Chapter THREE
A boom echoed dully, like a far-off thunderclap. He whirled,
startled by the sound but unsure why. The night sky, dark and clouded, blazed
to light for just a moment, shimmering lights crackling in the mist, roiling in
an unearthly display of colour above the tree line at the far end the pasture.
Almost too late he saw the yawning maw open in the haze and spotted a
projectile hurtling toward him. He watched, bewildered, as the object skimmed a
line of cedars, tore into the greenhouse on the hill, exiting one side after
apparently making contact with the Tardis within. It careened wildly, knocking
the roof off the brand new, freshly painted garden shed before coming to rest
on the lawn just feet away from him. He blinked.
‘What?’
A cannon ball. He stepped forward, squinting at the deadly
sphere, then back into the sky from which it had come. A rush of adrenaline
made him forget, momentarily, why he was even standing in the garden at 4am,
barefoot. Aside from deflecting the Yugglorrh Transperion’s latest feeble
attack on the planet, this was the most excitement he had had in months, and
the realization came as something of a depressing shock. Cannonballs hardly
compared to Cybermen, Carrionites or even Agatha Christie. Then again, cannonballs
hurling out of mysterious lights in the sky were better than nothing and a lot
better than disappearing sheep. A proper right mystery this was. Why, maybe
even enough for Agatha Christie to have penned a book about it. The Case of the
Careening Cannonball.
Against the dark ground the compact ball of iron was darker
still. And quite harmless now that it was no longer in flight. He picked it up,
rolling it over and over in his hands, then held it close to his nose. It
smelled of sulphur and burned grease. A well-lubed cannon had launched this
little beauty. He touched a forefinger to his tongue then wished he hadn’t.
Iron, silicon, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a dash of Nathaniel Nye’s
proprietary gunpowder blend. He rolled the unpleasant flavours around in his mouth
before spitting them out. Blasted human physiology again. A curious flavour
lingered. Strange. Trace amounts of non-terrestrial iron ore. No. It couldn’t
be. Zeiton 7? But that was ludicrous. The only Zeiton 7 mines he knew of were
on Varos and even when he considered that the planet shared the Mutter Spiral
with Earth it was far beyond his reach in the constellation of Cetes. With a
fully functioning Tardis he could reach it. Without it, the Tardis might never
even achieve proper functionality. His attempts to substitute several rare
earth elements for Zeiton 7 had produced mixed results, not to mention noxious
fumes. To date only Gadolinium-153 and Dysprosium had proved marginally
palatable to the finicky Time Ship.
He trained his sonic screwdriver on the cannon ball to
confirm his suspicions, but it provided little information beyond what he
already knew before it whistled, sparked, then sputtered out. It hadn’t been
resonating frequencies correctly since he dropped it in the peat bog.
Lights flicked on in the house as those within seemed to
have realized something was amiss on the lawn. Tony was jumping up and down at
his bedroom window, calling for his dad to come quickly. A moment later it was
Pete’s voice he heard, ‘…not the shed again.’ As if on cue, the precariously
leaning structure disintegrated into a pile of lumber, potting soil, and garden
implements. It was probably a good time to make his exit. It was that or try to
explain why what appeared to be a 17th Century cannonball was sitting in the
Tyler’s award-winning, manicured garden.
Someone spoke his name.
He stood quickly, sweeping the night with his gaze.
You aren’t listening. Why aren’t you listening?
With more questions than answers, and no time to retrieve
his soggy trainers before he was discovered at the heart of chaos, he pocketed
his malfunctioning screwdriver, fished a torch from the wreckage of the garden
shed, and ran.
As he plucked a mud encrusted acorn from between his toes,
he had to admit that stopping for his wet shoes might have been worth both the
discomfort and the momentary inconvenience of the interrogation that he knew
would be waiting for him upon his return. Rose would be laughing at him by now,
pelting him with slimy acorns and anything else she could scoop up from the
forest floor. He‘d have reciprocated, putting wet leaves down the back of her
jumper. Mysterious voices and rain aside, it was entirely too much fun. Lights
in the sky, cannonball smashing her father’s new garden shed to smithereens,
him mincing along muttering vulgarities he‘d learned while playing truant with
the Shobogans in Low Town during his years at the Academy on Gallifrey. Oh,
he‘d missed this kind of adventure. Missed being with her, running like mad
through the unknown for sheer pleasure rather than out of a sense of duty to
whoever paid his expenses. No one to answer to and no paperwork to fill out
later. He did so detest paperwork. It was enough to make him forget just how
tired he still was. Jackie would have rung up her daughter for a second time
tonight, no matter the late hour, beckoning her back if the fate of the planet
(or at least Scotland’s sheep) wasn‘t at stake. Which it obviously wasn’t
because, well, they’d have told him. And expected him to do something about it.
This time he would have to face her. No more excuses. Much
longer and, well, much longer and he might never go back. That was the danger
of always running away. The day came when you took one step too far and the way
back might be lost forever. He had imposed this little exile on himself. Time.
He needed time. And answers to those age-old questions about The Meaning of
Life. Questions he had long made a profession of ignoring. How he expected to
find those answers now while running pell mell all over Britain he wasn’t sure.
He hadn’t meant to be gone so long. Hadn’t meant to drop his mobile in a sink
hole while triangulating a signal back to an orbiting alien warship and
overloading their guidance systems. He needed her more than ever. The reality
of that hit him like a blow to the chest. Oh, he needed her. Needed her in the
worst way. Needed to know she didn’t blame him for the empty cradle in the
nursery. Needed… her. He trusted she knew that but supposed saying it now and
again might help matters.
With any luck she’d have boarded the zeppelin moored at
Balmoral and would soon be here, notice he’d left his trainers behind and bring
them. With matching socks.
He trudged onward. Judging by the trajectory of the
cannonball--and the tang of temporal energy in the night air-- he was heading
in the right direction. Unless of course it had bounced, though that was some
bounce if it had originated in the English Civil War. A real temporal Rift?
Right here, under Pete Tyler’s nose. Worse, under his nose. Had he really
become so thick? Thick and dull and stupid? And old.
Since any place that he was considered a high risk zone, the
area surrounding the Tyler’s sprawling estate used to be monitored closely for
everything from Zygons to space portals. Before the budget cuts multiple teams
of temporal engineers had trekked these forests and hills, sweeping acre after
acre with the finest equipment available and consistently turned up nothing,
nada, zilch, zero, zed. Neither here nor in the city where at one time had
existed a Rift between worlds high above Canary Warf. A Rift that allowed a
Void Ship entrance to Torchwood Towers. The other Torchwood, he reminded
himself. From Rose’s world. The parallel world she and Jackie had come from.
The longer he had lived in this skin, separated from the
universe in which he had originated, the less he trusted his biologically
altered Time Lord senses; but his intriguing new human intuition had always
told him something was out here. Or would be. Or had been. Funny thing, Time.
Perhaps that’s what drew him back. That and the awakening Tardis. And rightly
so.
A dim light shown in the forest on the far side of the
motorway. He’d come to the edge of the Tyler’s land. Beyond was protected
woodland where, on Other Earth, lay city sprawl. There was little traffic this
time of night and he hastened across cold tarmac and down the far embankment,
pushing aside branches, sweeping the ground with his torch, all the while
stepping gingerly on walnuts and jagged rocks. The air was ripe with temporally
charged particles here and his sonic screwdriver indicated further traces of
Zeiton-7. If he could pinpoint the source and secure a pure enough ore sample,
he would have no trouble aligning the trans-power system in his Tardis. His
spine tingled with anticipation. If only he had a pair of handy dandy 3-D
glasses he was sure the whole of the woods would be awash with Void Stuff. This
was it. The real thing. Finally!
As the last twig snapped beneath his bare feet and the last
leaves brushed his arms he stepped into a small clearing and stopped. The torch
slipped from his fingers and went out. There in the mist, like the glowing lamp
post that marked the northwest boundary of Narnia, stood a blue police box.
‘You are kidding me,’ he breathed softly.
He ran the rest of the way, fingers tracing a smooth line
down the wooden door. It was solid and smooth, warm to the touch. Impossible!
But he had learned long ago, in another life, to believe in impossible things,
and was more than willing to take this leap of faith. Whatever had transpired
to bring the Tardis across from one universe to another, it was important. He
pressed his cheek against the door, closing his eyes. Not even the cold rain
could spoil this moment.
‘Hello, Old Girl.’
He had no key.
He realized quite suddenly that he had no key. Rose did. The
key he had entrusted to her on the eve of World War III. It hung amid the stars
and moons above the cot he had built, and Rose had stained blue, and together
they had placed in a warm, snug little nursery room on the south side of that
rambling old house in Scotland.
He shook the memories away, focusing once more on the closed
door. A simple knock would have to suffice. Unless… He looked down at his right
hand, thumb and middle finger rubbing together. It couldn’t work. Not for him.
Not the Halfling. Could it? Determined, he stepped back slightly and raised his
hand.
The door opened before he even had time to snap his fingers,
golden light spilling out of the gloriously Regenerated interior of the Tardis
herself. It was all he could do not to push past the young man standing in the
doorway to survey the interior, all copper and brass and gleaming with beauty
that was breathtaking, even for him
‘Aw, this is brilliant!’ he cried, craning his neck to see
the vaulted ceiling and the towering chamber that held the delicate Time Rotor.
‘Very, well, Maritime. Quite the Edwardian nautical theme you have going on
here. Love the malachite finish. Mind you, I liked the coral, too. Had that
warm home-grown organic feel that… oh. Sorry. Getting ahead of myself aren‘t I?
Happens. But, blimey! This is brilliant!’
‘Uhm. Thank you?’ the brown-haired stranger said awkwardly,
green eyes wide with surprise.
A familiar stethoscope hung around the man’s neck, partly
obscuring a blood-splattered plaid shirt. One look at the poor fellow’s nose
explained the blood. He followed the man’s glance left, then right (expecting
someone else?) then met the questioning gaze once again.
‘I’m sorry. Do I know you?’
That was his cue and he beamed his cheeriest smile.
‘Hello! I’m the…’
‘Doc-tor!’ a woman’s voice bellowed from inside the Tardis,
the name followed quickly by: ‘Rory! Is that River? Rory, get back down here!
Ror-y!’
‘Sorry, I have to—'
‘I should say so if the misses is using that tone with you,
mate. Rory, is it?’
He breezed in, making straight for the flight controls. His
hands passed lovingly over the vintage sextant and compass before he gazed up
at the central column once more.
‘Blimey,’ he said again. ‘She really outdid herself this
time…’
His words of admiration were cut short when the woman’s
voice called out again, more urgently. He looked side to side then down at the
shadowy figure below him. The grated floor panels he remembered had been
replaced with a transparent deck through which he could glimpse the intricate
undercarriage.
‘This way,’ Rory told him, motioning for him to follow, but
he was already two steps ahead, clattering down the steps to the lower deck,
Rory trailing behind him, asking him who he was exactly.
‘That’s always the question,’ he said, turning in circles,
taking in the wonders of the cave like space below the flight deck. ‘Oh, this
is great. Really, really great. Really, really, really great. I haven’t seen it
like this in years!”
He absently connected loose electrical couplings, igniting a
shower of sparks.
‘It always does that,’ Rory offered.
‘Oh, I know.’
‘You know? How can you know? Who are you? And where are your
shoes?’
A tall, young woman in skin-tight jeans and a red plaid
shirt emerged from the shadows under the steps. Ginger hair spilled all about
her pretty face. Her accent was Scottish and she looked cross. She was glaring
at Rory.
‘I thought the Tardis was taking us to River.’
‘River?’ he asked, surprised. ‘Professor River Song?’
Rory and the young woman exchanged a glance.
‘You know about Tardises and you know about River?’
‘I know a lot more about Tardises than I know about River.
At least this one. I know all about her, don‘t I Old Girl? We go back a long
way. The Tardis I mean. Not… River, uhm…’
She was looking down at his bare feet. He wiggled his muddy
toes and rocked back and forth. ‘I was in a hurry. And they were wet...’
‘Right,’ she said crisply.
‘Amy,’ Rory said suddenly, ending the awkward pause that had
fallen between them. ‘Where’s the Doctor?’
Now he really grinned, but she’d already turned away,
pointing under the stairs.
‘That’s why I was yelling, Stupid Face. He’s gone and locked
himself in the cupboard again.’
No amount of physical force made any difference. The door
had been locked from within. And probably soniced. At least that’s what he
would have done, if he didn’t want anyone else to get in. Or didn’t want
something to get out.
‘Let me have a go,’ he told them, hunkering down by the
door. He drew his screwdriver from his back pocket and fiddled with the switch.
It hummed to life then sputtered. He whacked it against his palm. Twice. When
that didn’t work, he flipped it end for end and began to back the screws out of
the door hinges manually. Less elegant, but still effective under the
circumstances.
‘Is that sonic?’ Rory asked, exchanging glances with Amy.
They’d been doing that for several minutes. He supposed explanations were in
order, but not until they’d gotten this door opened. He couldn’t wait to see
his face when he saw himself.
‘Yup,’ he answered the question, leaning hard against the
tight screws, passing each in turn to Rory.
‘It’s totally rubbish!’ Amy accused. ‘You have a rubbish
sonic. Who are you?’
The last of the over-sized screws twisted out, saving him
from the immediate question. With a grunt, he moved the heavy door aside and
peered in. Amy was on her hands and knees beside him, shining a torch into the
cramped storeroom. They crawled past 900 years of souvenirs crammed into beat
up trunks, odds and ends spilling out like vintage movie props in a forgotten
back lot. It looked worse than a teenager’s bedroom. The Doctor had wedged into
an impossibly small space between an open suitcase full of shoes and a biplane
propeller, knees drawn up, face buried in hands like one of the Weeping Angels
of old. The Time Lord’s shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and one of the
buckles on a pair of black braces had come unclasped. A red bowtie had slipped
its central knot and hung unevenly against the collar of a handsome hound’s
tooth patterned shirt. An unruly mop of brown hair spilled over long fingers.
‘Oh now, what‘s happened to you?’ he said, surprised by the
sight in spite of himself and keenly sensing the other man’s pain. This was a
well-read page out of his own life. ‘How long has he been like this?’
‘A day. Maybe longer. He’s been strange since he picked us
up this time,’ Amy told him.
‘Stranger than normal,’ Rory corrected.
‘May I?’ He gestured at the stethoscope still hanging around
Rory‘s neck.
‘Yeah, sure. But…’
He held one finger to his lips to silence them, moving the
stethoscope around on the Doctor’s chest with some difficulty given their
cramped quarters.
‘Hearts sound fine. Pulse a little rapid. Let’s get him out
of here, shall we?’ he glanced around and sniffed. ‘Reminds me of being in a
ventilation shaft. In a shoe factory.’
A pair of black and white Converse trainers in the open
suitcase caught his eye. He fished them out, looked them over, took a cursory
whiff, then tied the laces together and slung them around his neck. He
preferred the red, but any port in a storm. Besides, his feet were getting
cold.
‘Wait,’ Amy said suddenly, laying a hand on his arm and
meeting his gaze. This close to her he could see her freckles in the wavering
torch light. And, he supposed, she could see his. ‘You knew the Doctor had two
hearts. Are you some sort of alien doctor or something?’
‘I… have been,’ he told her, giving her what he hoped was a
reassuring smile. ‘Lucky for you I still make house calls.’
Slowly, but firmly, they half dragged the Doctor from the
darkness of the storage locker into the softly lit compartment below the main
deck. Once there, they wrapped a blanket around the Time Lord’s narrow
shoulders. He doubted it was necessary, but the gesture seemed to make Amy feel
better. A good thing seeing as what was next to come probably wasn’t going to
reassure her at all.
‘Right then,’ he said, taking a deep breath as he drew the
Doctor’s hands away from such unfamiliar features. He brushed back a shock of
hair to examine deeply set green eyes. The Doctor looked at him, recognition
slowly registering on the Time Lord’s narrow, young face.
‘Hello, look at you. And River thought I was pretty. Still
not ginger, are we?’ he gave a sidelong glance at Amy. ‘I don’t know that even
the Tardis would be big enough for more than one.’
A twitch of the Doctor’s upper lip might have betrayed a
smile.
‘Oh, you are in there, aren’t you? Good. Locked yourself in
a cupboard? Haven’t done that in--ooh--long time. At least not on purpose. So,
what were you hiding from? And,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘what could possibly be
strong enough to have taken your measure?’
The Doctor swallowed deeply. They both knew what was coming.
‘If you can‘t trust yourself,’ he said simply as he placed
his fingertips gently on both sides of the youthful-looking face. He closed his
eyes, concentrating, hoping he still had the capacity to do what needed to be
done. He never knew where being human ended and being a Time Lord began.
‘Wait… Rory, what’s he doing--?’
He whistled softly. ‘Oh, there are Cowboys in here, aren’t
there? Shh-shh-shhh… don’t pull away. You came a long way for help. Let me help
you if I can.’
Well, he reasoned later. He had asked for it. Wave after
shattering wave of emotion crashed over him, showering him in memories. The
Winds of Time rushed past, filling him with the thrill of adventure. He danced
among the stars, witnessing the birth and the death of entire galaxies. Then
fear, panic as he was ensnared in a Dalek time corridor that threatened to
empty out into The Nothing. Fleets of Time Ships amassed across the horizon of
space, obliterated in an instant by eye searing bolts of energy. Regret. So
much regret. Space and Time collided, exploded, cracks rippling back through
the Time Vortex, erupting into too many realities to count. Timelines that once
presented themselves as fixed points splintered, shock waves branching in every
direction. The known universe collapsed, taking everything and everyone with
it. Loneliness replaced it. Loneliness like he had felt first in his dreams,
then as he lay awake, unable to reconcile dream to reality. Which reality? His?
Or his?
A rush of sorrow assailed him then, an intense longing,
searching for recognition. Blue-white light ebbed toward him, over him,
tumbling him into darkness, sweeping him back, back, back, until he could
scarcely breath. Like waves upon the shores of time he felt himself grow
stretched and thin until the inevitable pull of the sea swallowed him back then
swept him forward on a crimson tide of blazing energy. He swam for his life,
surrounded by feelings of such insatiable hunger he could barely fathom it all.
So very hungry for life, for freedom. A voice called his name. Cried his name
back and forth across all of Space and Time. I hear you. I hear you. We hear
you. His voice united with the voice already giving answer. He wondered how far
back in time a plea that powerful might ricochet. What could possibly call that
loudly? Who could possibly need him that much? He squeezed his eyes closed,
fighting the nausea, struggling to maintain contact until at last the gnawing
hunger released them both and the Doctor collapsed against him with an
anguished gasp, dark head resting in the crook of his arm. One eye, one
bloodshot green eye snapped open.
‘You,’ came the barely audible whisper.
‘Oh yes,’ he replied, grinning down at the Time Lord.
‘You have… a beard.’
‘Oh, yes.’ he replied again, running his free hand over his
whiskers.
‘It’s totally rubbish…’
‘Says the man with the fringe!’
‘.. and you cannot… cannot… be here,’ the Doctor’s words
slipped away even as the green eyes, heavy with sleep, began to close. ‘It‘s
imposs--imposs…’
‘Impossible? Now that‘s where you‘re wrong, Time Boy. It’s
you that can’t be here. But we’ll get to that later. Right now, you need to
rest. Trust me,’ he grinned. ‘I’m the Doctor.’
