Doctor Who: The Ancestor Cell

652 Pages·2000·1.18 MB·English

by  Anghelides Peter

The Ancestor Cell
Peter Anghelides
&
Stephen Cole
For my parents, Margaret and Allan Anghelides.
PA
For Theresa Shiban, with love.
SC
Chapter One
Travelling companions
Lady Withycombe had remained for some twenty minutes on the carriage
seat, lounging in
that warm and comfortable state in which, half asleep, half awake,
consciousness begins to
return after a sound slumber. In her reverie, she had recalled with pleasure
her latest visit to
Lord Ostler’s charming town house; the satisfaction that had blossomed in
her breast as she
cast a shiny new threepenny bit with ostentatious abandon to her porter at
St Pancras; and the
ragged urchin who had waved so impudently at her from atop the station
wall.
Thus she sat, unsure for a moment of exactly where in the universe she
found herself,
gradually growing aware of a crumpled figure’s presence on the opposite
seat – a seat that,
prior to her recent nap, had been unoccupied.
‘
I thought, sir,’ she ventured after a modest pause, ‘to have this carriage for
my exclusive use.
This aspiration notwithstanding, you are, I am sure, welcome to join me for
the duration of
your journey. What, sir, is your destination?’
But the other remained silent in his place, so that Lady Withycombe would
have thought
herself still dreaming and her unexpected companion a carved wooden
statue, were it not for
the cooling breeze from the halfopened window beside her.
The dishevelled figure stared, and his eyes blinked occasionally, and his
lips moved in a
constant quiver of mumbling. He wore the collar raised on a lightbrown
coat, which was in
urgent need of brushing, and his tumbling brown locks seemed more suited
to a young
woman. A soiled hat perched indecorously on the back of his lank head of
hair.
Lady Withycombe essayed her enquiry one more time, with the same lack
of response.
When, after some consideration as to the wisdom of her action, she chose
to lean closer to
listen to the man’s mumblings, she thought she could make out a handful of
the words. The
stranger was asking the oddest of questions: ‘Phase malfunction?’ was the
first, followed
shortly by, “That’s just jargon, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
‘
I confess,’ she said, coming to a decision at this, and now looking about
herself for her small
suitcase, ‘I am unable to assist you.’
Under any other circumstances, Lady Withycombe would have called for
the guard and made
an immediate request for the unkempt stranger to be removed forthwith to
third class. Yet
there was an ineluctable suspicion in her own mind that it was she who was
in some way
transgressing, and not this unexpected and odd new arrival.
When the train stopped at the next station, she lifted her suitcase through
the door and went in
search of a different carriage. On leaving, she could once again make out
the stranger’s
mutterings: ‘Must find … Must find … Doctor?’
Chapter Two
Ultimatum
Odd that he hadn’t noticed that before, thought Fitz. The cloth ribbon that
edged the console
was frayed, and several studs were missing. He reached up from where he
lay and ran his
middle finger tentatively over the ribbon, and the thin material parted under
the slight
pressure. A new ship, he thought, and already it was wearing out.
Not like the Doctor’s previous TARDIS, he thought. There, everything had
seemed old
because everything seemed to be covered with a precisely measured layer
of dust, designed
with a meticulous eye for intricate detail to look ancient, as though
someone had disguised it
as a slightly seedy old college library so that you wouldn’t see it for what it
was – a
fantastically complex space vessel that knocked Emperor Ming’s sparking
rocket ships into a
cocked hat.
Fitz missed the old TARDIS. He missed the dappled light on its grand
wooden staircase, the
deep heartbeat rhythm of the Chamberland grandfather clock, the pervasive
scent of dust and
sandalwood and safety. He missed the marquetry inset on the occasional
tables where the
Doctor poured rose pouchong into bone china cups. Goldrimmed cups with
rose motifs like
the ones at his Auntie Norah’s. Her tea always tasted special because she
used only sterilised
milk in long, tall, thin bottles with gold metal tops …
Who am I kidding? thought Fitz. The Doctor’s previous TARDIS wasn’t
more secure: it was
just more familiar than this one. Compassion had never liked mixing with
others, even before
she’d been magically transmogrified from a stuffy bint into their present
time ship. As if to
prove her lack of regard, she gave yet another wild lurch and rolled him
violently away from
the console. His shoulder smacked against a stout oak chair.
He opened his eyes, which he had screwed up as he’d pitched headlong
across the floor.
Below him Fitz could see blackness – no, he could make out pinprick stars,
real images and
not just specks dancing in his terrified eyes. Frozen shards of ice scattered
in a cold explosion
all around him until they melted into the distance.
Behind him, he could feel the reassuring bulk of the oak chair, but when he
swivelled round
he discovered that it was no longer visible. Instead, far in the distance
behind him, he could
make out the orangebrown disc of a planet. Three points of yellow light
speared through
space towards him. It took him a moment to work out that the TARDIS
scanner had extended
to fill the entire room, enveloping them in a 360degree view of their
immediate surroundings
in space.
In space? Hadn’t they just been hiding deep in the labyrinthine depths and
convolutions of
the time vortex? Yet now they were in plain view in normal spacetime.
‘
Doctor?’ His voice was a croak, barely audible over the hum that surged
all around him.
‘
Doctor, I thought we’d escaped them.’
A dozen yards from him now, Fitz saw that the tiny sixsided TARDIS
console was drifting
in the middle of nowhere, like a tired grey mushroom floating in soup.
Unfazed by the feet
that he was walking in midair, or maybe just unaware of it, the Doctor
scampered and danced
in space around the console.
Even before he noticed the unfamiliar scowl on the Doctor’s long face, Fitz
knew something
had gone badly wrong, inadmissibly wrong. The Doctor’s random
movements over the
controls betrayed a hopelessness, a fear, and not the capricious indifference
that marked his
usual confident control of the ship. He was muttering to himself, ‘How can
they have traced
us? Could they have cracked the Randomiser’s seed? Maybe I should have
relied less on
vectors derived from strangeattractor charts. Chaosaware control
techniques are childishly
simple if you know what you’re doing.’
‘
Doctor?’ persisted Fitz. ‘We’re under attack, and you’re babbling about
… strangely
attractive charts?’
The Doctor stared at him, looking as though he might burst into tears at any
moment.
‘
They’re beautiful. They’re butterflyshaped fractal point sets …’
‘
Spare me the jargon, Doctor, and get with the beat. I don’t want to hear
about pictures of
insects. I hate insects, wasps especially. Holiday snaps of red admirals are
not going to
impress whoever is on our tails, and if they catch us they’ll beat the crap
out of us.’
‘
Yes yes yes,’ snapped the Doctor testily, his mood swinging suddenly in
the opposite
direction. He lunged at the next panel along, but he snatched his hand away
almost
immediately as though the controls might be hot. Fitz saw his expression
pucker into doubt as
his elegant fingers waggled over a different control. Maybe he was trying
to cast a spell over
it – things seemed to have reached that level of desperation.
Before the Doctor touched the control, it moved of its own accord. The
Doctor slammed his
fist against the console, and threw his head back so that he was staring up
into the midnight
darkness and the stars above them. ‘Compassion!’ he bellowed at the
TARDIS. ‘Leave the
driving to me, if you’d be so kind.’
Compassion’s voice sounded out all around them. ‘A right mess you’re
making of it.’ Fitz
noted that she sounded as infuriatingly calm as ever, despite the howl of
noise that was
building in the background, and despite the Doctor’s evident fury. Or
possibly because of
that. ‘Hold on tight; Compassion added.
Fitz felt the movement in his stomach first, and then he felt like retching.