itself against the sky.

You couldn't see it with your eyes, not really. It didn't exist to be seen. Any impressions your brain attached to it huge, dark, threat threat were just an acci-dent, your mind trying to get a handle on something it couldn't imagine. Not like the TARDIS sh.e.l.l, pulling a neat bundle of friendly-looking strings in your brain to give you a sense of making sense. This thing had its masks down. were just an acci-dent, your mind trying to get a handle on something it couldn't imagine. Not like the TARDIS sh.e.l.l, pulling a neat bundle of friendly-looking strings in your brain to give you a sense of making sense. This thing had its masks down.

But when it turned like that, you knew just what it was. It was the A-bomb.

It was G.o.dzilla. It was the Big One. It was an Act of G.o.d.

The Kraken was the city killer. It was going to smash buildings, gouge up roads, flood streets, send cable cars torn loose and rolling.

She turned back to the TARDIS. The Doctor emerged, carrying two great cables, each as thick as his arm. He pushed his hair out of his face as he fought his way through the wind and back to the metronome.

The tips of the cables weren't plugs, but huge crystals, covered in facets and spikes. The Doctor dragged them to the green gla.s.s machine. He rested for a moment, and then lifted the cables and touched the crystals to the gla.s.s.

The crystals broke into thousands of tiny pieces, melting into the gla.s.s, running back along the cables. The connection flared with light, the metronome beginning to shine with a ghostly green hue. The water picked up the glow in flecks and arcs, scattered out across the Bay.

The metronome began to tick. With the first sound, solid and heavy as wood, a great ripple of light shot out from the device in all directions. Tock. Sam felt it pa.s.s through her, like a breeze. Tick. How far did that signal reach? Tock.

The Doctor was staring out at the water. 'The bulk of it is still in the higher dimensions,' he shouted. 'But there's more than enough of it in our three-s.p.a.ce to flatten downtown San Francisco on its way to the scar.'

He stood straight, his hair flying back, his face set with determination. She could hardly believe that ten minutes ago he'd been bent with despair. 'We can't distract it from the scar for ever. But this signal will confuse it. Eventually, after a bit of wandering back and forth, it will make its way to the sh.o.r.e here and devour the machine.'

'What about the TARDIS?' shouted Sam.

'It's just providing the power,' the Doctor replied. 'The Kraken shouldn't be interested in it.' He looked down at the water sloshing around his ankles. It might get a bit damp with the doors open, though.'

218.

Someone laughed. It was a high, sneering sound, carrying on the wind. They turned.

The little boy was watching them, leaning on one of the posts and grinning like a gargoyle.

The storeroom of the music shop was far from the wind and rain. There was no noise, except for a slow, painful sound of twisting wood.

The unnaturalist's cabinet was uncurling itself, twisting in corkscrews and spirals. Hidden drawers and sliding shelves popped open as the box's shape distorted and heaved.

At last a single drawer slid open. Griffin's long fingers gripped the polished wood as he lifted his slight body out of the cabinet, panting.

He spent a few minutes carefully checking the cabinet, running his hands obsessively over the wooden surface, packing the drawers away. They slid smoothly into position, just as they should. He went on folding the cabinet until it was small enough to fit into his pocket, and slid it into his coat.

Then he stood still for a few moments. There was something dreadfully wrong with the city he sensed it at once. The moire of conflicting higher-dimensional signals made his fingers tingle and ache.

He stalked out into the battered store, went to the window that looked out on to the street. Outside, a storm was raging, rain lashing at the gla.s.s and tearing past the buildings in hard waves. The water was lit up in the higher dimensions, brilliant sheets of green and white.

There were no humans to be seen, no other creatures of flesh and blood.

They would all be sheltering inside the buildings, the best they could. But the surges of energy pulsing towards the focal point, he could see them now. To him they spoke of hounds and monsters, rushing past the window over and over, an undefinable cloud of barking and howling and screaming and legs and feet, running along, swept along.

The Doctor had done this. He had turned the peaceful, orderly city into this chaotic maelstrom. He, with his undisciplined thoughts, his irresponsible uncla.s.sifiability, his logic-defying escapes (for which there was still no real evidence, none at all, lies and fabrication all of it). . . He had violated the laws of nature, laughed at logic, refused to make sense.

The unnaturalist understood at once. The storm, the chaos, this Wild Hunt, they were all a manifestation of the Doctor's own mind. His instability, his madness, made real by the web of his biodata. San Francisco was caught up in the net of his nonsense.

219.

Only Griffin could stop him. He knew exactly what to do. Oh yes. Only Griffin could put everything back the way it was supposed to be, everything in its place. No loose ends, no randomness, no ambiguity. Pinned down, for ever.

There was a yawning sound, and then the gla.s.s exploded inward. Griffin allowed it to harmlessly pa.s.s through his body.

Then he set out into the storm to stop the Doctor.

'You've got yourself into such a mess,' said the boy. 'This'll buy you ten, maybe fifteen minutes.'

'At least an hour,' said the Doctor.

'You're kidding yourself.

Besides, look at the storm traffic's stopped throughout the city. People are stuck in their cars, or they've left 'em and run for shelter. How fast can you get to the alleyway, huh?'

The Doctor walked towards the boy, looking as though he wanted to strangle him. 'You '

'We can make it all go away.'

'What?'

The boy straightened up, putting his hands in his pockets and strolling right up to the Doctor. He said, 'We'll enfold all these events in a paradox so it never happened. The city is saved, all those thousands of people get to live.

Everything is put back the way it's supposed to be.'

'No,' said the Doctor.

'Sounds like a good deal!' shouted Fitz, through the rain. 'We don't have '

'No,' the Doctor yelled. 'Because there's '

'There's a price,' said the boy.

The Doctor stared. Fitz and Sam stared. The Wild Hunt rolled on, ever louder.

The boy said, 'We want Sam.'

Chapter Twenty.

The City Killer.

Fitz grabbed Sam's hand, shuffling slightly in front of her. Putting himself between her and the Doctor. The look she caught on his face said he'd much rather be hiding behind her. But he was holding tightly on to her hand.

No way, thought Sam. She watched the Doctor, getting ready to fight or run.

'No deal,' said the Doctor.

Her heart leapt. The boy's face contorted, denied sweets. 'Why not, huh?'

'Because I know who you are.'

The Doctor took a sudden menacing step towards the boy. Sam found herself getting out of their path as quickly as she could. She was sloshing through water, nearly as deep as her ankles.

'Oh, not your name even you you don't think that's important,' the Doctor went on. 'But I know everything that matters.' don't think that's important,' the Doctor went on. 'But I know everything that matters.'

He was bearing down on the boy, a tightly controlled fierceness in every step.