Part 16 (1/2)

Chris's thoughts lost all cohesion: his memories drifted, pulled apart on a sluggish tide.

Kat's face. Her expression of hopelessness. Dragged away to die.

All his fault. Why hadn't he listened to her caution?

Chris moaned and retreated into deeper slumber. The guilt didn't hurt so much there.

The crystal was beautiful. It twinkled with a thousand lights, illuminating the black sky as it looked benignly down on its sheep.

123.

He was lying on his back on a stone altar, in the cultist's Great Hall, hovering between consciousness and sleep. He hadn't noticed the hole before, directly above him; the crystal above that. A direct line to the cultist's Miracle.

He dreamed a few minutes more and, when he next sensed reality, it was with curiosity at the realization that his s.h.i.+rt had been stripped from his chest. Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles. It reminded him of a vidfilm, but he couldn't think which one. It didn't matter. Chris was happy to be here. He was having a nice dream, on the whole.

He awoke, next time, to the sound of chanting. A low, mournful tune vocalized by many guttural voices. His nostrils twitched at a sweet, almost sickly scent and he stared up at the hooded face which loomed into view, blocking out his sight of the glistening crystal.

Chris blinked and light was s.h.i.+ning in his eyes again: a delicate spark from a metal sliver. A knife, he saw. Sharpened to a keen point. Raised above his chest. He giggled insanely at the prospect of its fall, thinking only of the light preparing to enter him, to warm and comfort his hollow body.

He closed his eyes and prepared for Paradise.

Chris remembered disapproving of the wheezing, groaning sound which interrupted the harmonious moment. He felt dismay as the beautiful singing devolved into a series of frightened yelps.

He woke from his worst dream yet and cried out as white light stabbed into his tender retinas.

Chris sipped at hot coffee. He was sitting in bed, propped up by pillows and fighting drowsiness. The Doctor was leaning earnestly across him, seated by the bedside, telling him everything, though only a fraction of it penetrated his mind.

'I am not the man who plotted to destroy Detrios.' That seemed quite simple. Silly of him to think it, really. 'As I said before, that was my evil double.' Science-fiction cliche or what!

But, somehow, that suited the Doctor. 'You've been an unwitting accomplice of his since he first recruited you.' Oops .

. . bit of cognitive dissonance there. He'd never even met the 124 real Doctor? 'I a.s.sumed you were complicit with his schemes, which is why I tried to trick you by pretending to be him.' No, that sailed straight over his head. 'I could see from your reaction that I was happily mistaken.'

Chris didn't remember the cup being taken from him, but the brown stain on the sheets told him why it had been. 'You're still suffering an adverse reaction to some type of sleeping drug,' the Doctor said (no, 'Dr Who' he had introduced himself). 'I suggest you stay here and sleep it off. My friend and I have an important mission.'

Dr Who stood up, but Chris reached for him. He gripped his wrist with more strength than he thought he possessed.

'Kat'lanna,' he croaked. The alien looked confused, so he added: Detrios.'

'Ah. I see. Well, maybe later. Right now, we have the Doctor's most evil and dangerous sidekick to collect.'

'No!'

Dr Who looked down on him pityingly. 'This is more important, Chris. Whilst any of the Doctor's friends remain at liberty, I feel sure they will press ahead with his plan to completely obliterate Detrios.'

That made sense, sort of. Chris let go, reluctantly. He felt oblivion rus.h.i.+ng to claim him.

'That's good,' said Dr Who. 'You do understand. And you are on my side now, aren't you?'

'Your side,' Chris muttered as he sank back into darkness.

He surfaced a second later to hear an unfamiliar young voice, enquiring in concern about his newest friend's health.

'He'll be all right, Jason,' Dr Who said confidently. 'He's seen the light now.'

125.

14.The b.i.t.c.h Is Back20 January 1994. 7.59 a.m.

The older man had his arm around the woman's neck. Her feet kicked out and found his s.h.i.+n. He dropped her and she twisted, knocking him aside. She seemed more interested in the guy behind him, the one with the blond hair and short pants.

She leapt for him.

And froze in mid-air.8.55 p.m.

The picture raced backwards until the figures disappeared.

Will Beecham manipulated the controls and found their point of arrival. He paused the tape again. One frame, the cafe was empty - the next, it became a battleground. The image wavered, blurred by arrested motion.

He wondered if anyone had tampered with the film. He dismissed the notion immediately. What would be the point?

He watched the sequence again, in soundless monochrome, allowing it to run on. The time signature, a digital image in the screen's bottom left corner, notched up another minute.8.00 a.m.

The woman and her target crashed into tables and scattered chairs. The other - the older, shorter man with black hair and a question mark-patterned jersey - was on her, but she shrugged him of and drove her fist into his companion's stomach. He doubled up in pain, and then both men were gone, as suddenly as they had arrived.9.05 p.m.

Beecham blinked and the woman was gone too. The time 126 signature still read 0800. The whole event had taken place in under a minute.

There had only been two people in the building: Ian and Lisa, in the kitchens. Two witnesses to the extraordinary incident. Even they had not seen much. 'The woman shouted two words as she arrived,' they had reported. 'They sounded like ”come from”.'

n.o.body could work out what that might mean.

Beecham used the jog shuttle to spin the tape back and forth.

He was trying to read the lips of the intruders. He needed all this to make some sense. He wasn't in luck.

He gave up on that segment. There was more to view. He was watching it all for the third time now.

He wound the tape on and pressed 'play'. The screen lit up again with its rigid perspective of the cafe's dining area. It took a moment's twiddling for Beecham to locate the second occurrence.

His staff came into view on the monitor. They were tidying up, shuffling furniture to hide the fact that broken chairs had been removed. They would have to open up late today.

As if she was nothing but a conventional visitor, the woman arrived at 0914. She walked in through the street door this time.9.14 a.m.

Dorothy McShane had decided to pay a visit to the cafe in Glebe; her first one since the Doctor had left.

She caught her reflection in the door gla.s.s above the CLOSED sign, dark hair tied back and trenchcoat drawn about her to hide the organic thing straddling her shoulders. The hopper's breathing rippled the fabric of her fake backpack, but she hoped n.o.body would notice. The rebuilding in Paris, 1873, was going well and Dorothy had remembered her other responsibilities. A few jaunts to acquaint herself with the new hopper, a quick trip to run a message for Benny, then she had come here. To the cafe; its existence a side-effect of a hole punched through s.p.a.ce-time by a woman called Kadiatu in a rogue time vessel. That rift was her responsibility. Her job was to make sure that nothing nasty bred in its cracks. This seemed a good place to start.