Doctor Who: Harvest of Time

by Alastair Reynolds

  ‘Well?’ Lethbridge-Stewart called.

  ‘Definitely Sild, Brigadier. I’m afraid the Earth is in very great peril.’

  The Doctor eased between the soldiers. The ambulator’s remaining limbs were still thrashing, trying to loosen the robot’s grip. But now the Sild became aware of the Doctor’s approach. The Doctor halted and rolled up his sleeve, not wishing to be encumbered by folds of loose fabric.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the Brigadier demanded.

  ‘Something I may well have cause to regret.’ The Doctor positioned himself before the Sild. He moved his hand slowly in, aiming for the cylinder on the crab’s back. The legs and tentacles jabbed for his flesh, but failed to make contact. The Doctor pulled back his arm.

  ‘Good grief, man. Are you quite mad?’

  ‘Far from it,’ the Doctor called back. ‘I was taught the rudiments of snake charming by the finest swami in old Calcutta. Just before the siege of Khartoum! If I can just time my strike …’

  He darted in again, but lost his nerve at the last moment. The Sild was quick – very quick. He would have to bluff it. He made another approach, a feint this time, and withdrew the instant the legs and tentacles began to whip in his direction. But then he struck again, and this time continued the movement, allowing the tentacles to strike his bunched-up sleeve, and his fingers closed around the cylinder. He only had one chance, and it had to be fast. He snapped the cylinder free, and fell sprawling back onto the sand. The glass was still intact. He held the little canister in his hand.

  The ambulator, denied its pilot, had become still. The Sild – the true Sild – was in the container. And now it really was harmless.

  The Doctor scrambled to his feet, dusted sand from his knees and elbows, and made his way back to the Brigadier.

  ‘There’s your enemy.’

  The Brigadier took the glass cylinder between his fingers. He held it up to the sky, squinting dubiously. ‘That?’

  ‘That,’ the Doctor affirmed.

  ‘But it’s just …’

  ‘A tiny little thing, yes. Barely larger than your little finger. And rather beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘It looks like a seahorse. And those colours – blues and greens. It’s almost like it’s lit up. Like little illuminated gems.’

  ‘What you are looking at, Brigadier, is one of the most vicious and belligerent life forms the universe has ever thrown up.’

  ‘What did you say these little blighters are called?’

  ‘Sild. A small name, for a small terror. One I’d rather hoped we wouldn’t hear from.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned them before.’ The Brigadier was still fascinated by the thing in the glass container.

  ‘For a very good reason. They shouldn’t exist. The last Sild were rounded up and locked away a billion or so years ago, under the authority of the Time Lords. They were locked aboard a ship, along with a thousand other horrors. And then the ship was destroyed.’

  ‘Evidently not. Well, what of this one? Can we extract any information from it?’

  ‘Not unless you’ve experience in the interrogation of tiny alien sea creatures.’

  ‘I thought as much. You say these things are ruthless?’

  ‘As ruthless as anything we’ve ever encountered.’

  The Brigadier nodded. ‘You know, I’ve a good mind to drop this thing on the ground and step on it. But I don’t suppose you’d approve of that, would you?’

  ‘Categorically not.’

  ‘Benton!’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  ‘Coordinate the delivery of this specimen to the boffins at Porton Down. We may be able to take these things out with bullets, but if they start arriving in droves we’ll need some biological or chemical agent we can disperse over a large area. We’ll secure as many live Sild as we’re able.’

  The Doctor shook his head slowly. ‘You’re wasting your time. There’s nothing that will work on them in that fashion. There’s only one way you’ll stop more Sild arriving.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘We must find a way to block their time ruptures.’

  ‘That sounds more your area than mine.’

  The Doctor smiled wryly. ‘Yes, it rather does, doesn’t it?’

  *

  Atkins, the guard at the Durlston Heath checkpoint, had been keeping half an eye on the bus for some minutes. It had been parked some way up the approach road, just sitting there with its engine ticking over, no one coming or going from the thing. It was a privately operated touring coach, red and white, the kind that took people on daytrips. A bit old-fashioned looking, but otherwise in fair nick. What on earth it was doing loitering near the power station, miles from anywhere, was anyone’s guess. The driver was sitting behind his wheel, literally just sitting there – he wasn’t reading the paper, or drinking a cup of coffee, or blowing his nose. Just sitting upright, with both hands on the wheel, like a plastic figure in a die-cast toy. The guard had made out the forms of other passengers. They might just as well have been moulded as well, for all the moving about they were doing. What an odd bunch! Perhaps they were all listening to The Archers. That would send anyone to sleep.

  Atkins returned to his reading material. He was flicking through the densely illustrated pages of the latest number of the War Picture Library series. It was a wartime story, goodies versus baddies, lots of explosions and shooting. The Germans always shouted ‘Aiiieeee!’ as they died. Atkins wondered what he would choose, confronted with similar circumstances. ‘Aiiieeee!’ seemed to him to lack the necessary gravitas and originality, as well as sounding a bit, well, German. But then who knew what might come to mind, in those final moments?

  He looked up again. Finally, the coach was on the move again. That was good. He’d been on the point of putting a call through to central security, alerting them that something a bit odd was going on. But he didn’t need to do that now, and anyway he would have felt like a right charlie getting everyone all hot and bothered over a coach. It was probably full of old ladies!

  But the bus was picking up speed now. Rather than turning around, it was still coming down the approach road. Actually, it was going at a hell of a clip.

  Atkins put down his edition of the War Picture Library. He was on the point of reaching for the telephone when he realised that the coach would be at the checkpoint long before he managed to get through to anyone.

  Atkins reached for his sub-machine gun. He ran out of the kiosk, the barrier still lowered. The coach was only getting faster now – he could hear the crunch of its gears being selected, the scream of its transmission as the driver floored it. What was up with that maniac? He was still sitting there, bolt upright.

  Atkins moved in front of the barrier. He raised his sub-machine gun, aiming not at the coach but at an angle over its roof. He released the safety catch and let off a short burst, gratified by the show of muzzle flash. If that didn’t let the coach driver know he meant business, nothing was going to.

  But the coach wasn’t slowing. In fact, at the speed it was now going, slowing was scarcely an option. It was going to hit the barrier whatever happened.

  ‘Hey!’ Atkins shouted. Nothing for it now – he aimed the sub-machine gun at the coach’s front, spraying a burst across the radiator grill and the leading wheels. The driver didn’t even flinch! It was as if he was made of wood.

  Atkins kept firing. But he had to think about himself now. He dived aside just as the coach hit the lowered barrier, the vehicle missing him by inches. Sprawled on his side, he retained sufficient presence of mind to keep firing. The coach had sailed right through the barrier, shattering it to matchwood. It had even demolished the kiosk, clipping it as it passed. And still the coach was continuing, rocking and rolling on its suspension as it powered further into Durlston Heath. From somewhere, tripped by the damage to the checkpoint, a siren began to wail.

  Atkins pushed himself to his feet. He didn’t know if he’d managed to hit anyone or anything on the coach. Dazed, h
e stumbled over to the remains of the kiosk. The telephone handset dangled from its receiver. Atkins picked it up, hoping that there might still be a connection. But the line was silent.

  Stumbling – he had twisted a knee in his dive – Atkins limped after the coach. Someone was going to get a right ear-bashing for this.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Doctor took the walkie-talkie and pressed the bulky object against the side of his face. ‘Jo? Yes, it’s me. We’re at the coast. I’m afraid my worst fears have been confirmed. We’re dealing with—’

  He fell silent, because Jo seemed to have equally urgent news of her own. He listened intently, nodding at intervals, asking questions of his own. He disliked walkie-talkies, the awkward business of remembering to press the ‘talk’ button, remembering to say ‘over’ when he was done, but he and Jo had had their share of practice with the two-way radios and were at least as fluent in their use as the UNIT regulars.

  ‘I see,’ he said finally. ‘Well, stay put – I’ve a feeling merry hell is about to break loose here. What? No, it’s much too risky. No, I don’t want you going back out there!’

  When he had finished with the call, Lethbridge-Stewart said: ‘News, Doctor?’

  ‘Yes, and not at all good.’ They were standing next to one of the UNIT operational control vehicles, a thing the size of a horse transporter. From the beach, out of sight, came the intermittent crackle of gunfire.

  ‘I thought we’d had our share of bad news for one day.’

  ‘Jo spoke to Edwina McCrimmon. It seems the Master was definitely on the platform.’

  ‘Then why in heaven’s name didn’t she tell us?’

  ‘She was frightened – caught between two powerful branches of government. Brigadier – does the name MERMAN mean anything to you?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘It’s some kind of covert military experiment, something to do with submarines. From what Jo got out of McCrimmon, some men from the government persuaded McCrimmon Industries to let them use their rigs as part of their test setup. It also seems that they brought the Master in as technical consultant.’

  ‘The … We’ve come across him before, haven’t we?’

  ‘The Master, Brigadier? Yes. As a matter of fact you and I were discussing him only a short while ago.’

  The Brigadier contorted his face with extreme mental effort. ‘I remember. But it can’t be him. We’ve got him in … some kind of prison, I think. I know the chap in charge. Childers, that’s the fellow.’

  ‘Well, it would seem our friend the Master’s been granted day-release status.’

  ‘You think he summoned the … what are the blighters called?’

  ‘Sild, Brigadier. No, I think it rather unlikely. I think the Master put out a call for help from himself, but someone else answered. The question is, is it a coincidence that the Sild have emerged here, and are seemingly intent on advancing into dry land? Or are they actively looking for the Master?’

  ‘The …’

  ‘Brigadier, listen to me carefully. You remember Childers and Durlston Heath. We have to secure that facility.’

  ‘It’s a prison, Doctor – how much more secure could it be?’

  ‘Prisons are generally built to stop people from escaping. The danger now is of hostile forces breaking in.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Whatever resources you can spare, you need to start placing them in a position to defend Durlston Heath. Soldiers, tanks, air support – whatever you can muster. We need to protect the Master. Shield him, and if necessary break him out of that prison ahead of the Sild.’

  The Brigadier nodded, then seemed stuck on something. ‘Run that last bit by me again, Doctor.’

  Lovelace had taken Edwina McCrimmon deep into the lowest levels of the platform. There had never been any part of the rig that felt completely unfamiliar to her – she had made a point of that not being the case – but it was true that her day-to-day business seldom brought her down into these uninviting levels. The lowest accommodation and recreation floors were two flights of stairs above her head, the canteen, medical and administrative areas even higher. They were still high off the waves, but down here – where for some inscrutable reason the rig’s designers had felt no need to specify the installation of windows – it felt oppressively dank and claustrophobic, like being in the lowest parts of a ship. She had no cause to come here very often and the constant on-off rattle of generators and air circulators made it no place to stay unless you had good reason. Beneath her feet were a few layers of rusting bolted metal and then an awfully long drop to the sea below.

  But it was here that Lovelace, Callow and the third man – the one she now thought of as the Master – had set up their operations, and that had meant even less incentive to spend time down here. Part of the deal her father had set up with the men from the Ministry was that they would be allowed to operate in conditions of secrecy, free from distractions and prying eyes. Access to their whole operational area, which took in two whole corridors of stores, generators and switching rooms, was controlled by a set of newly installed security doors. McCrimmon had accepted these terms grudgingly, but she had known that there would be little impact on the rig’s routine operations.

  Lovelace stopped at the security door, the automatic still clenched in his fist. Although put in recently, it was the usual sort of door found throughout the rig, with a metal body and a circular porthole in the upper half. The only difference was the heavy-duty lock and the keyed-entry pad next to it. Lovelace flipped up a plastic lid and tapped his code into the pad. The door made a loud clunk and unlocked.

  ‘Walk on,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t hold me prisoner, Lovelace. This is a civilian facility.’

  ‘Write to your MP.’ He prodded her with the automatic, bidding her to go through the open door.

  He walked her along a short stretch of corridor, past several closed doors, until they reached what McCrimmon knew to be a small stores room. It was windowless, little more than a large walk-in cupboard set with shelves and a couple of grey filing cabinets. No telephone, no handy ventilation grille to crawl out through, like they always did in television series.

  ‘UNIT are on their way, Lovelace. What do you hope to gain by locking me in here?’

  ‘What I hope to gain, McCrimmon, is you not meddling in matters of national importance. Sit down.’ He jabbed the gun at the only seat in the room, positioned next to a very narrow desk. Then something caught his eye. ‘Wait a moment.’

  She had seen it too: several bulky ring-bound documents sitting on the desk. They were too new and dust-free to have been here before, which could only mean they were connected to MERMAN. Lovelace moved to scoop up the documents and tuck them under his arm, evidently not wanting to leave McCrimmon with some choice reading material.

  This was her one chance and she took it. She had dismissed the idea of simply running away – she wouldn’t be able to easily close any of the doors behind her – but the room had given her a weapon. While Lovelace was momentarily distracted, she sprang for the wall and snatched the fire extinguisher from its mounting. Lovelace dropped the files and began to turn, bringing the automatic to bear. Would he? She wasn’t sure. He had a snivelling sort of look to him, the kind that made her doubt that he was capable of following up on his threats. But maybe he also had the necessary meanness to shoot a woman at point-blank range, merely to protect some stupid national secret. Either way she wasn’t going to take the chance. In the half-second in which she had formulated her plan, she had meant to spray him with the fire extinguisher, smother him in foam. She could even visualise him, stumbling around like a crazed snowman, while she sped off. But there wasn’t time for that. The fire extinguisher felt nice and heavy in her hands, like a solid iron bar. She raised it and whacked it against Lovelace, hard, catching him high in the shoulder. Lovelace yelped and dropped the automatic – she heard it clatter to the metal floor. She came in again with the extinguisher: not trying to ki
ll him, or even do him a serious injury, but put him out of action long enough for her to scoop up the gun and get out of that room.

  But Lovelace was quicker than she had been expecting. The second blow caught him at an angle, not hard enough to do any real damage. Lovelace gave a grunt of pain and rage, and then he grabbed the chair by its back, swinging it at McCrimmon as if he were a lion tamer and she the lion. One of the chair’s metal legs caught McCrimmon’s wrist. She let go of the extinguisher – it hit the floor with a resounding, bell-like clang, narrowly missing her feet. Lovelace tossed the chair aside and grabbed a heavy black document file from the shelves, bearing down on McCrimmon and swinging the file as if it were a rectangular boulder. McCrimmon raised her right arm defensively. She kicked out and caught Lovelace in the crotch. Lovelace groaned but maintained his attack. McCrimmon ducked as the third blow came down, sinking to her knees and reaching for the automatic. She had no idea what she was going to do with it but she felt certain she did not want Lovelace anywhere near that weapon, now that he had demonstrated his keen willingness to use violence.

  Lovelace, though, was just a fraction too quick for her. Her hand was almost on the automatic when he jammed his heel down onto her wrist.

  ‘Now, now. Let’s not get carried away with ourselves, shall we?’

  ‘Let go of me,’ she said, the pain excruciating.

  ‘You lost two fingers, I see. Did it hurt?’

  ‘Aye, it hurt – what do you think?’ She was looking up at him, standing over her. With the other shoe he kicked the automatic out of reach. He was bleeding from his nose, great scarlet rivulets of it. He smeared his other hand under the nose.

  ‘Look what you did to me, McCrimmon.’

  ‘Nothing compared to what I’ll do to you later, sunshine.’ She paused. She wanted to cry from the pain but there was no way she was giving him that satisfaction. ‘You want to know how I lost those fingers, Lovelace?’