Doctor Who

by Alex Kingston

  Oh, and his human hand was pointing a plasma pistol at me.

  Obeying his gestures, I walked backwards until I was up against the desk. He reached behind himself and pushed the door shut without looking away.

  ‘Have we met?’ I said. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, I’m terrible with faces.’

  ‘Name of me is Deff,’ he said (I’d already guessed that, of course, I was just messing with him). ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Where is what?’ I said, which seemed to annoy him, although it was a perfectly reasonable response.

  ‘You knowing already,’ he said.

  Honestly, I like guessing games as much as the next person, but I need to be given a few clues.

  ‘How about we play 20 questions?’ I suggested. ‘Is it alive?’

  ‘Is what?’

  ‘The thing you’re looking for, is it alive?’

  ‘Not of life.’

  ‘Yes or no answers only, please. I’ll take that as a no. Is it … bigger than a police box?’

  He thrust the pistol right into my face, and I saw something on his wrist. Looked like the edge of a Vortex Manipulator.

  ‘You have enough lips.’

  A true observation, if a non sequitur. I suspected a translation device was in play, perhaps ‘enough lip’ or similar had been his intention. But I gave a little kissy moue to demonstrate that the number of lips I have was indeed sufficient.

  He was big and had a lot of pointy bits, but I still had that sharpened nail file in my pocket, and I also have a heliotrope belt in Venusian karate. I rather wanted to see this composite horror horizontal and maybe crying for mercy a little bit. I tensed …

  And he reached into his pocket with his claws and threw something on my desk.

  A photo of my parents.

  But not the photo that had gone missing. A new one. Mum and Dad out in the front yard of their Manhattan garden apartment. Dad pushing an ancient lawnmower, Mum pruning roses.

  ‘Progenitors of you,’ he said. ‘My Homo sapiens has eyeballs on top of them. So do not get any intelligent ideas, sugar-ventricles.’

  ‘Don’t you get any clever ideas either, sweetheart,’ I replied, stony faced. ‘Anyway, I don’t believe you’ve got a man watching my parents. Vortex Manipulators only carry one.’

  He rolled back his sleeve. ‘Carrying two. Latest mannequin, so said the sage. Before I spanked him.’

  The interesting images conjured there meant it was a few moments before I untangled his speech enough to realise I’d heard a ‘wise guy’ say something similar recently about the latest model of Vortex Manipulator.

  A terrible sinking feeling in my stomach, almost as bad as my last trip by VM. Please no …

  No. I knew almost immediately that I didn’t have to worry – Jack was immortal. It couldn’t have been him. Some other poor time agent had fallen into this thug’s clutches. But that moment of fear had been surprisingly painful. It would be a much duller universe without Captain Jack.

  That fear might have subsided, but I was still concerned about my parents. They can handle themselves – well, you don’t survive even a day with the Doctor if you can’t – but they thought they were safe here. They were settling in, settling down. Carving new lives for themselves. Talking about adopting a little brother or sister for me. They’d given up so much to be together, and while I can’t shield them from all the unpleasantness of life – there’s a second world war coming, after all – I didn’t want this for them. I didn’t want to bring danger back into their lives. I may not be the best daughter in the world, but by god I will protect them where I can.

  If this guy was any kind of mobster, he should know that. You don’t mess with family. I might be beaten for now, but I wouldn’t forget.

  ‘Homo sapiens Ventrian is here meeting you. I have prisoner ears.’

  Outwardly calm and cool, my thoughts were racing. Someone – probably that Sukri who’d listened in before – had heard what I said to Ventrian and reported back to Deff. Deff, with all his eyes and ears, had found a time agent and taken his Vortex Manipulator. He might have arrived here minutes after me, but could have spent months tracking me down. And, of course, I knew exactly what he was looking for. The ‘Eye of Horus’.

  ‘All right,’ I said, in a conciliatory tone. ‘I can guess why you’re here. But Ventrian hasn’t arrived. A million things could have gone wrong; he may never turn up. How long are you planning to camp out in my office? It could get rather awkward. We’re decades too early to be able to call out for pizza and there’s nothing good on the telly until 1963.’

  ‘I making entertainment of my own,’ he said, and pointed again at the photo of my parents. I kept calm by imagining the popping sound his all-white eyeballs would make as I stuck some 1930s art deco-style novelty cocktail sticks in them. My clothes already had eyeball juice on them. A bit more would make no difference.

  There was a knock on the door. A proper rat-tat. ‘Package for Miss Malone!’ called a boy’s voice.

  ‘Hold on!’ I called back.

  ‘Not name of you!’ growled Deff.

  ‘For business purposes it is,’ I said. ‘This’ll just be a delivery boy. Paper. Typewriter ribbons. You know?’

  ‘I assassinate.’ He raised his plasma pistol.

  ‘No!’ I tried to get through to him. ‘You want the Device. You kill someone, the Earth authorities’ll turn up – oh, you can kill them too, but you’ll scare off Ventrian. He’ll zap away and you’ll have no idea where in time or space he’ll end up.’

  Unexpectedly, Deff responded to this logic. He backed into the broom closet and indicated that I could open the office door – but that his plasma pistol would be aimed straight at me while I did.

  ‘Package for Miss Malone!’ the boy said again as I opened the door, holding out a brown-paper-wrapped parcel. ‘I had to wait to deliver till just this minute.’ My address was on the wrapper, and written in large black letters alongside it was ‘OPEN NOW – RIGHT NOW, 12.27pm – URGENT’. And I knew the handwriting. It was my mother’s.

  I winked at the delivery boy. ‘I’ll get your tip,’ I said loudly, retreating to my desk and hoping Deff would stay out of sight while we had company – while he was in the cupboard, he couldn’t see clearly what I was doing. ‘I’m sure I’ve got some money here somewhere … ’ I tore open the paper on the parcel. ‘Where did I put it …?’

  The delivery boy lingered, looking as bewildered as I did as I took in the parcel’s contents. There was a book, what seemed to be a set of publisher’s bound proofs, a mock-up of what the finished product might look like. The soft cover showed a dame on the cover, not entirely unlike me, in slinky red dress with a ruby at her throat, a gun in one hand and a cocktail glass in the other. At the top it said THE RUBY’S CURSE: A Melody Malone Mystery. My book. Written by me. Except I’d never finished writing it, let alone sent it to the publisher.

  I put that mystery aside to look at the other item in the parcel. It was my Vortex Manipulator. No question that it was mine, all those mods I’d made meant it stood out in a crowd. But that VM should still be on the wrist of Ventrian. What had happened to him?

  Alongside these was a handwritten note, headed by an Upper West Side address. I pulled a five dollar bill from under the blotter on my desk and held it out to the delivery boy, who came in to collect while I scanned my mother’s familiar script.

  Darling girl,

  What are you up to this time? A Vortex Manipulator and a pile of papyrus scrolls suddenly appears in the living room with instructions that I’m to turn the latter into a book – the scrolls had even been marked with page numbers! – and that both VM and book must be delivered to you on 12 April 1939 at 12.27pm, not a minute either way. Not the strangest thing that’s ever turned up in the living room … but enough about your dad. Anyway, I’ve done as asked, presuming there’d be some terrible paradox if I didn’t, but we want to hear all about it. Come to tea soon. Tea’s better than dinner, Rory’s been practising mak
ing Woolton pie even though I’ve told him rationing won’t start over here until 1942, and I’d like to spare you that horror if I can.

  Your ever-loving mother,

  Amy

  PS I was also told to tell you to put on your Vortex Manipulator now and give this letter to the man who’s going to force his way into existence in exactly three minutes.

  As the delivery boy left with a beaming ‘Thank you!’ I strapped the VM on to my wrist just as Deff emerged from the cupboard. ‘What is in lovely present?’ he demanded.

  I held up the book. ‘My latest magnum opus,’ I said. ‘Didn’t Sukri tell you I was a writer? If you like, I can read you a few pages – just don’t post any spoilers on the internet, there’s a good gangster.’

  My brain was racing, even as I spoke. Who’d sent the manuscript to Amy? Me? Papyrus suggested ancient Egypt, of course, but I currently had no intention of going there.

  I assumed the person about to materialise was Ventrian. He’d be disorientated from his journey through the Vortex, a sitting duck for Deff. I needed to buy him some time. Deff was nasty – but he wasn’t clever. That was my big advantage.

  ‘If you don’t want to scare away Ventrian,’ I told Deff, ‘you’ll get back in that cupboard. Look, he trusts me. I can get the Eye of Horus for you. You know I won’t double cross you – not with my parents’ lives on the line.’

  ‘If you not give me Optic of Horus – I am butchering them.’

  I didn’t know if that was a mistranslation or an accurate summation of his plans. I didn’t want to find out.

  There was a shimmer in the air. Right on time. An outline, twisting and turning. Faint cries coming and going. Someone was trying to materialise, and 1939 was not making it easy for them.

  ‘That’s him!’ I told Deff. ‘Please – I’ll get you the Eye.’

  He retreated into the cupboard again, like a good little gangster.

  The outline became solid, revealing Ventrian, his face green with nausea. My eyes went straight to his wrist. Yes, that was still my VM he was wearing. I took a step back just in case. Blinovitch doesn’t usually kick in with inanimate objects, but it’s not worth taking the risk. I’m very attached to my arm and would hate to see it explode.

  ‘R-river,’ he stammered.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’ll wear off in a few minutes. I should have warned you it might be a rough ride – but there wasn’t a lot of time.’

  While I spoke I was scanning him up and down. There was nothing in his hands, but I had no idea what size the ‘Eye of Horus’ Device was. It could easily be in a pocket, and he had several.

  I needed him out of here. I manoeuvred so I was between Ventrian and the broom cupboard and tried to tell him with my eyes that he needed to leave. He didn’t get it – he was still groggy from the trip. I got more insistent, now bringing up my wrist as slowly and carefully as I could so Deff wouldn’t see the movement, and pointedly indicating the VM.

  I kept on talking, keeping my voice calm. ‘Anyway, welcome to the twentieth century. You’ll like it, I think. Maybe you’ll never want to leave!’ And on the word ‘leave’, there I am, tapping like crazy on the Vortex Manipulator again. Ventrian’s still blank. I wouldn’t want him on my team for charades at Christmas.

  But then he seemed to pull himself together. ‘River,’ he managed to say. ‘I got it … ’ And he reached into a pocket …

  ‘No!’ I shouted, and dived forward.

  I heard the closet door open. Ventrian’s eyes were suddenly wide with fear. An energy beam nearly grazed my shoulder. It didn’t entirely miss its mark – Ventrian was hit, but he wasn’t down. Remembering mother’s message, I thrust her letter at him then slammed my hand heavily on Ventrian’s wrist – the fast return switch. He vanished. I hit the fast return switch on the VM I was wearing. I guess, from Deff’s perspective, I vanished too.

  But where would I reappear?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EGYPT, 30 BCE

  The room I was in was unlit, but even so I could tell it was a crude, simple place. The first thing I saw in the gloom was Ventrian, who was lying on a wooden bunk. He looked up at me and smiled. And said, ‘I’ve used it too much, but it had to be done. I’m going to die now … ’

  I dropped my book on the floor and knelt by the bed. ‘Hold on, I can help … ’

  A weak shake of the head. ‘No. This is the right time and place for me to end. I just had to keep going until I’d found a way … I wish I could have destroyed it myself, but I’m too close to it. Still, I’ve told you how. Destroy the Eye, River.’

  The ‘er’ at the end of my name turned into a long, drawn-out syllable, a rattling exhalation. No inhalation followed. I pulled back the sheet and laid my head on his chest, but could detect no movement.

  Of course, I tried to resuscitate him, but without success.

  I’d thought at first that this was where the Vortex Manipulator had brought Ventrian, and he’d been too badly wounded by Deff to survive. But as soon as I’d got close enough to see him properly, I’d realised that couldn’t have been the case.

  When he’d arrived in my office, Ventrian had been in prison overalls, but the body was wearing a linen tunic. Linen strips had been used as bandages, but they couldn’t cover up the extent of the wound. Pus had soaked through the fabric; jagged red lines shot out from the covered flesh like miniature lightning bolts. The smell of rotting flesh filled the room. This was not a wound that had been inflicted mere moments ago.

  But where was I? And when?

  There was a faint glow coming through the room’s one window, leavening the gloom.

  I looked out. The light was coming from some distance away, across water. A tall structure – maybe half the height of 30 Rockefeller Plaza – stood out there, and the light came from a fire burning at its top.

  Oh yes. I knew where I was. That was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World: the Pharos lighthouse, standing on an island in the harbour of Alexandria. Built in the third century BCE, eventually destroyed by earthquakes.

  This was undoubtedly Ancient Egypt.

  I’d told Ventrian to hide the Device somewhere with no technology, and my Vortex Manipulator had voice controls. Only last night – how ridiculous that it was only last night! – I’d read him the latest chapter of my book – the book about Cleopatra’s ruby. Egypt would have been right there in his head. The fast return switch had taken him away from Deff, and he’d had to think of a hiding place without my help. So he’d chosen to come here.

  Alexandria was on the Mediterranean Sea at the end of the Nile Delta – by 1939 much of it would be underwater, causing many problems for archaeologists. A mere hundred or so miles away would be the Great Pyramids and the Sphinx, and enough sand to make a life-size sandcastle or two.

  Maybe tomorrow I’d have time to be a tourist. Now I had to figure out what was going on right here.

  I examined the room by the light of the distant flames. It was surprisingly similar to a Stormcage cell. There was the wooden bunk with linen sheets bunched untidily at the foot, a wooden stool and a table with what I took to be an oil lamp made of clay on it, a dish of something black and oily, and some food. There, this primitive dwelling beat the prison hands down: there was bread, figs, dates and pomegranates, as well as a jug of rather lumpy-looking liquid that smelled fermented. Not quite the Manhattans that Melody Malone drank, but better than nothing – I’d not had anything but food pills and recycled water rations for quite some time, so this was a feast. Poison didn’t appear to have played a part in Ventrian’s death, so I had no qualms in tucking in to a few dates. I was just contemplating peeling a pomegranate when I spotted something under the table. A few rolls of papyrus – most blank, but some with writing on.

  Underneath them was Amy’s letter, grubby now, as though it had been consulted over and over again.

  I picked up one of the papyrus rolls. I could make out some words, some sentences, with lines through them. ‘I wa
s wearing the red dress again’ – crossed out. ‘I got ready for the meeting with Wallace’ – crossed out. ‘“Gee, Miss Malone,” Phil said, “You look’ – crossed out.

  What I didn’t find was anything that resembled a catastrophically powerful device of any kind.

  Of course, I didn’t assume it would have flashing lights and a big arrow pointing to it. Having checked Ventrian’s clothing and found nothing, I examined every single thing in that room. Remembering a scene from The Ruby’s Curse, I delved deep, straining the liquid in the jug and the dish of what seemed to be ink, in case something was hidden inside. There was nothing inside the oil lamp, nothing baked into the clay of the few pieces of crockery. Could the gadget disguise itself as a piece of fruit? Well, it wasn’t impossible. I guessed I’d find that out if eating some gave me indigestion and dominion over all – but it didn’t seem likely. My money was on the nominal Eye of Horus being elsewhere.

  ‘I’ve told you how. Destroy the Eye, River.’

  I don’t like being told what to do.

  After all, this situation wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t dug up this Device, I hadn’t used it, I hadn’t destroyed a planet (well, not that particular planet, at least). Yes, it was my conversations with Ventrian being overheard that had brought Deff to the prison, but that was on Deff, it wasn’t on me.

  Why shouldn’t I just go back to 1939? Yes, there are issues about time travel to 1939 New York, but I’d get to the right spot eventually. Go to the Upper West Side before Deff’s goon turns up to threaten my parents. Return to my office and I’d have the advantage over Deff any day. I’d be on my home turf, and I’d be angry. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

  But what of the Eye? Ancient Egypt may not be a place of electronics and computers but those advancements would come. The Eye would just bide its time. If I left here now, there might not be a 1939 to get back to. It’s why time travel is – or should be – such a responsibility. Tread on a butterfly and the future changes entirely. I once destroyed the whole of time in order to keep someone I love alive. Luckily, it got better (and it did make my wedding day especially memorable).