You will probably want to read the Introduction before you start.
Prologue
October 12th, 1985. Detective Deborah Reed marked the date in her mind as a matter of habit. Dates were important, even if the use of numbers and letters were arbitrary fabrications of the human mind; the linear passage of time kept humans in sane. Tomorrow must remain just out of reach, and yesterday a faint memory. To be able to see all of time at once, beginning to end, as a fluid pool to be paddled in, would be unimaginable power – and if nearly ten years of standing over the bodies of the naïve, the young, and the desperate, each cut down by someone they trusted, had taught her anything, it was that power was rarely a good thing.
She resented her own use as water as a metaphor. The rain was pouring hard, beating on her skull like tiny bullets, soaking through her scarf and letting tiny rivulets run down her cleavage, saturating her bra. She felt ridiculous. Not a single inch of her was dry, every patch of skin frozen or itching with clamminess (something she could do nothing about, not without the pigs that made up her colleagues passing comment on it.)
Worse still, it got in her eyes, not just blurring her vision but stinging them red raw. Pollution had become so bad in London recently – whilst it was true there were no longer piles of garbage rotting in the street, or armies of caterpillars invading Mayfair, the skies of this decade seemed ever darker. It was as though the city had found its grey, miserable calling, as the home to the yuppie, the investment banker, the man with fast cars and faster women, leaving the effluence of their exploits for everyone else to clean up. It was mad. The world was losing track of history, people losing track of their neighbours, retreating into little lonely robots, uninterested in the world they lived on.
And suddenly all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth talkers who claimed they’d make it better couldn’t think of anything to say.
One of them was laying on the pavement before her now. Dead, of course. The majority of new people Reed seemed to meet were dead. He’d been thrown onto the street from the window of his tenth-story apartment, accounting for the hideous splaying of the old man’s limbs. Some blood had leaked from his mouth and pooled in his eyes, and dried in his beard, but the majority was being washed down the gutter by the rain. He was surrounded by shards of glass from the window he went through, each piece picking up the blinding glare of the flood light, illuminating the scene. The whole thing made him look like some macabre, absurd snow-angel.
“There’s a cut,” said the forensic investigator, crouched by the dead man’s body. A shabby man, short and skinny, worthy of no notice at all. “On his neck. Nothing deep. Certainly didn’t kill him. But it’s there all right. Take a look.”
Reed shot him an incredulous look, factually to reinforce her position as the superior officer, functionally to make him back down from his proposition, because she really couldn’t be bothered to bend down. But, despite her best efforts, he failed to capitulate, and so, groaning internally, she knelt to inspect the man’s throat.
He was right, of course – it was hard to see through the water splashing across his face, but the man did have a cut there, as if someone had held something sharp to his neck, but applied more pressure than they meant to. A threat, perhaps? She ran her finger across the scar.
“Done with a blade, certainly. Something thin?”
“Yeah, definitely, not the same thing that cause the scratches on his hand,” the forensics man coughed disgustingly into his overalls. “Can’t say what, though.”
“You must really work for your paycheque,” Reed muttered to herself.
“A letter knife, I think,” spoke a voice from behind them. It was smooth, authoritarian, almost aristocratic, but in mischievous way – if she lived a hundred years ago, she might’ve thought it came from Oscar Wilde. “The blade wasn’t all that sharp, in of itself, going by the incision. I can’t think of another kind of dull blade a man like that would keep around.”
Standing, Reed turned to face the source; a man, with a face with a face to place, in terms of age, but well defined, and well worn. His attire, though, was very strange; Edwardian, with a modernist flare. A Teddy Boy. Reed had rather hoped history had left them behind.
“This is a crime scene, sir,” she said, standing.
“We know. That’s why we’re here.” It wasn’t the man who spoke this time, but a woman, stepping out from behind him. She was truly luxurious – dressed simply, in a black fleece and jeans, with her blonde hair plastered to her head by the rain, but all the same she seemed not to belong in this place. Reed suspected that, if it could, the rain would part under the gaze of her sharp blue eyes.
The woman looked to the body, and shook her head, disappointed. “You see? That’s the problem with crime scenes. They’re always after the party, aren’t they?”
“Who the hell are you two?”
“Special branch,” the man thrust a wallet into Reed’s hand – his credentials. “We’ve been told this case is quite special. Hence us. Because our branch is the special one.”
“Someone could’ve warned me,” she handed him back his wallet, contented.
“Well, they couldn’t. But that’s a whole different story.” The woman strode towards the body, kneeling, and inspecting the cut for herself.
“I’m the Doctor, that’s Autumn Rivers. So who is our unfortunate friend on the pavement?”
“You don’t know?”
“He’s testing your faculties, Detective,” Autumn called back. She didn’t look up, but she smiled. “Answer and you’ll pass.”
“Professor Thomas Ricker, chief engineer and director of the Capitos Institute. Apparently he was leading them into some new energy project. They were having a party earlier in the night, an anniversary celebration; I’ve got people rounding up the other guests. He was thrown from the tenth floor. The old man didn’t stand a chance.” She turned to face Autumn. “Did I get good mark?”
Her grin widened. “You can’t just throw someone through glass like this. Look at it.”
“You’re right; it’s reinforced against extreme stress. You’d need a car to put a crack in it.”
“Shall we take a look at his apartment?” the Doctor interjected, clearly feeling left out. “I think we should take a look at his apartment.”
She resented her own use as water as a metaphor. The rain was pouring hard, beating on her skull like tiny bullets, soaking through her scarf and letting tiny rivulets run down her cleavage, saturating her bra. She felt ridiculous. Not a single inch of her was dry, every patch of skin frozen or itching with clamminess (something she could do nothing about, not without the pigs that made up her colleagues passing comment on it.)
Worse still, it got in her eyes, not just blurring her vision but stinging them red raw. Pollution had become so bad in London recently – whilst it was true there were no longer piles of garbage rotting in the street, or armies of caterpillars invading Mayfair, the skies of this decade seemed ever darker. It was as though the city had found its grey, miserable calling, as the home to the yuppie, the investment banker, the man with fast cars and faster women, leaving the effluence of their exploits for everyone else to clean up. It was mad. The world was losing track of history, people losing track of their neighbours, retreating into little lonely robots, uninterested in the world they lived on.
And suddenly all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth talkers who claimed they’d make it better couldn’t think of anything to say.
One of them was laying on the pavement before her now. Dead, of course. The majority of new people Reed seemed to meet were dead. He’d been thrown onto the street from the window of his tenth-story apartment, accounting for the hideous splaying of the old man’s limbs. Some blood had leaked from his mouth and pooled in his eyes, and dried in his beard, but the majority was being washed down the gutter by the rain. He was surrounded by shards of glass from the window he went through, each piece picking up the blinding glare of the flood light, illuminating the scene. The whole thing made him look like some macabre, absurd snow-angel.
“There’s a cut,” said the forensic investigator, crouched by the dead man’s body. A shabby man, short and skinny, worthy of no notice at all. “On his neck. Nothing deep. Certainly didn’t kill him. But it’s there all right. Take a look.”
Reed shot him an incredulous look, factually to reinforce her position as the superior officer, functionally to make him back down from his proposition, because she really couldn’t be bothered to bend down. But, despite her best efforts, he failed to capitulate, and so, groaning internally, she knelt to inspect the man’s throat.
He was right, of course – it was hard to see through the water splashing across his face, but the man did have a cut there, as if someone had held something sharp to his neck, but applied more pressure than they meant to. A threat, perhaps? She ran her finger across the scar.
“Done with a blade, certainly. Something thin?”
“Yeah, definitely, not the same thing that cause the scratches on his hand,” the forensics man coughed disgustingly into his overalls. “Can’t say what, though.”
“You must really work for your paycheque,” Reed muttered to herself.
“A letter knife, I think,” spoke a voice from behind them. It was smooth, authoritarian, almost aristocratic, but in mischievous way – if she lived a hundred years ago, she might’ve thought it came from Oscar Wilde. “The blade wasn’t all that sharp, in of itself, going by the incision. I can’t think of another kind of dull blade a man like that would keep around.”
Standing, Reed turned to face the source; a man, with a face with a face to place, in terms of age, but well defined, and well worn. His attire, though, was very strange; Edwardian, with a modernist flare. A Teddy Boy. Reed had rather hoped history had left them behind.
“This is a crime scene, sir,” she said, standing.
“We know. That’s why we’re here.” It wasn’t the man who spoke this time, but a woman, stepping out from behind him. She was truly luxurious – dressed simply, in a black fleece and jeans, with her blonde hair plastered to her head by the rain, but all the same she seemed not to belong in this place. Reed suspected that, if it could, the rain would part under the gaze of her sharp blue eyes.
The woman looked to the body, and shook her head, disappointed. “You see? That’s the problem with crime scenes. They’re always after the party, aren’t they?”
“Who the hell are you two?”
“Special branch,” the man thrust a wallet into Reed’s hand – his credentials. “We’ve been told this case is quite special. Hence us. Because our branch is the special one.”
“Someone could’ve warned me,” she handed him back his wallet, contented.
“Well, they couldn’t. But that’s a whole different story.” The woman strode towards the body, kneeling, and inspecting the cut for herself.
“I’m the Doctor, that’s Autumn Rivers. So who is our unfortunate friend on the pavement?”
“You don’t know?”
“He’s testing your faculties, Detective,” Autumn called back. She didn’t look up, but she smiled. “Answer and you’ll pass.”
“Professor Thomas Ricker, chief engineer and director of the Capitos Institute. Apparently he was leading them into some new energy project. They were having a party earlier in the night, an anniversary celebration; I’ve got people rounding up the other guests. He was thrown from the tenth floor. The old man didn’t stand a chance.” She turned to face Autumn. “Did I get good mark?”
Her grin widened. “You can’t just throw someone through glass like this. Look at it.”
“You’re right; it’s reinforced against extreme stress. You’d need a car to put a crack in it.”
“Shall we take a look at his apartment?” the Doctor interjected, clearly feeling left out. “I think we should take a look at his apartment.”
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 1 - Episode 7
Who Watches The Watchmen?
Written by James BLanchard
Half-an hour passed (enough time for the three to dry themselves and avoid tampering with the apartment), and, finally, they stepped from the elevator and out into the tenth-floor corridor. The Doctor and Autumn took the lead, heading for Ricker’s apartment at the end of the hall, whilst Reed hung back. She disliked this. Special branch always took so much from an investigation and gave nothing back. If this reached no conclusion, she’d hold them responsible.
What did they want, anyway? Ricker wasn’t an Irish name or anything, and special branch only ever seemed to sniff around when it came to the IRA these days. The Russians, maybe, or those nutters all flooding in and out of Afghanistan, but both those places were on their last legs. These two jokers were more likely to be Russian spies than Ricker was.
The door to the apartment was wide open, almost comically. It was beckoning them to enter, joking at their expense, offering them a chance see what they could find, fully in the knowledge they find nothing.
It was open-plan, kitchen and living space all blended into one, with a bedroom syphoned off to the side, and along the wall, huge panes of glass, one with an uneven, broken hole in the centre, the wind whistling through it like the drone of a distressed fly.
The décor was like time flowing back into itself – a chrome kitchen, simplistic colours, but Edwardian furniture, thick, fraying carpets, and smell of oak that Reed imagine once lingered, but now swirled, as air vented in through the broken glass plane. Professor Ricker was a man who feared progress. He let it happen around him – outwardly, he loved it. But in his heart he clung to what comfort he could find.
The room seemed mostly in place. The only sign of disturbance, aside from a few papers fluttering through the place thanks to the wind, was a toppled, high backed chair, and accompanying side-table, holding a glass of whisky, now shattered on the carpet.
“No sign of forced entry,” the Doctor remarked, stepping over the threshold. “Professor Ricker knew the killer?”
“Depends who the killer was,” Autumn was already crouching, again, by the chair, “and whether they had one of your sonic things.”
“I could’ve done it and forgotten. I haven’t the best memory.”
“Care to share what you’re talking about?”
“Not particularly, Detective Reed,” Autumn stood, and faced the window. “You said one would need a car to crack this window.”
“One would. And yet I don’t see any tire marks.”
“Did someone use a gun, perhaps?” The Doctor moved across to the window, fingers hovering near the spiked remnants of the glass, but not quite touching. “Something with a lot of velocity. Did you find a bullet in the street?”
“Not as of yet. And there wasn’t a casing in the room. Someone theorised it might have some kind of pressure weapon. Seems a little far-fetched to me.”
“There you are, Doctor: sonic again.”
“Agent Rivers,” Reed stepped into Autumn’s line of view, inches from her face, making use of the extra height the Detective had over her. “This investigation might go a lot quicker if you could end the petty, non-professional torments.”
“You are quite right, Detective Reed,” the Doctor moved in-between the two women, placing his hand defensively on Autumn’s shoulder, acting more concerned she would be the arbiter of any conflicted over Reed. “Please forgive Autumn, she was a poor stray orphan I found and raised as my protégé. She’s excellent, but etiquette hasn’t rubbed off on her. In fact, I’m rather worried she might turn on me, and become my deadliest enemy.”
“You’re rambling, Doctor.” Autumn removed the Doctor’s hand, passive-aggressively, but with less emphasis on the passive.
“Yes. Sorry. The Crime Scene, what do you make of it?”
Autumn stepped into the centre of the conflict zone – the fallen chair and smashed glass – and breathed deep, like she was calming herself, trying to reach some far-off Zen, and the enter the mind of the culprit.
Seconds passed before she spoke. “There’s blood on the glass. Ricker’s, I’m willing to bet. The wound on his neck didn’t come from it, we already established it was something he was being threatened with. This glass broke and took the blood with it. It was hit with enough force to break it. Ricker struck out, perhaps, or reached. A flail. As the chair fell…”
“He was pushed? Whilst in the chair?”
“No. No, this flail was way more desperate than just falling back. He was grabbed out of this chair. Thrown.”
Reed scratched at her itchy bra, and the Doctor shot her a confused look. “So Ricker was grabbed out of his chair, lashed out and cut his hand on the glass, was dragged over to the window and thrown out?”
“He wasn’t dragged. There are no markings on the carpet.”
“Lifted, then.”
“Weren’t you listening? I made an amendment to my original statement. I changed ‘grabbed’ to ‘thrown’.”
“You...” Reed looked at the position of the chair, then to the window, then to Autumn, and gave a feeble-throated laugh. “You can seriously be suggesting that Ricker was thrown, from there, out the window?”
“Knocking the glass as he went.”
“Interesting.” The Doctor strode over to the window once again, and knelt by the shattered glass. “Look at the shatter pattern. It’s not splayed out, as if something hit it. It’s just dropped straight to the floor.”
“This ludicrous,” Reed could feel fury rising in her face. “Does Special Branch really have nothing better to do than make jokes out of crime scenes?”
“What could have the strength to do something like this?” Autumn asked, seemingly to herself.
But the Doctor answered: “You and I both know, I think.”
“A hunter?”
“A hunter.”
“I want you both out my crime scene, now,” Reed stormed to the door, and gestured for them to leave – she was through with these games. “And you can go and tell the arse-headed creeps that run special branch that if they want to play games, they can find another detective to do it with.”
“You’re quite right, Detective,” the Doctor said, hurrying Autumn past her and out the door. “Our behaviour hasn’t been professional. We’re very sorry. But we have future information to pass onto you.”
“Keep watching, Detective Reed,” Autumn added, cold blue eyes slyly grinning along with her mouth. “Keep watching.”
***
The Doctor watched information scroll through the scanner, hand resting on his chin, as the TARDIS told him all there was to know about Professor Thomas Ricker. Of course, she knew everything, except what he wanted to know – she knew that he lived, she knew that he died, she knew what he lived for. Everything in-between, the Doctor and Autumn would have to discover for themselves.
As the detective had explained, Ricker was the chief engineer of the Capitos institute: a Think Tank, research centre, laboratory, and global headquarters for conspiracy theories, all in one. Science, economics and politics all gathered together in this place with new ideas – and old – for ways to organise the world. The place proudly proclaimed to not only be searching for the answer to the human condition, but to have found it.
The Doctor had little time for such things. Anyone, he found, who claims to have an answer to the eternal complexities of human nature was not only wrong, but dangerous.
He glanced down the TARDIS corridor where Autumn was changing, getting ready for the sleuthing to come, as though worried she might overhear his thoughts. It wouldn’t surprise him – those blue eyes penetrated so deep, dissected and judged with such precision and coldness, that a simple glance from her generated anxiety. Never before had the Doctor met a human with such an ability to look into someone’s mind – had he not secretly taken her pulse at one time, he might have suspected she were a Time Lord. Not that that necessary exonerated her; of all the places in the universe it would be unwise to take Autumn Rivers, Gallifrey was top of that list.
The Doctor himself was all dressed up, too – a black jacket and bow tie, and white stuffed shirt, he very much looked the part. Whether he’d play it well was another matter; he tended to act strangely at parties, they were always a little too…human. Still, he hoped the company of the one he was heading to – scientists and learned scholars – would help put him at ease.
That hope was dashed the moment Autumn stepped from the corridor, and into the control room. Her dress, low cut, and angular, was a blue so cold it seemed to absorb all other colour around it. Her blond hair and Mediterranean skin seemed to simply fade away, leaving behind only the dress, and Autumn’s eyes, transforming her image into that of a vengeful, ice-cold wraith.
“You look smart,” she commented, snapping the Doctor back to reality.
“You look…”
“If you say anything other than terrifying, I’ll have to go and get changed again.”
“No, no, we can make a good-cop, bad-cop routine of it.”
Smiling, Autumn strode next to the Doctor, placing a hand on his should, and peering at the scanner, reading the information.
“Tell me a little about the people we’ll be meeting tonight. I like to know who I’m going to be making conversation with.”
“Scientists, economists, politicians,” the Doctor scooted round the console, punching buttons and pulling the levers. The time rotor groaned, the sound drawing the TARDIS to its destination. “Celebrating ten years of dreaming of a new world.”
Autumn scoffed. “Day-dreaming’s an unhealthy habit.”
“You don’t believe in creating a better world?”
“You do?”
“I’m a Doctor,” the Time Lord replied. “I have to.”
“Well, I suppose someone has to,” she glided to the console chair, and elegantly perched herself on the arm. “Anyone who claims to know how to change the world is not to be trusted, though. Great claims lead to great actions, and great actions are not necessarily good.”
“You’re a very cynical lady, Autumn.”
“Someone needs to watch the watchmen.”
The Doctor smiled – to assure himself that he did, honestly, have the conversation under control. He slammed a lever. “Right, let’s get to some partying.”
***
The Capitos Institute was, indeed, dream-like; bronze statues of the earth, held aloft by muscular figures, littered the lobby as finely-dressed people mingled in and out. Presentations stood on big black boards, promising the future, yet giving no details of the projects they promoted. All the waiting staff were perfectly turned out, their skin flawless and as polished as the Randian monuments, the woman made to stand taller than the man, thanks to frankly dangerous-looking heels. How kind of the organisers.
Autumn found it all rather quaint.
“Not very subtle, are they?” she remarked, lightly brushing her fingers against the pecks of a metal Atlas, holding the world above him with great strain. She was fairly certain he was making a mountain from a molehill.
“I met Ayn Rand once,” the Doctor and Autumn wondered into the lobby, nodding politely, smiling inanely, doing their best to blend in the great minds. “I offered her a jelly baby. I’ve never seen a more disgusted expression in my life.”
She chuckled, linked arms with the Doctor, and together they proceeded to the centre of the lobby, where most of the networking seemed to be taking place. There were men and women of different ages, ethnicities, heights and senses of fashion; well turned-out business types and dominating Arab sheiks; bearded scientists and young ladies hanging off their every word. Truly this place was a hub of intellect and imagination, though Autumn couldn’t help but feel the place was blinding, and stunted – an inward-looking bunch of technocrats, failing to see the wood for the trees that surrounded them. Should salvation ever come, she thought, it wouldn’t come from here.
“Do you really think the Hunters will be here?” she whispered in the Doctor’s ear – closely, but not so close as to intimidate him. It was a serious question.
“I think they will be at Ricker’s apartment in the next few hours. But the reason why they were there is here. This place is full of scientists, all working on projects the public knows nothing about. There must be something they want.”
Autumn cast her mind to what she knew of the Hunters of Andromeda – ruthless killers and form changers, raging from galaxy to galaxy, star to star, picking off the people of whole planets without a moral thought in their head, with unbelievable, and unlimited, power. She wasn’t ashamed to admit they frightened her; they could be hiding be in this very room, as staff, or the guests, or even the statues. Suddenly her cheeky desire to grope the buffed bronze took on a more sinister tone.
She scanned round the room, looking to distract herself from the idea of having sexually harassed an alien super-soldier. She picked out certain people, unconsciously judged the likelihood of them being an alien, consciously disregarded the thought, and then, eventually, found her prize.
“Ricker is over there,” she said. It was hard to recognise him at first, given that he was no longer soaking wet, his eyes were no longer closed, and his short white beard was no longer stained red with blood. But it was certainly him, laughing and joking with glass of wine in hand, still alive, and ignorant of his future self, lying dead in the rain. “I’ll go and talk to him, see what I can find out. You stay here.”
“Why should I stay here?”
“Because you’ll ruin it.”
“No I wouldn’t!” the Doctor looked genuinely offended by the idea.
“Yes you would. You’re a gawky awkward alien who normally wears clothes that make no sense who manages to weird-out everyone he meets. No one’s going to tell anything, are they? I know what I’m doing – let me do it.”
“You can’t leave me alone with these people!” distress was rising in his voice. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know!” she glanced back at Ricker, making sure he hadn’t gone anywhere. “Go and find the security or something. Get a feel for the building. See who put these statues here and what exactly we can do to stop them.”
“We are the worst detectives in history. Forwards and backwards.”
“Speak for yourself,” Autumn grinned, and left the Doctor behind.
She strode through the crowd with ease, drawing many looks, causing many partings. Anyone else would have to twist and bend to make it through, but not Autumn – her unspoken commands echoed through the lobby. Within a minute she was by Ricker’s side.
“Professor Ricker!” she beamed, stepping into his line of view and cutting straight across his conversation with a tall, thin man. “How are you enjoying the party?”
“Very well, thank you,” Ricker was short, and clearly intimidated by this suddenly appearing Ice Queen, looming several inches over him. He gulped deep. “Have we met?”
“I’m the arts manager,” the lie came easily to her. “Autumn Rivers. I put the event on.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, it’s very splendid, just what I was hoping for. There aren’t real people in those statues, are there?”
“Good god, I hope not,” Autumn said, her sincerity disguised by a smile. They laughed, and began to flow around the room. She made the best use of the space she could, often deliberately moving around people not in her way, gaining power through humility; her body language was open, easing Ricker into her presence, making him suggestable. “So, what is you do here, exactly, Professor?”
“I’m chief engineer,” he replied, voice quavering with pride. “Every project goes through me.”
“The head of the snake,” she elegantly reached past the shoulder of a short, squat man and took some food from the platter of a particularly good-looking waitress. “There must be something personal to you? A little secret, perhaps, or something very big. You’re a capable man, I’m sure.”
“It’s true – I have projects of my own. I couldn’t possibly share them, though.”
“Professor! Don’t you trust me?”
“Miss Rivers,” Ricker paused as he gulped the last of his wine. “I’m sure you are very good at keeping secrets. But this lot aren’t. Politics plays where one goes, my dear.”
“Oh, not everywhere, I think,” she lied. Gently, Autumn rested a finger on his sleeve. “Perhaps we could go somewhere a little more private? Give me the details, without spoiling anything for anyone…”
Ricker turned red, then looked left, then looked right, wondering if anyone had heard the proposal. Then he looked back her, pathetically, as though searching for a hope he wasn’t being mocked.
“Well,” at last the burbled. “I suppose…we could go to my office…”
“Excellent! Lead the way, Professor.” Her face smiled sweetly, and behind her back, her knuckles cracked softly.
***
The corridors of the Capitos Institute were far less lavish than the Lobby and halls, all off-white walls and wooden skirting boards like a private hospital. Of all the corridors the Doctor had seen, this ranked very lowly. It’s was like walking inside a very early video game.
He was glad to be away from the social elements, though. He tended to panic at parties and blurt out random, untrue things, like being half-human or that the party food tasted terrible. He’d take a crashing ship over a crashing joke any day.
At least he understood corridors. They went in two ways, with rooms on the sides, there wasn’t much to philosophise about. Finally, he reached the room he was looking for – a white plaque on a grey door, on which simple black lettering spelt: SECURITY.
He rapped on the door three times. He heard scrambling, swearing, and more scrambling, and finally the door opened. Beyond it stood a broad-shouldered, broad-browed and broad-faced woman, wearing a black jumper and heavy duty trousers, with a gun strapped to her hip. Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion, and her hand held the door open as a closed fist.
“This section is out of bounds,” she said, her stern voice echoing down the corridor.
In a fluid, practised motion, the Doctor presented her with his psychic paper. “Government inspection,” he said with all the charm and charisma he’d come to expect of himself. “We have lots of important people here tonight. Safety is paramount.”
“We’re not subject to normal government inspections.”
“Special Branch. For special things.”
The security guard studied the psychic paper closely, with much incredulity; so closely in fact the Doctor thought she might, through sheer determination, might break through the façade. But, at last, she handed him it back, as satisfied as she apparently could be.
“What do you want to see?” she asked, going back into the security room, beckoning the Doctor to follow. The room had a window, overlooking the perimeter of the Institute – grim barbed wire, battered and shaken by the rain. The switchboard was a series of red lights, all alarms for different areas of the institute.
“Just an overview, really,” the Doctor commented, taking in the collection of coffee cups and discarded pastry boxes all around the room. “Just about what’s in the building. What’s in the higher floors?”
“The higher floors are out of bounds.”
“What about the basement?”
“The basement’s out of bounds.”
“Is there anywhere that isn’t out of bounds?”
“There’s the lobby,” the security guard placed herself down in the revolving seat. “Other than that, though…”
“And you don’t know what’s there?”
“Why would I?” she asked, slurping from her coffee.
“You’re not the slightest bit curious as to what you’re guarding? Where’s your sense of adventure?” As she took a moment to think of her answer, the Doctor peeked over the woman’s shoulder, and saw there a blinking red light. “Erm, not to alarm you, but you may wish to check your switch board.”
Her chair swung around violently; too see precisely what was happening. She stared at the light, and then out the windowing before stopping, apparently having seen something.
“What the hell…?”
The Doctor rushed to join her. Out in the rain, beyond the barbed wire, he saw what she had spotted: a figure, in a dark coat, simply standing at the perimeter.
The security guard had no clue what it was, but it didn’t take the Doctor long to work out. And it terrified him.
She drew her gun, and headed for the door. “Wait!” the Doctor cried. “You mustn’t go out there. I know it sounds incredible, but what’s waiting beyond that fence is not human. You won’t be able to stop it. Please stay.”
“What the hell are you on?” she spat. “Stay here. I’m going to deal with this.”
“Don’t go!” But she was already out the door. He spun on his heels, bit his nail, and made a decision: “I’m coming with you!” he called.
***
The noise of the rain – the same rain that Professor Thomas Ricker was lying in, somewhere in time – was deafening; the grey sky was sound proofing to the stars. And in the darkness, beyond the barbed-wire gates of the Capitos Institute, stood the creature.
It looked almost comical, the Doctor thought. A huge fedora perched atop what he presumed was a head, but couldn’t be sure – the shadow and water cascading down from the hat obscured any features. It wore a long, tan overcoat, with sleeves that went well past what one could assume were hands, and equally long trousers, the sodden turn-ups dragging beneath its soles. It was as if two children, one atop each other, had tried to disguise themselves as a single adult, if it weren’t for the eerie stillness with which the Hunter held itself.
The security guard stormed towards the gate, her gun raised and trained on the monster. “Identify yourself or I will open fire.”
“I told you,” the Doctor said, hurrying behind her. “It can’t be killed by any conventional means!”
“It looks like a man to me, and men fall when they’re shot.”
They came to stop, ten feet from the Hunter, with only the gate between them. For a full minute they stood opposite each, with no sound but the hammering of rain in the Doctor’s ears. Finally, the security guard spoke:
“I told you to identify yourself.”
A pause before the answer: “I told you to identify yourself.” The Hunter’s voice was not its own, but the guard’s played back at her.
She thrust her gun forward. “Are you playing games with me?”
“Are you playing games with me?”
“Shut up!”
This time, the Hunter did. More seconds past before the Doctor dared to speak.
“Listen to me: don’t provoke it, don’t challenge it. You can’t kill it and you can’t outrun it. You’ve got to deal with it on its terms.”
“I will deal with intruders on my watch as I see fit. Now listen to me, Hunter of Andromeda or whatever you are – what do you want?”
This time, the creature didn’t pause. “We want…” Its voice still sounded like the guard’s, but garbled, and far away, as if it spoke with a mouth full of water. “Your fluids.”
“My what?”
The Hunter took a step forward, a lurching, clumsy attempt, dragging its long trousers across the floor, and the guard fired. The bullet flew through the coat, opening it, and the clothes drifted to the ground, like there simply had been nothing underneath.
A strange silence descended on the pair of them as the Doctor’s mind raced. The sound of the rain seemed to disappear. Where had it gone? Was it ever there in the first place? What would it do next? And then, dreadfully, he realised: the sound had stopped, because the rain had too.
Each little droplet stood in mid-air, suspended, like a line of soldiers waiting for orders. The guard came to realise not long after, lowering her gun in shock. Then like lightning they pulled together, creating one long stream of rain water, rushing straight for the guard…
…and forcing its way down her throat.
Teeth smashed and a jaw broke as it punched into her mouth, flooding her, throwing her six feet into the air. The Doctor rushed forward to help, but it was too late; as the rain began to fall again, the security guard slumped to the ground, water and blood trickling out her gaping mouth, her face bruised, ruined, and dead.
***
Professor Ricker’s office was just like his apartment – a curious blend of new and old. A wooden desk with a high-backed chair led the room, holding an open bottle of scotch as a trophy. The sphere of anachronism spread out from there, sprouting mahogany tables and antique chess sets, grandfather clocks and Afghan prayer rugs, but all in a cool blue box, more akin to holding charts and PowerPoint presentations than ancient obscurities.
And in the centre of it all, holding court, the Dame that drew the eye of Kings, Queens, Ministers and Soldiers alike: a beautiful piano, so black it sucked in all light, but for the white keys, the pearls around her neck.
“You play?” Ricker spotted Autumn eying the instrument, on his way to the desk and its bottle of scotch.
“I do,” she replied, stepping close to admire it. “May I?”
“Please do. A drink?”
Autumn nodded, Ricker poured, and she played a few notes. Vide cor Meum, she chose – something delicate and persuasive, exactly the tone she was trying to capture.
“I haven’t heard that one before,” the Professor said, handing Autumn her drink.
“My own composition,” she lied. She didn’t drink, but smiled sweetly all the same. She rested her glass on the piano as she continued: “I am an artist, after all.”
“You certainly have a keen grasp on the aesthetic,” he finished his glass of scotch in one gulp. “I, as a man of science…well. I am little more practical, I think. Art exists in a different sphere to the one in which the true world exists.”
“You see to have a big appreciation for the arts as anyone, going by your décor. This piano doesn’t fall into the hands of someone with eyes only for facts.”
Ricker chuckled, and set his glass down next to Autumn’s. “They remind me of what I’m working for. What I have to save.”
“To save? My word, Professor, you do think a great weight on your shoulders.” She still hadn’t taken a drink. He hadn’t seemed to notice. “And how, exactly, do intend to save all this?”
“Energy,” he said, humour fading from his voice. “Boundless energy, Miss Rivers, for everyone, everywhere.”
“I like the sound of such a thing, though your lack of evidence has failed to sell me yet. And, you being a scientist and all, that’s quite a big flaw.”
“Every atom is bound by an electrical field, Miss Rivers,” Ricker began to gesticulate, moulding an invisible sphere in his hand. “It keeps matter in form. To cancel or destroy that field would be disastrous, but, it can be manipulated – specifically, manipulated to release the energy held latently in every atom. To change it. Imagine turning water, or air, even, into electricity. Imagine that.”
She was imagining. And what she imagined was, to her, ridiculous. “And…this is your personal project?”
“I’ve said too much,” the Professor mumbled, looking down to his shoes.
But Autumn was not about to give in so easily. She grabbed up his glass and headed for the desk, planning on refilling his drink. “Professor…you must show me. You must prove to me what you claim.”
“I cannot do that, Miss Rivers,” he said, his tone firm. “I simply cannot.”
“Under no circumstances?”
“None at all.”
Autumn nodded, and looked down at the desk. There, just by chance – though, perhaps, it was something more – she spotted something that gave her a revelation. In that moment she realised the whole night, the investigation, the networking, the science and the art, was all dependent on each other. The Professor Ricker she was talking to now simply wouldn’t exist, without the Professor Ricker dead in the rain a few hours from now. Time was sand, shifting beneath her feet, a nexus of changing and interdependent webs that expanded and contracted, depending on how she perceived them, and that everything that Autumn, the Doctor, Professor Ricker and Detective Reed would do, and had done, was inexorable, and inevitable.
All these complex and intoxicating thoughts came to her through the medium of a letter knife, resting on wooden desk.
“Politicians, scientists, they all say they want to change the future, don’t they?” She raised the letter knife to her eyes, examining the blade – sharp, but not that sharp. “But they don’t understand, do they? You’re a man of science, you know that history and fortune isn’t told. It’s made.”
She was fast. So fast, that Professor Ricker’s gasp was delayed, as she lurched behind him and pressed the letter knife to his throat, drawing a little blood. Not much, just enough to let him know she was serious.
“Now, Professor, I really do need you to show me this project of yours.” He only grunted in response. “There is a lot I can do to you before I open up your throat and leave you bleed to death on the floor, Ricker. But bear in mind, it is still an option, and there won’t be a spot of you on my lovely dress. Understand?”
In truth, she wouldn’t have dared kill Ricker without consulting the Doctor about the logistics of it first, but he seemed to get the message.
“Let’s try again. Where is the project?” She saw Ricker’s eyes dart to the piano. “It’s in this room, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he whispered, hoarsely.
She considered her options, and then lowered the knife from his throat. “Show me. But if you pull any kind of stunt, know I will kill you and anyone who tries to stop me escaping.”
The Professor stepped towards the piano, and, hesitantly, punched a few notes, making a melancholy sound that echoed through the room.
As he finished, the ancient Afghan fell from the wall, and revealed the project behind it…
Crystals; blue, pulsating crystals, dancing around each other, crackling with energy. They were suspended on thin metal rod, a sun held atop a spear, and from the circular structure a black cable protruded, leading to small, equally black, plastic box.
“This is it,” he whispered.
“Your energy?”
“Yes. The crystals are the most easily adaptable form, we’ve found.” Ricker looked to her for permission to move closer, which she gave with a nod, but followed him towards them. “We can extract energy from them very easily, directed through the small black box.”
The Professor pointed it out, and Autumn picked it up. There was a button on the top, like a trigger. “And with this, you can…change matter?”
“Yes. Yes, we can.”
“A powerful weapon against a form changer,” she said to herself. “Now I know why it killed you.”
“What? What killed me?” As he spoke there was a gust of wind, like a miniature tornado in the room. The fallen rug was pulled to the centre, and…began to stand, absurdly, like a ghost beneath a sheet.
Instinctively, Autumn grabbed the Professor again, holding him in front of her like a shield, keeping him hostage with the small box pointed towards his face. The Afghan rug reached its full height.
“You’re one of the Hunters of Andromeda, then?” she asked aggressively, hoping to override the sheer terror in her voice. “At least you’re not one of the statues.”
“If you are holding the Professor in such a way as to use him to negotiate,” the Hunter’s voice was a light whisper, trailing on unfelt wind. “Then your strategic thinking is most ineffective. My purpose is to destroy him.”
“Because of the crystals? They can damage you, can’t they? You’re going to kill him and destroy the research, to rob us of a weapon.”
The Hunter took a moment to consider, clearly unwilling to admit it had a weakness. But, eventually, it said: “You are correct.”
Autumn laughed, surprised at having the breath. “And why do you think I’m going to let you do that?”
“You have no power to stop me.”
“You just admitted that what I have in my hand is the one weapon that can hurt you,” she grinned broadly, and prayed to a god she never believed in that this was going to work. “I’m not the kind of woman to leave a gun unfired.”
She thrust the black box in front of her, and pressed the trigger.
The force of the lightning bolt threw Autumn back, releasing the Professor from her grip. The energy struck the Afghan rug, vaporising it immediately, but latching onto some invisible force. The Hunter screamed, an un-godly high-pitched wail, and thrashed around the room, knocking down everything like a childish poltergeist throwing a tantrum. There was a bright flash, full of white light and white noise, and then, suddenly, everything was silent.
The Professor was gone, run away from the encounter. Autumn wondered if the Hunter was dead, though she thought it more likely it was licking its wounds. Her heart pounded like thunder in her chest, her breaths were gulping, the process of keeping herself alive dominated every thought. All, but one:
You can run, Professor Ricker, but you can’t hide.
***
The Doctor strolled through the sweet shop and back to the TARDIS. He’d parked it in the room behind the counter, telling the owner, a dippy old woman, that it was a temporary government initiative. He’d flashed his psychic paper in front of her eyes briefly, and they’d widened accordingly. He wondered all day what her mind had made of it.
There were hundreds of sweets stacked up on the wooden walls; all brands that were still going in the future, but each different to how they’d evolved in the modern world, even with the subtlest of changes. Autumn would have liked them, he thought. One of the first things he learned about her was her love of cake and biscuits. It was hilarious how a woman with such intimidating professionalism and relentless glamour could unashamedly sit at the back of a room shovelling cake down her throat. Obviously the food generated by her prison cell was mediocre at best.
A group of young girls, about eight or nine years old, flocked around the counter, pointing at the pick ‘n’ mix selection. He was sure he recognised one of them. They were gathering change together, debating over sky-blue or bright-pink bonbons.
“Get the strawberry ones,” said a blonde girl. “Robin likes the strawberry ones.” She flashed a quick glance to the one the Doctor had recognised, and he realised, quickly hurrying behind the counter; out of the world of children, and into the fairy-tale itself.
***
The Doctor couldn’t take his eyes off Autumn. She was sat in the chair by the console, head between her legs, even now still breathing heavily. Partly he was worried for her, wishing to insist that she go to the medical bay, but partly he was worried she was tricking him, would turn on him, use this weapon she’d found and the TARDIS for herself. He didn’t trust her. By now, he should, and he knew that made him a bad man. But he didn’t.
He’d found her in Ricker’s office, crawling across the floor, the biggest bruise running down her back and neck like she’d been thrown against the wall with the same force that put Ricker through his window. Her left shoulder was badly swollen, probably broken, but she seemed to have enough adrenaline running through her to push past it. Autumn told him about the energy crystals, why the Hunters wanted it, and that Ricker had run away. Wherever he’d go, she was insistent the Hunter would follow. The Professor was beyond saving, he could sense that much, but perhaps they could take the opportunity to stop the alien where they could.
“Are we there yet?” Autumn asked, still not looking up.
The time rotor gave a dull thud. “We are now.” Autumn stood, and together they made their way to the TARDIS door, opening it to the apartment corridor they had been in, later that night. “I still think you should stay here.”
“Not a chance,” she replied, never breaking her stride. “Something might go wrong.”
“You really distrust me so much?” the twang of hypocrisy ran through his hearts.
“Not as far as I could throw you.”
They arrived at Ricker’s door. The Doctor tried it, and found it locked. “The sonic,” he mumbled sardonically, and with a quick buzz, he opened it.
Professor Ricker stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over London. Though unheard, lightning flashed in the sky now, adding bass to the symphony of the rain.
“You truly are more than you seem, Miss Rivers,” the Professor said, turning, and heading for his chair, yet untipped. “You make one realise that to change the future, one has to act fast. And that is exactly what I have done.”
“What have you done, Professor Ricker?” the Doctor shouted, taking the lead.
“I have done what I always planning to do. I have activated a detonation sequence at the Capitos Institute. The Crystals there will send a burst of energy that shall annihilate the city.” Ricker sat in his chair, totally unfazed by the words he just spoke. “Afterwards, the world shall be in crisis, and I shall emerge with my new energy program to lead it somewhere better. I shall start the world over again.”
“Why? You’re a man of science, Professor, you’re meant to make the lives of people better, not kill them in droves.”
“Robert Oppenheimer blamed himself for ending the war for years,” Ricker drank from the unbroken glass. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but I know who I am. And I shall not make the same mistake.”
“We have ways of making you stop,” the Doctor felt he was running out of options, and Autumn’s silence was unnerving him. “You cannot do this.”
“You can kill me, if you so wish, but that will not stop the detonation. Let me advise the both of you: leave now, get as far away as you can. I might even let you in the bunker beneath this building, if you capitulate. But you will not stop this. I will not be stopped.”
“But, Professor Ricker,” Autumn finally said. “You’ve made a fundamental mistake, in assuming that we need – or want – you alive at all.” When the Professor looked at her quizzically, she only smiled, and said, mildly: “Check your pocket.”
He did. And what he found in there was a small, blue, fraction of crystal.
“Call it a breadcrumb. Something to be followed, when it comes to a hunt. And, I suppose, a gesture of goodwill.” Autumn addressed the room: “Anytime you want.”
A shockwave. A great force pushed through the room. It lifted Ricker out of his chair, knocking it over, slicing his flailing hand on the glass of whisky, a propelling him out the window, shattering it like it was barely sugar glass, and sending him sailing to the ground below.
Instead of falling, the glass simply hovered in the air, occasionally glinting when hit by light from the city or the lightning. A form had been chosen.
“Can you stop the detonation?” Autumn asked, hurriedly.
The Hunter hesitated before answering. It’s voiced boomed this time, presumably to be heard over the thunder and rain. “Yes.”
“Okay, here’s the deal: you stop the detonation, save the city, and we let you go. We give you back your head start, before we come chasing after you. We’ll stop you. I promise, we’ll stop you. But we will give you a chance.”
Again, the Hunter considered. “Will the man follow the terms?”
“I’ll make him.”
“We will meet again, human. And you too, Time Lord. Next time, we shall destroy you both.” The glass shards fell to the floor. The Doctor held his breath for what felt like aeons, but, finally, the lightning stopped, leaving only the heavy drumming of the rain.
***
The TARDIS was quiet. Neither Autumn or the Doctor had spoken since the apartment, instead they had simply sat in heavy, oppressive silence, that not even the comforting sound of the time rotor could break.
“You want to say it,” Autumn finally said, standing and looking the Doctor directly in the eye. “So say it.”
So he did: “You murdered him, Autumn. You made that Hunter kill him. Now other people will die because of the deal you made – no, you planned. Do you think it was worth it?”
“Men like Ricker, things like the Hunters, they’re all dangerous. And so am I. I’ve killed for less noble reasons than tonight, Doctor, and I can see in your eyes that you have too.” She rubbed her injured shoulder, the pain finally breaking through to her. “I compromised. But I did to weaken everyone against me – against us – as much as possible.”
“You really do not trust the world at all, do you?” the Doctor was aware of the irony. He didn’t trust her. He doubted he ever would.
“Only myself, Doctor,” Autumn Rivers walked away from him, heading towards the corridor that held the medical bay. But before she left, she turned to the Time Lord, and said: “Someone has to watch the watchmen. And don’t think I’ve taken my eye off you.”
What did they want, anyway? Ricker wasn’t an Irish name or anything, and special branch only ever seemed to sniff around when it came to the IRA these days. The Russians, maybe, or those nutters all flooding in and out of Afghanistan, but both those places were on their last legs. These two jokers were more likely to be Russian spies than Ricker was.
The door to the apartment was wide open, almost comically. It was beckoning them to enter, joking at their expense, offering them a chance see what they could find, fully in the knowledge they find nothing.
It was open-plan, kitchen and living space all blended into one, with a bedroom syphoned off to the side, and along the wall, huge panes of glass, one with an uneven, broken hole in the centre, the wind whistling through it like the drone of a distressed fly.
The décor was like time flowing back into itself – a chrome kitchen, simplistic colours, but Edwardian furniture, thick, fraying carpets, and smell of oak that Reed imagine once lingered, but now swirled, as air vented in through the broken glass plane. Professor Ricker was a man who feared progress. He let it happen around him – outwardly, he loved it. But in his heart he clung to what comfort he could find.
The room seemed mostly in place. The only sign of disturbance, aside from a few papers fluttering through the place thanks to the wind, was a toppled, high backed chair, and accompanying side-table, holding a glass of whisky, now shattered on the carpet.
“No sign of forced entry,” the Doctor remarked, stepping over the threshold. “Professor Ricker knew the killer?”
“Depends who the killer was,” Autumn was already crouching, again, by the chair, “and whether they had one of your sonic things.”
“I could’ve done it and forgotten. I haven’t the best memory.”
“Care to share what you’re talking about?”
“Not particularly, Detective Reed,” Autumn stood, and faced the window. “You said one would need a car to crack this window.”
“One would. And yet I don’t see any tire marks.”
“Did someone use a gun, perhaps?” The Doctor moved across to the window, fingers hovering near the spiked remnants of the glass, but not quite touching. “Something with a lot of velocity. Did you find a bullet in the street?”
“Not as of yet. And there wasn’t a casing in the room. Someone theorised it might have some kind of pressure weapon. Seems a little far-fetched to me.”
“There you are, Doctor: sonic again.”
“Agent Rivers,” Reed stepped into Autumn’s line of view, inches from her face, making use of the extra height the Detective had over her. “This investigation might go a lot quicker if you could end the petty, non-professional torments.”
“You are quite right, Detective Reed,” the Doctor moved in-between the two women, placing his hand defensively on Autumn’s shoulder, acting more concerned she would be the arbiter of any conflicted over Reed. “Please forgive Autumn, she was a poor stray orphan I found and raised as my protégé. She’s excellent, but etiquette hasn’t rubbed off on her. In fact, I’m rather worried she might turn on me, and become my deadliest enemy.”
“You’re rambling, Doctor.” Autumn removed the Doctor’s hand, passive-aggressively, but with less emphasis on the passive.
“Yes. Sorry. The Crime Scene, what do you make of it?”
Autumn stepped into the centre of the conflict zone – the fallen chair and smashed glass – and breathed deep, like she was calming herself, trying to reach some far-off Zen, and the enter the mind of the culprit.
Seconds passed before she spoke. “There’s blood on the glass. Ricker’s, I’m willing to bet. The wound on his neck didn’t come from it, we already established it was something he was being threatened with. This glass broke and took the blood with it. It was hit with enough force to break it. Ricker struck out, perhaps, or reached. A flail. As the chair fell…”
“He was pushed? Whilst in the chair?”
“No. No, this flail was way more desperate than just falling back. He was grabbed out of this chair. Thrown.”
Reed scratched at her itchy bra, and the Doctor shot her a confused look. “So Ricker was grabbed out of his chair, lashed out and cut his hand on the glass, was dragged over to the window and thrown out?”
“He wasn’t dragged. There are no markings on the carpet.”
“Lifted, then.”
“Weren’t you listening? I made an amendment to my original statement. I changed ‘grabbed’ to ‘thrown’.”
“You...” Reed looked at the position of the chair, then to the window, then to Autumn, and gave a feeble-throated laugh. “You can seriously be suggesting that Ricker was thrown, from there, out the window?”
“Knocking the glass as he went.”
“Interesting.” The Doctor strode over to the window once again, and knelt by the shattered glass. “Look at the shatter pattern. It’s not splayed out, as if something hit it. It’s just dropped straight to the floor.”
“This ludicrous,” Reed could feel fury rising in her face. “Does Special Branch really have nothing better to do than make jokes out of crime scenes?”
“What could have the strength to do something like this?” Autumn asked, seemingly to herself.
But the Doctor answered: “You and I both know, I think.”
“A hunter?”
“A hunter.”
“I want you both out my crime scene, now,” Reed stormed to the door, and gestured for them to leave – she was through with these games. “And you can go and tell the arse-headed creeps that run special branch that if they want to play games, they can find another detective to do it with.”
“You’re quite right, Detective,” the Doctor said, hurrying Autumn past her and out the door. “Our behaviour hasn’t been professional. We’re very sorry. But we have future information to pass onto you.”
“Keep watching, Detective Reed,” Autumn added, cold blue eyes slyly grinning along with her mouth. “Keep watching.”
***
The Doctor watched information scroll through the scanner, hand resting on his chin, as the TARDIS told him all there was to know about Professor Thomas Ricker. Of course, she knew everything, except what he wanted to know – she knew that he lived, she knew that he died, she knew what he lived for. Everything in-between, the Doctor and Autumn would have to discover for themselves.
As the detective had explained, Ricker was the chief engineer of the Capitos institute: a Think Tank, research centre, laboratory, and global headquarters for conspiracy theories, all in one. Science, economics and politics all gathered together in this place with new ideas – and old – for ways to organise the world. The place proudly proclaimed to not only be searching for the answer to the human condition, but to have found it.
The Doctor had little time for such things. Anyone, he found, who claims to have an answer to the eternal complexities of human nature was not only wrong, but dangerous.
He glanced down the TARDIS corridor where Autumn was changing, getting ready for the sleuthing to come, as though worried she might overhear his thoughts. It wouldn’t surprise him – those blue eyes penetrated so deep, dissected and judged with such precision and coldness, that a simple glance from her generated anxiety. Never before had the Doctor met a human with such an ability to look into someone’s mind – had he not secretly taken her pulse at one time, he might have suspected she were a Time Lord. Not that that necessary exonerated her; of all the places in the universe it would be unwise to take Autumn Rivers, Gallifrey was top of that list.
The Doctor himself was all dressed up, too – a black jacket and bow tie, and white stuffed shirt, he very much looked the part. Whether he’d play it well was another matter; he tended to act strangely at parties, they were always a little too…human. Still, he hoped the company of the one he was heading to – scientists and learned scholars – would help put him at ease.
That hope was dashed the moment Autumn stepped from the corridor, and into the control room. Her dress, low cut, and angular, was a blue so cold it seemed to absorb all other colour around it. Her blond hair and Mediterranean skin seemed to simply fade away, leaving behind only the dress, and Autumn’s eyes, transforming her image into that of a vengeful, ice-cold wraith.
“You look smart,” she commented, snapping the Doctor back to reality.
“You look…”
“If you say anything other than terrifying, I’ll have to go and get changed again.”
“No, no, we can make a good-cop, bad-cop routine of it.”
Smiling, Autumn strode next to the Doctor, placing a hand on his should, and peering at the scanner, reading the information.
“Tell me a little about the people we’ll be meeting tonight. I like to know who I’m going to be making conversation with.”
“Scientists, economists, politicians,” the Doctor scooted round the console, punching buttons and pulling the levers. The time rotor groaned, the sound drawing the TARDIS to its destination. “Celebrating ten years of dreaming of a new world.”
Autumn scoffed. “Day-dreaming’s an unhealthy habit.”
“You don’t believe in creating a better world?”
“You do?”
“I’m a Doctor,” the Time Lord replied. “I have to.”
“Well, I suppose someone has to,” she glided to the console chair, and elegantly perched herself on the arm. “Anyone who claims to know how to change the world is not to be trusted, though. Great claims lead to great actions, and great actions are not necessarily good.”
“You’re a very cynical lady, Autumn.”
“Someone needs to watch the watchmen.”
The Doctor smiled – to assure himself that he did, honestly, have the conversation under control. He slammed a lever. “Right, let’s get to some partying.”
***
The Capitos Institute was, indeed, dream-like; bronze statues of the earth, held aloft by muscular figures, littered the lobby as finely-dressed people mingled in and out. Presentations stood on big black boards, promising the future, yet giving no details of the projects they promoted. All the waiting staff were perfectly turned out, their skin flawless and as polished as the Randian monuments, the woman made to stand taller than the man, thanks to frankly dangerous-looking heels. How kind of the organisers.
Autumn found it all rather quaint.
“Not very subtle, are they?” she remarked, lightly brushing her fingers against the pecks of a metal Atlas, holding the world above him with great strain. She was fairly certain he was making a mountain from a molehill.
“I met Ayn Rand once,” the Doctor and Autumn wondered into the lobby, nodding politely, smiling inanely, doing their best to blend in the great minds. “I offered her a jelly baby. I’ve never seen a more disgusted expression in my life.”
She chuckled, linked arms with the Doctor, and together they proceeded to the centre of the lobby, where most of the networking seemed to be taking place. There were men and women of different ages, ethnicities, heights and senses of fashion; well turned-out business types and dominating Arab sheiks; bearded scientists and young ladies hanging off their every word. Truly this place was a hub of intellect and imagination, though Autumn couldn’t help but feel the place was blinding, and stunted – an inward-looking bunch of technocrats, failing to see the wood for the trees that surrounded them. Should salvation ever come, she thought, it wouldn’t come from here.
“Do you really think the Hunters will be here?” she whispered in the Doctor’s ear – closely, but not so close as to intimidate him. It was a serious question.
“I think they will be at Ricker’s apartment in the next few hours. But the reason why they were there is here. This place is full of scientists, all working on projects the public knows nothing about. There must be something they want.”
Autumn cast her mind to what she knew of the Hunters of Andromeda – ruthless killers and form changers, raging from galaxy to galaxy, star to star, picking off the people of whole planets without a moral thought in their head, with unbelievable, and unlimited, power. She wasn’t ashamed to admit they frightened her; they could be hiding be in this very room, as staff, or the guests, or even the statues. Suddenly her cheeky desire to grope the buffed bronze took on a more sinister tone.
She scanned round the room, looking to distract herself from the idea of having sexually harassed an alien super-soldier. She picked out certain people, unconsciously judged the likelihood of them being an alien, consciously disregarded the thought, and then, eventually, found her prize.
“Ricker is over there,” she said. It was hard to recognise him at first, given that he was no longer soaking wet, his eyes were no longer closed, and his short white beard was no longer stained red with blood. But it was certainly him, laughing and joking with glass of wine in hand, still alive, and ignorant of his future self, lying dead in the rain. “I’ll go and talk to him, see what I can find out. You stay here.”
“Why should I stay here?”
“Because you’ll ruin it.”
“No I wouldn’t!” the Doctor looked genuinely offended by the idea.
“Yes you would. You’re a gawky awkward alien who normally wears clothes that make no sense who manages to weird-out everyone he meets. No one’s going to tell anything, are they? I know what I’m doing – let me do it.”
“You can’t leave me alone with these people!” distress was rising in his voice. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know!” she glanced back at Ricker, making sure he hadn’t gone anywhere. “Go and find the security or something. Get a feel for the building. See who put these statues here and what exactly we can do to stop them.”
“We are the worst detectives in history. Forwards and backwards.”
“Speak for yourself,” Autumn grinned, and left the Doctor behind.
She strode through the crowd with ease, drawing many looks, causing many partings. Anyone else would have to twist and bend to make it through, but not Autumn – her unspoken commands echoed through the lobby. Within a minute she was by Ricker’s side.
“Professor Ricker!” she beamed, stepping into his line of view and cutting straight across his conversation with a tall, thin man. “How are you enjoying the party?”
“Very well, thank you,” Ricker was short, and clearly intimidated by this suddenly appearing Ice Queen, looming several inches over him. He gulped deep. “Have we met?”
“I’m the arts manager,” the lie came easily to her. “Autumn Rivers. I put the event on.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, it’s very splendid, just what I was hoping for. There aren’t real people in those statues, are there?”
“Good god, I hope not,” Autumn said, her sincerity disguised by a smile. They laughed, and began to flow around the room. She made the best use of the space she could, often deliberately moving around people not in her way, gaining power through humility; her body language was open, easing Ricker into her presence, making him suggestable. “So, what is you do here, exactly, Professor?”
“I’m chief engineer,” he replied, voice quavering with pride. “Every project goes through me.”
“The head of the snake,” she elegantly reached past the shoulder of a short, squat man and took some food from the platter of a particularly good-looking waitress. “There must be something personal to you? A little secret, perhaps, or something very big. You’re a capable man, I’m sure.”
“It’s true – I have projects of my own. I couldn’t possibly share them, though.”
“Professor! Don’t you trust me?”
“Miss Rivers,” Ricker paused as he gulped the last of his wine. “I’m sure you are very good at keeping secrets. But this lot aren’t. Politics plays where one goes, my dear.”
“Oh, not everywhere, I think,” she lied. Gently, Autumn rested a finger on his sleeve. “Perhaps we could go somewhere a little more private? Give me the details, without spoiling anything for anyone…”
Ricker turned red, then looked left, then looked right, wondering if anyone had heard the proposal. Then he looked back her, pathetically, as though searching for a hope he wasn’t being mocked.
“Well,” at last the burbled. “I suppose…we could go to my office…”
“Excellent! Lead the way, Professor.” Her face smiled sweetly, and behind her back, her knuckles cracked softly.
***
The corridors of the Capitos Institute were far less lavish than the Lobby and halls, all off-white walls and wooden skirting boards like a private hospital. Of all the corridors the Doctor had seen, this ranked very lowly. It’s was like walking inside a very early video game.
He was glad to be away from the social elements, though. He tended to panic at parties and blurt out random, untrue things, like being half-human or that the party food tasted terrible. He’d take a crashing ship over a crashing joke any day.
At least he understood corridors. They went in two ways, with rooms on the sides, there wasn’t much to philosophise about. Finally, he reached the room he was looking for – a white plaque on a grey door, on which simple black lettering spelt: SECURITY.
He rapped on the door three times. He heard scrambling, swearing, and more scrambling, and finally the door opened. Beyond it stood a broad-shouldered, broad-browed and broad-faced woman, wearing a black jumper and heavy duty trousers, with a gun strapped to her hip. Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion, and her hand held the door open as a closed fist.
“This section is out of bounds,” she said, her stern voice echoing down the corridor.
In a fluid, practised motion, the Doctor presented her with his psychic paper. “Government inspection,” he said with all the charm and charisma he’d come to expect of himself. “We have lots of important people here tonight. Safety is paramount.”
“We’re not subject to normal government inspections.”
“Special Branch. For special things.”
The security guard studied the psychic paper closely, with much incredulity; so closely in fact the Doctor thought she might, through sheer determination, might break through the façade. But, at last, she handed him it back, as satisfied as she apparently could be.
“What do you want to see?” she asked, going back into the security room, beckoning the Doctor to follow. The room had a window, overlooking the perimeter of the Institute – grim barbed wire, battered and shaken by the rain. The switchboard was a series of red lights, all alarms for different areas of the institute.
“Just an overview, really,” the Doctor commented, taking in the collection of coffee cups and discarded pastry boxes all around the room. “Just about what’s in the building. What’s in the higher floors?”
“The higher floors are out of bounds.”
“What about the basement?”
“The basement’s out of bounds.”
“Is there anywhere that isn’t out of bounds?”
“There’s the lobby,” the security guard placed herself down in the revolving seat. “Other than that, though…”
“And you don’t know what’s there?”
“Why would I?” she asked, slurping from her coffee.
“You’re not the slightest bit curious as to what you’re guarding? Where’s your sense of adventure?” As she took a moment to think of her answer, the Doctor peeked over the woman’s shoulder, and saw there a blinking red light. “Erm, not to alarm you, but you may wish to check your switch board.”
Her chair swung around violently; too see precisely what was happening. She stared at the light, and then out the windowing before stopping, apparently having seen something.
“What the hell…?”
The Doctor rushed to join her. Out in the rain, beyond the barbed wire, he saw what she had spotted: a figure, in a dark coat, simply standing at the perimeter.
The security guard had no clue what it was, but it didn’t take the Doctor long to work out. And it terrified him.
She drew her gun, and headed for the door. “Wait!” the Doctor cried. “You mustn’t go out there. I know it sounds incredible, but what’s waiting beyond that fence is not human. You won’t be able to stop it. Please stay.”
“What the hell are you on?” she spat. “Stay here. I’m going to deal with this.”
“Don’t go!” But she was already out the door. He spun on his heels, bit his nail, and made a decision: “I’m coming with you!” he called.
***
The noise of the rain – the same rain that Professor Thomas Ricker was lying in, somewhere in time – was deafening; the grey sky was sound proofing to the stars. And in the darkness, beyond the barbed-wire gates of the Capitos Institute, stood the creature.
It looked almost comical, the Doctor thought. A huge fedora perched atop what he presumed was a head, but couldn’t be sure – the shadow and water cascading down from the hat obscured any features. It wore a long, tan overcoat, with sleeves that went well past what one could assume were hands, and equally long trousers, the sodden turn-ups dragging beneath its soles. It was as if two children, one atop each other, had tried to disguise themselves as a single adult, if it weren’t for the eerie stillness with which the Hunter held itself.
The security guard stormed towards the gate, her gun raised and trained on the monster. “Identify yourself or I will open fire.”
“I told you,” the Doctor said, hurrying behind her. “It can’t be killed by any conventional means!”
“It looks like a man to me, and men fall when they’re shot.”
They came to stop, ten feet from the Hunter, with only the gate between them. For a full minute they stood opposite each, with no sound but the hammering of rain in the Doctor’s ears. Finally, the security guard spoke:
“I told you to identify yourself.”
A pause before the answer: “I told you to identify yourself.” The Hunter’s voice was not its own, but the guard’s played back at her.
She thrust her gun forward. “Are you playing games with me?”
“Are you playing games with me?”
“Shut up!”
This time, the Hunter did. More seconds past before the Doctor dared to speak.
“Listen to me: don’t provoke it, don’t challenge it. You can’t kill it and you can’t outrun it. You’ve got to deal with it on its terms.”
“I will deal with intruders on my watch as I see fit. Now listen to me, Hunter of Andromeda or whatever you are – what do you want?”
This time, the creature didn’t pause. “We want…” Its voice still sounded like the guard’s, but garbled, and far away, as if it spoke with a mouth full of water. “Your fluids.”
“My what?”
The Hunter took a step forward, a lurching, clumsy attempt, dragging its long trousers across the floor, and the guard fired. The bullet flew through the coat, opening it, and the clothes drifted to the ground, like there simply had been nothing underneath.
A strange silence descended on the pair of them as the Doctor’s mind raced. The sound of the rain seemed to disappear. Where had it gone? Was it ever there in the first place? What would it do next? And then, dreadfully, he realised: the sound had stopped, because the rain had too.
Each little droplet stood in mid-air, suspended, like a line of soldiers waiting for orders. The guard came to realise not long after, lowering her gun in shock. Then like lightning they pulled together, creating one long stream of rain water, rushing straight for the guard…
…and forcing its way down her throat.
Teeth smashed and a jaw broke as it punched into her mouth, flooding her, throwing her six feet into the air. The Doctor rushed forward to help, but it was too late; as the rain began to fall again, the security guard slumped to the ground, water and blood trickling out her gaping mouth, her face bruised, ruined, and dead.
***
Professor Ricker’s office was just like his apartment – a curious blend of new and old. A wooden desk with a high-backed chair led the room, holding an open bottle of scotch as a trophy. The sphere of anachronism spread out from there, sprouting mahogany tables and antique chess sets, grandfather clocks and Afghan prayer rugs, but all in a cool blue box, more akin to holding charts and PowerPoint presentations than ancient obscurities.
And in the centre of it all, holding court, the Dame that drew the eye of Kings, Queens, Ministers and Soldiers alike: a beautiful piano, so black it sucked in all light, but for the white keys, the pearls around her neck.
“You play?” Ricker spotted Autumn eying the instrument, on his way to the desk and its bottle of scotch.
“I do,” she replied, stepping close to admire it. “May I?”
“Please do. A drink?”
Autumn nodded, Ricker poured, and she played a few notes. Vide cor Meum, she chose – something delicate and persuasive, exactly the tone she was trying to capture.
“I haven’t heard that one before,” the Professor said, handing Autumn her drink.
“My own composition,” she lied. She didn’t drink, but smiled sweetly all the same. She rested her glass on the piano as she continued: “I am an artist, after all.”
“You certainly have a keen grasp on the aesthetic,” he finished his glass of scotch in one gulp. “I, as a man of science…well. I am little more practical, I think. Art exists in a different sphere to the one in which the true world exists.”
“You see to have a big appreciation for the arts as anyone, going by your décor. This piano doesn’t fall into the hands of someone with eyes only for facts.”
Ricker chuckled, and set his glass down next to Autumn’s. “They remind me of what I’m working for. What I have to save.”
“To save? My word, Professor, you do think a great weight on your shoulders.” She still hadn’t taken a drink. He hadn’t seemed to notice. “And how, exactly, do intend to save all this?”
“Energy,” he said, humour fading from his voice. “Boundless energy, Miss Rivers, for everyone, everywhere.”
“I like the sound of such a thing, though your lack of evidence has failed to sell me yet. And, you being a scientist and all, that’s quite a big flaw.”
“Every atom is bound by an electrical field, Miss Rivers,” Ricker began to gesticulate, moulding an invisible sphere in his hand. “It keeps matter in form. To cancel or destroy that field would be disastrous, but, it can be manipulated – specifically, manipulated to release the energy held latently in every atom. To change it. Imagine turning water, or air, even, into electricity. Imagine that.”
She was imagining. And what she imagined was, to her, ridiculous. “And…this is your personal project?”
“I’ve said too much,” the Professor mumbled, looking down to his shoes.
But Autumn was not about to give in so easily. She grabbed up his glass and headed for the desk, planning on refilling his drink. “Professor…you must show me. You must prove to me what you claim.”
“I cannot do that, Miss Rivers,” he said, his tone firm. “I simply cannot.”
“Under no circumstances?”
“None at all.”
Autumn nodded, and looked down at the desk. There, just by chance – though, perhaps, it was something more – she spotted something that gave her a revelation. In that moment she realised the whole night, the investigation, the networking, the science and the art, was all dependent on each other. The Professor Ricker she was talking to now simply wouldn’t exist, without the Professor Ricker dead in the rain a few hours from now. Time was sand, shifting beneath her feet, a nexus of changing and interdependent webs that expanded and contracted, depending on how she perceived them, and that everything that Autumn, the Doctor, Professor Ricker and Detective Reed would do, and had done, was inexorable, and inevitable.
All these complex and intoxicating thoughts came to her through the medium of a letter knife, resting on wooden desk.
“Politicians, scientists, they all say they want to change the future, don’t they?” She raised the letter knife to her eyes, examining the blade – sharp, but not that sharp. “But they don’t understand, do they? You’re a man of science, you know that history and fortune isn’t told. It’s made.”
She was fast. So fast, that Professor Ricker’s gasp was delayed, as she lurched behind him and pressed the letter knife to his throat, drawing a little blood. Not much, just enough to let him know she was serious.
“Now, Professor, I really do need you to show me this project of yours.” He only grunted in response. “There is a lot I can do to you before I open up your throat and leave you bleed to death on the floor, Ricker. But bear in mind, it is still an option, and there won’t be a spot of you on my lovely dress. Understand?”
In truth, she wouldn’t have dared kill Ricker without consulting the Doctor about the logistics of it first, but he seemed to get the message.
“Let’s try again. Where is the project?” She saw Ricker’s eyes dart to the piano. “It’s in this room, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he whispered, hoarsely.
She considered her options, and then lowered the knife from his throat. “Show me. But if you pull any kind of stunt, know I will kill you and anyone who tries to stop me escaping.”
The Professor stepped towards the piano, and, hesitantly, punched a few notes, making a melancholy sound that echoed through the room.
As he finished, the ancient Afghan fell from the wall, and revealed the project behind it…
Crystals; blue, pulsating crystals, dancing around each other, crackling with energy. They were suspended on thin metal rod, a sun held atop a spear, and from the circular structure a black cable protruded, leading to small, equally black, plastic box.
“This is it,” he whispered.
“Your energy?”
“Yes. The crystals are the most easily adaptable form, we’ve found.” Ricker looked to her for permission to move closer, which she gave with a nod, but followed him towards them. “We can extract energy from them very easily, directed through the small black box.”
The Professor pointed it out, and Autumn picked it up. There was a button on the top, like a trigger. “And with this, you can…change matter?”
“Yes. Yes, we can.”
“A powerful weapon against a form changer,” she said to herself. “Now I know why it killed you.”
“What? What killed me?” As he spoke there was a gust of wind, like a miniature tornado in the room. The fallen rug was pulled to the centre, and…began to stand, absurdly, like a ghost beneath a sheet.
Instinctively, Autumn grabbed the Professor again, holding him in front of her like a shield, keeping him hostage with the small box pointed towards his face. The Afghan rug reached its full height.
“You’re one of the Hunters of Andromeda, then?” she asked aggressively, hoping to override the sheer terror in her voice. “At least you’re not one of the statues.”
“If you are holding the Professor in such a way as to use him to negotiate,” the Hunter’s voice was a light whisper, trailing on unfelt wind. “Then your strategic thinking is most ineffective. My purpose is to destroy him.”
“Because of the crystals? They can damage you, can’t they? You’re going to kill him and destroy the research, to rob us of a weapon.”
The Hunter took a moment to consider, clearly unwilling to admit it had a weakness. But, eventually, it said: “You are correct.”
Autumn laughed, surprised at having the breath. “And why do you think I’m going to let you do that?”
“You have no power to stop me.”
“You just admitted that what I have in my hand is the one weapon that can hurt you,” she grinned broadly, and prayed to a god she never believed in that this was going to work. “I’m not the kind of woman to leave a gun unfired.”
She thrust the black box in front of her, and pressed the trigger.
The force of the lightning bolt threw Autumn back, releasing the Professor from her grip. The energy struck the Afghan rug, vaporising it immediately, but latching onto some invisible force. The Hunter screamed, an un-godly high-pitched wail, and thrashed around the room, knocking down everything like a childish poltergeist throwing a tantrum. There was a bright flash, full of white light and white noise, and then, suddenly, everything was silent.
The Professor was gone, run away from the encounter. Autumn wondered if the Hunter was dead, though she thought it more likely it was licking its wounds. Her heart pounded like thunder in her chest, her breaths were gulping, the process of keeping herself alive dominated every thought. All, but one:
You can run, Professor Ricker, but you can’t hide.
***
The Doctor strolled through the sweet shop and back to the TARDIS. He’d parked it in the room behind the counter, telling the owner, a dippy old woman, that it was a temporary government initiative. He’d flashed his psychic paper in front of her eyes briefly, and they’d widened accordingly. He wondered all day what her mind had made of it.
There were hundreds of sweets stacked up on the wooden walls; all brands that were still going in the future, but each different to how they’d evolved in the modern world, even with the subtlest of changes. Autumn would have liked them, he thought. One of the first things he learned about her was her love of cake and biscuits. It was hilarious how a woman with such intimidating professionalism and relentless glamour could unashamedly sit at the back of a room shovelling cake down her throat. Obviously the food generated by her prison cell was mediocre at best.
A group of young girls, about eight or nine years old, flocked around the counter, pointing at the pick ‘n’ mix selection. He was sure he recognised one of them. They were gathering change together, debating over sky-blue or bright-pink bonbons.
“Get the strawberry ones,” said a blonde girl. “Robin likes the strawberry ones.” She flashed a quick glance to the one the Doctor had recognised, and he realised, quickly hurrying behind the counter; out of the world of children, and into the fairy-tale itself.
***
The Doctor couldn’t take his eyes off Autumn. She was sat in the chair by the console, head between her legs, even now still breathing heavily. Partly he was worried for her, wishing to insist that she go to the medical bay, but partly he was worried she was tricking him, would turn on him, use this weapon she’d found and the TARDIS for herself. He didn’t trust her. By now, he should, and he knew that made him a bad man. But he didn’t.
He’d found her in Ricker’s office, crawling across the floor, the biggest bruise running down her back and neck like she’d been thrown against the wall with the same force that put Ricker through his window. Her left shoulder was badly swollen, probably broken, but she seemed to have enough adrenaline running through her to push past it. Autumn told him about the energy crystals, why the Hunters wanted it, and that Ricker had run away. Wherever he’d go, she was insistent the Hunter would follow. The Professor was beyond saving, he could sense that much, but perhaps they could take the opportunity to stop the alien where they could.
“Are we there yet?” Autumn asked, still not looking up.
The time rotor gave a dull thud. “We are now.” Autumn stood, and together they made their way to the TARDIS door, opening it to the apartment corridor they had been in, later that night. “I still think you should stay here.”
“Not a chance,” she replied, never breaking her stride. “Something might go wrong.”
“You really distrust me so much?” the twang of hypocrisy ran through his hearts.
“Not as far as I could throw you.”
They arrived at Ricker’s door. The Doctor tried it, and found it locked. “The sonic,” he mumbled sardonically, and with a quick buzz, he opened it.
Professor Ricker stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over London. Though unheard, lightning flashed in the sky now, adding bass to the symphony of the rain.
“You truly are more than you seem, Miss Rivers,” the Professor said, turning, and heading for his chair, yet untipped. “You make one realise that to change the future, one has to act fast. And that is exactly what I have done.”
“What have you done, Professor Ricker?” the Doctor shouted, taking the lead.
“I have done what I always planning to do. I have activated a detonation sequence at the Capitos Institute. The Crystals there will send a burst of energy that shall annihilate the city.” Ricker sat in his chair, totally unfazed by the words he just spoke. “Afterwards, the world shall be in crisis, and I shall emerge with my new energy program to lead it somewhere better. I shall start the world over again.”
“Why? You’re a man of science, Professor, you’re meant to make the lives of people better, not kill them in droves.”
“Robert Oppenheimer blamed himself for ending the war for years,” Ricker drank from the unbroken glass. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but I know who I am. And I shall not make the same mistake.”
“We have ways of making you stop,” the Doctor felt he was running out of options, and Autumn’s silence was unnerving him. “You cannot do this.”
“You can kill me, if you so wish, but that will not stop the detonation. Let me advise the both of you: leave now, get as far away as you can. I might even let you in the bunker beneath this building, if you capitulate. But you will not stop this. I will not be stopped.”
“But, Professor Ricker,” Autumn finally said. “You’ve made a fundamental mistake, in assuming that we need – or want – you alive at all.” When the Professor looked at her quizzically, she only smiled, and said, mildly: “Check your pocket.”
He did. And what he found in there was a small, blue, fraction of crystal.
“Call it a breadcrumb. Something to be followed, when it comes to a hunt. And, I suppose, a gesture of goodwill.” Autumn addressed the room: “Anytime you want.”
A shockwave. A great force pushed through the room. It lifted Ricker out of his chair, knocking it over, slicing his flailing hand on the glass of whisky, a propelling him out the window, shattering it like it was barely sugar glass, and sending him sailing to the ground below.
Instead of falling, the glass simply hovered in the air, occasionally glinting when hit by light from the city or the lightning. A form had been chosen.
“Can you stop the detonation?” Autumn asked, hurriedly.
The Hunter hesitated before answering. It’s voiced boomed this time, presumably to be heard over the thunder and rain. “Yes.”
“Okay, here’s the deal: you stop the detonation, save the city, and we let you go. We give you back your head start, before we come chasing after you. We’ll stop you. I promise, we’ll stop you. But we will give you a chance.”
Again, the Hunter considered. “Will the man follow the terms?”
“I’ll make him.”
“We will meet again, human. And you too, Time Lord. Next time, we shall destroy you both.” The glass shards fell to the floor. The Doctor held his breath for what felt like aeons, but, finally, the lightning stopped, leaving only the heavy drumming of the rain.
***
The TARDIS was quiet. Neither Autumn or the Doctor had spoken since the apartment, instead they had simply sat in heavy, oppressive silence, that not even the comforting sound of the time rotor could break.
“You want to say it,” Autumn finally said, standing and looking the Doctor directly in the eye. “So say it.”
So he did: “You murdered him, Autumn. You made that Hunter kill him. Now other people will die because of the deal you made – no, you planned. Do you think it was worth it?”
“Men like Ricker, things like the Hunters, they’re all dangerous. And so am I. I’ve killed for less noble reasons than tonight, Doctor, and I can see in your eyes that you have too.” She rubbed her injured shoulder, the pain finally breaking through to her. “I compromised. But I did to weaken everyone against me – against us – as much as possible.”
“You really do not trust the world at all, do you?” the Doctor was aware of the irony. He didn’t trust her. He doubted he ever would.
“Only myself, Doctor,” Autumn Rivers walked away from him, heading towards the corridor that held the medical bay. But before she left, she turned to the Time Lord, and said: “Someone has to watch the watchmen. And don’t think I’ve taken my eye off you.”
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Next Time
The Anger Games
The quest through history continues, as the Doctor and Autumn find themselves at the Ancient Greek Olympic Games - but the Gods have something to say first. Episode list: 1. The Time Museum 2. The Adulteress and Her Doctor 3. Peacepoint 4. Earthstop 5. Sunset Forever 6. The Planet Makers 7. Who Watches The Watchmen? 8. The Anger Games 9. Extinction 10. The Quest Through Time 11. A Village Called Nothing 12. Bigger on the Inside 13. Extermination of the Daleks |