Doctor How and the Alien Invasion [PDF]

Table of contents :
Contents......Page 3
Doctor How and the Alien Invasion......Page 5
Dedication......Page 6
Author’s note (important)......Page 7
Chapter One......Page 8
Chapter Two......Page 11
Chapter Three......Page 13
Chapter Four......Page 15
Chapter Five......Page 17
Chapter Six......Page 19
Chapter Seven......Page 22
Chapter Eight......Page 24
Chapter Nine......Page 27
Chapter Ten......Page 29
Chapter Eleven......Page 32
Chapter Twelve......Page 35
Chapter Thirteen......Page 38
Chapter Fourteen......Page 41
Chapter Fifteen......Page 44
Chapter Sixteen......Page 46
Chapter Seventeen......Page 48
Chapter Eighteen......Page 52
Chapter Nineteen......Page 54
Chapter Twenty......Page 56
Chapter Twenty-One......Page 60
Chapter Twenty-Two......Page 62
Chapter Twenty-Three......Page 64
Chapter Twenty-Four......Page 67
Chapter Twenty-Five......Page 69
Chapter Twenty-Six......Page 71
Chapter Twenty-Seven......Page 75
Chapter Twenty-Eight......Page 77
Chapter Twenty-Nine......Page 79
Chapter Thirty......Page 82
Historical Notes......Page 84
Postscript......Page 87
Free stuff!......Page 89
About the author......Page 93
Other titles......Page 94
Acknowledgements......Page 97
Legal Stuff......Page 99
Preview - Doctor How and the Dragons......Page 102

Citation preview

Contents Doctor How and the Alien Invasion Dedication Author’s note (important) Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Historical Notes Postscript



Free stuff! About the author Other titles Acknowledgements Legal Stuff Preview - Doctor How and the Dragons



Doctor How and the Alien Invasion Doctor How book three Mark Speed



To my Writing Mom Marilyn Mathews Bourdeau Thanks for your friendship and support This Book is requested from Request Hoarder



Author’s note (important) Doctor How asked me to write this series in British English. Original manuscripts in Gaelfreyan and Squill will be available when your civilisation reaches the necessary level. Similarly, Doctor How uses the Imperial system of measurement, rather than the Metric: the French were wrong on a literally cosmic scale. Other characters are stuck using Metric because they don’t know any better. This series was conceived in 2011, along with the character of Doctor How and… a certain regeneration. Some readers and reviewers have noted the similarity to the 12th Doctor Who, as played by Peter Capaldi, and the character of Doctor How. ‘That regeneration’ was also written by me some three years ahead of the BBC’s announcement. In August 2014 I heckled Steven Moffat prior to the London premiere of the 12th Doctor. Make of that what you will.



…and a quick reminder I keep six honest serving-men (They taught me all I knew); Their names are What and Why and When And How and Where and Who. Rudyard Kipling (extract from The Elephant’s Child ) Doctor Who and TARDIS are registered trademarks of the BBC, although Peter Capaldi did say in an interview that Doctor Who belongs to all of us. This book series is not affiliated with or endorsed by the BBC. It is not a Doctor Who story



Atruk was lying in wait, certain that the enemy hadn’t seen him dive for the cover of a stack of sandbags. His pulse was racing and he was filled with hatred and thoughts of revenge. But he knew the most important thing he could do was stay still. The last of the invaders concentrated its blaster on an infantry carrier. The vehicle was racing for the cover of a pillbox that had been taken out half an hour earlier, when there had been three of the bipedal alien invaders. Eliminating the other two had been a bloody struggle, and Atruk had lost almost an entire battalion of his own warriors. This last one was proving to be a fearsome fighter, and he was threatening to reach the innermost citadel of his culture. This wasn’t the first attack they’d experienced, and from the style of its fighting, Atruk was fairly certain of the alien’s name. He watched as the rounds burst onto the armour plating of the vehicle, desperately hoping it could take his comrades to cover in time. For a moment it looked as if the driver had made it but, against the odds, the tenth round caught the rear of the vehicle and it erupted in a massive explosion, killing the squad of infantry it had been about to disgorge. Atruk knew that the enemy’s rapid burst of fire would have depleted its weapon, and that it would take a few moments to recharge. He leapt up and let off the maximum three consecutive rounds from his blaster, cursing the limits of his culture’s technology. The enemy saw the glowing balls of energy flying at it across the wasteland of bodies, infantry carriers, ruined buildings and craters. It pointed its weapon at Atruk and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened – the weapon was still recharging. The alien juddered as the first round hit, then twisted as the second made its mark. One bolt of energy escaped the alien’s blaster and went harmlessly into the sky as Atruk’s third round hit. The alien vaporised. Suddenly all was still . “Captain Atruk reporting,” he spoke into his helmet microphone. “Latest assault defeated, Your Highness.” “Too close this time, Captain,” came the Emperor’s voice in his ear. “They will be back again. And again.” “We must rebuild, Your Highness.”



“I’m tired of rebuilding. As soon as we rebuild, they come back and destroy us. I cannot bear to watch any more of my brave warriors slain by these aliens. One day they will break us. That day will come soon.” “But Your Highness, what can we do? They appear from nowhere. Their technology is far superior to ours. Their blasters fire ten rounds to our three, and their rounds travel twice as fast. It takes just one shot to kill one of our men, but three in quick succession to kill them. We are never able to capture their weapons because they vaporise as soon as they die. We don’t know who they are, where they come from, or why they attack us. All we know is that they wish to destroy us.” “Our technicians have been working on this, Captain Atruk. We have found a weakness.” “A weakness?” “Yes. A connection to their home planet.” “Can we destroy this connection, Your Highness?” “Alas, it is not in our power to do so.” “I do not understand.” “Another civilisation holds open the connection between our two worlds.” “Then what can we do?” “We must take the war to them, Captain Atruk. We must kill those who would kill us.” Atruk surveyed the destroyed landscape. “And you are looking for volunteers to go on this mission, Your Highness?” “Yes, Captain.” “It would be my greatest honour to serve you on this mission, Your Highness.” “Thank you, most loyal captain. This mission breaks many of the Agreements of the Pleasant universe.” “I understand, Your Highness.” “We will have complete deniability. You will be the only warrior on this mission, Captain Atruk.” “Your Highness?” “Alone, but not unaccompanied, Captain. Our technicians have prepared a surprise for the enemy. If all goes to plan, you will be able to direct operations from a safe distance.” “When do I leave?” “The connection will close again in under a minute. We will transport you



to your ship now.” “I understand, Your Highness.” “Their gods are writing the list of the fallen in the sky.” And so it was. In the grey, smoke-filled sky above Atruk he could make out a list in an alien alphabet. There were ten lines of red characters; what his civilisation interpreted as a list of the alien dead in order of their bravery in battle. It had taken them weeks to decode the basics of the alien language in a desperate bid to understand the repeated assaults. “They taunt us every time, Your Highness. As if our casualties are meaningless and theirs are immortal. And they are immortal – it is mostly the same warriors reincarnated who come back to destroy us.” “You will end this, Captain Atruk. You must kill their best warriors. But you must hurry. We have sent ahead an advance party. It will test the alien defences and gather intelligence for you. You will take longer to travel.” As he boarded the transporter that would take him to the gateway, Atruk glanced up again. The list of names was burnished on his memory. At the top was the most hated of all, and it was flashing proudly yet again. KevT1994 The hatch of the transporter slammed shut and he felt his body push against his armour as the craft accelerated. “KevT1994 must die,” said Atruk.



“Doctor, I think we ought to get a med-bot to check you out.” “Nonsense, I feel perfectly alright, Kevin.” “But you said it was an emergency.” “Well, it is. These shoes , Kevin. And these hideous, unfashionable men’s socks. And this suit jacket just doesn’t hang right on me. Too wide on the shoulders and not enough depth on the chest. This is a serious wardrobe malfunction.” “Doctor, please. Will you just calm down? How many fingers am I holding up?” “Two and a thumb. And you shouldn’t arrange them like that – it’s rude.” “Who’s the current prime minister?” “Of which country, planet, or solar system, Kevin? Really, I’m fine.” “But you’re a woman , Doctor!” “Oh,” said Doctor How, fixing Kevin with a cold stare. “Oh, I see. You were perfectly alright with my behaviour when I was a man, but now that I’m a woman it’s suddenly not acceptable. And I thought your mother had brought you up better than that, Kevin. Let me tell you this, young man: sexism is no more acceptable than racism in this Spectrel.” “But, Doc –” “Don’t you ‘But Doc’ me, young man. For one thing, it sounds rather rude, and for another I will not be spoken to with less respect than a man.” “What I mean is –” “What you mean is that you want me to be in my place, isn’t it?” “No, Doctor. What I mean is that you’ve had a very sudden change of sex. You… Yesterday, the last time I saw you, when I pu t you to bed for your regeneration, you were a man.” “I’ve told you before, Kevin, that I am not a man. Never have been, never will be.” “No, but what I mean is…” “That you won’t work for a female Time Keeper?” “No, it’s not that. It’s that there’s been a sudden change .” “Step aside, Sherlock Holmes, you’ve got some serious competition.”



“Well, at least your sarcasm hasn’t been damaged.” “Hmph . Now, come on, out with it. What’s your problem?” “I mean... I mean, I’m worried, Doc. I’m confused. You must be confused too. Has this, like, ever happened to you before?” “No. No, I can’t say it ever has.” “You just seem to be… I dunno… all gung-ho about it, and it’s like a major life change, innit? I mean, think about the implications. What if, like…?” “Like, what , Kevin?” “Well, like, what if we have to meet some Rindans at home again?” “Then I shall have to get naked. It’s protocol. You know that.” “Yeah, but I’m a man, innit?” “Well, you’ll just have to look the other way, won’t you?” “I… I… I’m very confused, Doctor. But you… you seem to be taking it in your stride.” “It is what it is, Kevin. I’ve been regenerated as a female Time Keeper. No matter what the circumstances, Doctor How has to keep going. That’s who I am, and who I always will be.” “And… what I’m trying to ask is…” “Yes, go on.” “What I’m asking is… Is that normal ? You know – to change sex when you regenerate?” The Doctor stared back at Kevin intently. The Time Keeper’s right eye twitched slightly and, for a fleeting moment, the youth wondered whether he was about to get a slap. “It’s not something that’s ever been recorded,” said the Doctor quietly, as she sat down slowly on one of the passenger seats, staring blankly at the console in the middle of the control room. Kevin hesitated a moment, then took a seat next to his employer and tentatively put an arm around her shoulder. “Which is why I’m a touch concerned, Doctor.” “House-bot? Mirror, please.” “Doctor, no!” “What do you mean ‘No’, Kevin?” snapped the Doctor. “My Mum’s friend – the one who does the talking therapy that I think you should have – she says you have to be careful about giving patients mirrors.” A house-bot slid silently into the control room.



“Stay back!” ordered Kevin. He was relieved to notice that the house-bot didn’t have a mirror with it. The bot stayed where it was. “What do you mean, patients ?” “Well, uh… When patients have to adjust to a change in their physical appearance. You know; if they’ve been in an accident or something. Or if they have something like… er, body dysmorphia, or anorexia and stuff like that.” “So I’m a patient , am I?” The Doctor was hunched over, her elbows on her knees. She shot a sideways glance at Kevin. “No, that’s not what I meant.” “A psychiatric patient? A basket-case? Is that what you mean?” “No, no. I shoulda said client . It’s, like, less loaded. Anyway Doc, all I’m saying is that there has to be a period of readjustment. Your whole appearance has changed. She’s dealt with people who’ve had gender reassignment surgery. You have to get into new habits and suchlike. You know, using the ladies’ facilities, and that.” “I appreciate your concern, Kevin. However, I must remind you that I am far, far older than you can possibly imagine. I have experienced a wealth of extraordinary situations that a human would find impossible to countenance. For fifty years I have been able to do the job of half a dozen Time Keepers alone, and I don’t see a mere change of sex as being a major hurdle.” Kevin sighed. He knew the Doctor well enough to know that there was no point in arguing. The house-bot apparently took Kevin’s sigh to be one of acquiescence and positioned itself in front of the Doctor, who was still hunched over. Kevin assumed that it was to take more orders, since he could see no mirror. There was a flash, and a reflective force-field came into being in front it, at the same height as the Doctor’s head. She heard the slight pop as the mirror appeared, and instinctively glanced up. The Doctor’s jaw dropped and she clasped her face. She leapt to her feet and screamed. It was a deafening male scream, a deep cry of agony. “My face!” screamed the Doctor. “Kevin, my face !” “Doctor, please –” “My face is the same .” “Doc, I was –” “You didn’t tell me my face hadn’t changed, Kevin!” “Like, I was trying to hint. I. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I thought



you could feel the stubble.” “I did, but I thought that was vestigial,” said the Doctor. “V–?” “Vestigial . Left over. A remnant. I thought it would come off, disappear. It’s still there. And it’s growing. I swear I can feel it growing .” “Well, can’t you stop it or something?” “Stop it?” spluttered the Doctor. “But I thought you were really powerful?” “What ?” “I thought you were really powerful, Doc. I thought you could, like, stop hair?” “Stop hair? Are you out of your tiny little mind, Kevin? How in photon’s name would you stop hair ?” “I don’t know!” said Kevin, infected by the panic in the Doctor’s voice. “If facial hair was an actual being and it was coming at me with malice aforethought, then yes, I could stop it. But unfortunately, Kevin, it’s not a life-threatening alien – it’s an integral part of my body.” “Well, you could stop cancer, couldn’t you?” “Yes. Yes, I could. But it’s not cancer. It’s hair . It's hair, produced by follicles in my skin.” “Yeah, I know what follicles are, but –” “But what? It’s what hair follicles do Kevin. It’s their job . They produce hair in return for a bit of oxygenated blood and a few nutrients. It’s not much to ask, is it? And most of the time we’re all terribly grateful for what they do. But right now I’m not at all grateful. And I can’t deprive them of oxygenated blood and nutrients, unless I choose to cut off the supply to my entire head by strangling myself.” The Doctor was now in full rant. “This therapist –” “No, I’m not a psychiatric patient, Kevin. The mere fact that I’ve just talked about strangling myself doesn’t mean to say that I’m suicidal or about to self-harm.” “But there must be some, like, medicine or something.” “No. No, there isn’t any hair-stopping medicine because it’s never been a problem, has it? Indeed, quite the opposite. Science has always been trying to tackle the problem of hair loss .” “Yeah, but I thought –” “Well I thought too, Kevin. But unfortunately we both thought wrong ,



didn’t we? And my hair follicles have other ideas too. Apparently they’re not quite with the programme yet, are they?” “I… I… Well, couldn’t you wax it, or something?” “Wax my face , Kevin?” The Doctor glowered over him. “ What do you think I am? A saloon car ?” “Aw, come on, Doc. You know what I mean. Wait – what about lasers?” “Lasers? You want me to shoot myself in the face with lasers, Kevin?” “Yeah. I mean, no. Don’t they use lasers to permanently remove awkward hair?” “And what happens if and when I change back to being a male Time Keeper again?” “You don’t know that you will, though, do you?” The Doctor’s eyes widened in alarm. “I don’t know anything about this. There’s nothing in all of Gaelfreyan history about it.” “Shall we call your cousins?” “No, no. Let’s let things settle down a bit. But, really, I have to do something about my wardrobe.” “You could wear makeup. I mean, transvestites get away with it, don’t they? Some of them look really convincing.” “Believe me, Kevin. If you’d seen what I saw during my trip to the lavatory, you wouldn’t need any convincing .” “That’s not what I was saying.” “Dear boy,” said the Doctor. “You’re terribly sweet. I can see you're only concerned for me.” She touched him gently on the cheek. “I shall have to shave terribly close and, as you say, wear a little bit of foundation. But in the meantime, I shall have to disguise myself as a man.” “That should be quite easy.” “Exactly what do you mean by that?” “Well, like, you don’t look that feminine.” “What did you just say?” “But we’ve just been discussing your facial hair!” protested Kevin. “You’re referring to my small chest, aren’t you?” “What? I’d not even noticed!” “Not even noticed! ” the Doctor gasped. “How dare you?” “Flippin’ ’eck. That’s not what I meant! ” “Well, what did you mean, young man?” “I meant that you’ve just changed sex after… I dunno… centuries, or



millennia or a really long time or something. So you will still be able to carry yourself off as a male human. And – whatever you think of them – you do at least have a full wardrobe of male clothes.” “And my chest?” “Um. It suits you. It’s in the right proportions.” “Oh. Well… Thank you.” “That’s quite alright,” said Kevin, feeling like he’d de-escalated a major crisis of unknown origin. Or perhaps, he wondered, he was now navigating a minefield. Was every day going to be like this from now on? “I could get the house-bots to run up a range of stylish clothes,” said the Doctor, a little too dreamily for Kevin’s comfort. “And shoes,” she said, once again twirling a foot in the air. “Don’t get me wrong, these are functional – but I really must insist on a little more style from now on.”



This Book is requested from Request Hoarder Grant leaned back in his gaming chair. He watched the letters KevT1994 being typed in red onto the sky on the Rorrim platform. He had recorded the last game they’d played and had been watching it to analyse Kev’s moves in the hope of improving his own play. That Brit was something else. Grant had known him vaguely through other group games for a couple of years, and he’d always been a pretty decent player. But since they’d been invited into the free trial of this new Rorrim game a couple of weeks ago, the guy had got hot – really hot. His reflexes had moved up more than a notch, and he seemed able to figure out situations in next to no time. Just a damned shame that he seemed to be available so little of the time these days. He’d mentioned something about an apprenticeship with a doctor or something. Grant had wished him luck, but thought what the guy really needed was a career as a games tester. He’d always presumed that was why they’d been given the opportunity to beta test this software. And some beta test it was: ultra-realistic, with an opponent that looked and acted differently compared with anything he’d experienced in all his years of gaming. It was almost like the game was sentient; that the aliens were learning after every game. It wasn’t at all like working your way through the same levels time and again – they were always changing. And maybe that was it? Maybe this whole move into AI was for real, and he, Kev, and a few others were the fortunate few guinea pigs testing it out? Maybe, Grant stroked his doublechin, just maybe celebrity beckoned? Were the dozen or so of them some gaming equivalent of the Project Mercury astronauts? Kev was their Alan Shepard, and maybe Grant was John Glenn . What was frustrating beyond belief was that only Kevin seemed to have the secure access for the site. The guy always insisted the availability wasn’t down to him, but the credentials never seemed to work unless Kevin was online. Grant wondered what London was like. It obviously afforded a world more opportunity than the Gulf Coast of Florida. Kev was just an ordinary Joe – or



so he insisted, at least – and yet he had been singled out for this kind of beta test. Venice was dull, dull, dull. He even envied the apparently unpredictable weather in London – it might be bad most of the time, but at least it could surprise. Even the occasional hurricane that threatened Venice felt safe; like some hyped-up theme park ride. They were monitored and reported on constantly, so they could never arrive by surprise. Most often the wall-to-wall media coverage was more intense than the weather itself. Even when a hurricane did hit, the damage was minimal because Venice was so buttoneddown, and the buildings were modern and robust enough to weather whatever nature could throw at them. And that was why he chose to spend his time playing games online. Nothing ever seemed to happen in Venice apart from the long, slow deaths of its mostly retiree population. The long, hot, humid Gulf Coast summer stretched out ahead of him. At least it was his last before he could get a driver’s licence. Come October he’d be able to borrow his mother’s car and at least get out of the suburbs. To do what, he didn’t yet know – but he’d think of something to escape the tedium of suburban Venice. There was a knock on the door and his mother’s dog started yapping as it scurried down the hallway from the kitchen to the front door, paws sliding on the laminate floor. Grant was tempted to stay put, but his curiosity was roused by the fact that the person at the door hadn’t used the bell. If nothing else, he could at least point that out to whoever it was and – depending on where he felt they were in the social order – insult them, or pick an argument then threaten to report them to their boss. Anything to relieve the monotony. “Jasper! Get lost!” he yelled at the white poodle, pushing it firmly away from the door with his foot. The dog yapped some more and paced back and forth behind him. Grant looked through the peephole but could see no one. He put the chain on, unlocked the door and opened it a couple of inches. “Whaddaya want?” he asked. There was no one there. There were no unfamiliar vehicles parked nearby. He opened the door to the full extent of the chain and, listening carefully, didn’t hear a car door slam or an engine start. Nor did he hear anything to suggest a car or van driving away. He was about to close the door when he saw the corner of a matt black object, just to the side of the opening. He did an audio and visual check of the neighbourhood again to make sure he wasn’t



being set up for a prank, then closed the door, took the chain off and opened it cautiously. The afternoon heat was heavy with humidity as he stepped cautiously onto the concrete, feeling its warmth through his socks. He bent down and looked at the package. It was eight inches square and fifteen inches high. It had his name on the top of it. Or, rather, it had his gaming name on it: Grant99. In red. This was what he was talking about: VIP treatment from the big gaming companies. How bad-ass did a guy have to be for a delivery with just his gaming name on it to arrive on his doorstep? His day had come at last, and he silently thanked Kev. He took out his iPhone, took a couple of selfies holding the package and posted them to Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. Blast off! His social capital just went into orbit: he was the John Glenn of the gaming world. He punched the air. “Yes !” Unless this was some kind of hoax and he’d just made himself the butt of a joke? Again, he looked around. Nothing. No one. How had it been delivered? Drone? The package felt cool to the touch, which was counter- intuitive for a matt black package exposed to the Florida heat. It was surprisingly heavy. Too heavy to carry for any drone he’d ever seen demonstrated. He tried shaking it, but the contents didn’t shift. He had one last check around the neighbourhood, but nothing stirred amidst the cookie-cutter bungalows and prim lawns of suburban Venice. Losers , he thought. Nobodies . Jasper started growling as soon as Grant turned and brought the package across the threshold. “Shut up!” he yelled. The dog bared its teeth and snarled. Grant slammed the door behind him with his outsized posterior and hugged the object close to his chest. As he moved down the hall to his bedroom the dog remained four feet away, keeping its eyes on the package whilst walking backwards and continuing to snarl and yap. Its tail was firmly between its legs. “Silence, you dumb mutt, or I shall zap you!” Grant mimicked a handpistol blaster and loosed off a couple of pretend shots at the dog’s head. “What are you going to do about it, you fat, useless lazy mutt? You’re so fat you couldn’t even chase your tail.” He turned off to the side and into his bedroom, pushing the door shut behind him. The dog continued its yapping on the other side.



He set the package down on his desk in the same orientation it had been left on the doorstep. There was still an iota of caution about having been set up, so he didn’t post the next couple of photos he took. A new problem presented itself. The exterior of the package was apparently seamless. At least, he was pretty sure it was a package. It could easily be mistaken for a matt black oblong… thing . Except that, from what he’d felt, its centre of gravity wasn’t exactly in the middle. As would be expected of a container with something substantial in it, the centre of gravity was off-centre: slightly to the bottom. It was certainly nice on the eye – solid, well-proportioned and tasteful. The extreme blackness of the surface set off the redness of his gaming name perfectly. Even if he couldn’t open it – which he thought he could, eventually – it would look cool on his shelf. He took out a pair of scissors. It would be a shame to mark the packaging, but maybe if he could catch an edge somewhere? The scissors slid off the cool surface. The dog was yapping itself hoarse, and he couldn’t concentrate. When he opened his bedroom door the animal went berserk, jumping up and down. But still it wouldn’t go into his bedroom. He looked back at the package. “Jealous, huh? Don’t understand my super-advanced technology, dumb mutt?” He pulled the door closed behind him and the dog glanced up at him and whined. Then it started yapping again. “That’s enough. You earned yourself a time out.” He walked towards the kitchen. “Come on, Jasper. Good boy.” The dog glanced at him, then continued its yapping at his bedroom door. “Okay, that’s enough.” Grant grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled it away. It dug its paws in, but they slid uselessly against the laminate floor. It growled and bared its teeth, reaching back over its shoulder in the direction of the bedroom. “Woah!” Grant laughed. “Who’s a bad little boy? I think someone needs punishing. I’ve got my place in the sun, and now you’ve earned yours. You don’t like a little sun in the afternoon, do you? Not when I forget to put a bowl of water out.” He opened the back door of the kitchen and hefted the dog over the metal lip onto the scorching concrete patio. It yelped and whined. He shut the door, went back into his bedroom and closed the door. He could still hear the muffled barking of the dog out the back, but it was more bearable. Now he could concentrate on the package.



His heart skipped a beat. The box had opened up by itself. It looked like the front of the box had simply vanished. The interior was as black as the outside, and the walls were so thin that he couldn’t believe the box had been able to hold the weight of the polished metal robot that stood inside. It was fifteen inches high and eight inches wide at the base. It looked sinister. He’d seen plenty of sinister-looking robots in the movies and on the internet, but this was sinister squared. It had dark, evil-looking eyes in its squat head. The body looked heavily armoured and there were two stubby arms tucked in at the side. It stood on a solid square metal base that was about an inch deep. Below that base was what looked like a wire brush made of dozens of gleaming metal rods, each an inch long. It looked exactly like the robots he’d been battling in Rorrim the last couple of weeks. The robots were intelligent drones that fought alongside the alien warriors. Although they were slow-moving and ground-based, they were deadly in their ability to snipe from cover. The detail and workmanship on this replica was so beautiful he was afraid to touch it. He’d been to ComicCon and seen similar limited edition pieces sell for tens of thousands of dollars. To be singled out as a recipient marked him out for greatness. “Oh, maaan ,” he gasped. He took a picture and posted it on social media. His phone had already been buzzing and pinging as the responses came back from his previous picture. He made a quick post directing everyone to his Facebook fan page on gaming, with visions of turning his dozen Likes into several thousand by the end of the day. “Video . Video, video,” he muttered. He touched the screen on his iPhone and began streaming video to his Facebook page, his heart racing and butterflies in his stomach. “Hey everyone, this is Grant. I just got a package delivered from…” he realised he had remarkably few details about the game he’d been playing. “From the company whose totally awesome game I’ve been beta testing. They’re a London company and the game is called Rorrim . Me and my man Kevin have been acing up some scores in this…” He automatically re verted to gaming review clichés. “This ain’t no ordinary alien shoot-’em-up, it’s uh… What?” The eyes lit up in red and the robot slid quietly out of the package, onto the desktop. The rods on the bottom, which looked like a wire brush, were moving in ripples, like the jointless legs of a millipede, and the robot was



able to glide along smoothly on the waves of movement. “Wow .” The robot stopped and its head spun around quickly, once in each direction. The arms flipped up to the sides and extended telescopically to a foot in length. Claws like hands emerged from the ends and snapped at the air. The arms did some complex manoeuvres before the claws disappeared again and the arms tucked themselves back to the sides. The head adjusted itself slightly a couple of times, seeming to fix its glowing red eyes on Grant. “Holy… That was incredible .” “YOU. ARE. GRANT99 , ” said the robot in a toneless metallic voice. “Hell, yeah!” “CONFIRM. GRANT99.” “Uh, yeah. Grant99 is me. That’s my gaming handle, dude.” Grant positioned his face between the camera and the robot for his first streaming selfie. “This is just unbelievable , guys. This came addressed to me just with my gaming handle.” “GRANT99. CONFIRMED.” “Yeah. Like, you got it .” There was the unmistakable whine of a capacitor being charged. “GRANT99. MUST. DIE . ” “Uh. Joke... Right?” The capacitor continued to whine, its frequency getting higher. “Right?” This didn’t feel right at all, and he wasn’t going to have some dumb robot dissing him live in front of his gaming buddies. “Okay, we’re going to take a quick rain-check here while we reprogram this thing. We’ll be back live in five.” He turned off the streaming and backed towards the door, keeping his eye on the robot. Without turning his back, he opened the door and made a partial exit. The chest of the robot opened up and what was unmistakably a weapon emerged. It had a barrel a couple of inches long with three metal spikes around it. He slipped out of the door, closed it and ran the few feet into the kitchen, then stopped to recover his breath. This was just some publicity stunt. He listened. There was no noise from his bedroom. The dog had stopped barking. He looked behind him, into the garden. The dog was standing stock-still. It



glanced up at Grant for a split second then fixed its attention back on the opening into the kitchen. There was a crash and a loud whack behind him. “What the…?” Grant looked back to see his bedroom door lying on the floor. The handle prevented it from lying flat, and it wobbled as weight was put on the end nearest the bedroom: the end he couldn’t see. There was the sound of metal moving on wood. He glanced back at the dog. It peed itself without cocking its leg. Grant grabbed at the lock of the kitchen door. The dog let out a single yip , shot to the end of the garden and jumped straight over a six-foot fence into a neighbour’s garden. As he fiddled nervously with the lock, Grant wished he could do the same, minus peeing himself. The door came open and he fell out onto the patio, landing in the pool of dog pee. He scrambled to his feet. There was a curious scratching, scurrying sound of metal moving on the laminate flooring in the kitchen . This is stupid , he told himself. It’s just a toy robot . The robot was now gliding along the floor, riding on the waves of motion of its legs. It came to a halt at the open kitchen door, just a few feet from where Grant stood frozen in a mixture of terror and awe. There was a drilling sound, and he could swear it looked like the thing was screwing itself to the floor. He was impressed by the technology – it had clearly delivered itself in its box, and it was capable of identifying and tracking a human target. So if it’s way ahead of the military prototypes, then it can’t be from here. That was the conclusion that went through Grant’s brain. A split second after that conclusion completed its final synapse between nerve cells, Grant’s brain made two other logical conclusions. First, it meant that the robot was alien in nature. Second, that meant it probably wasn’t joking when it made its death threat. His dense grey matter jumped to a third and final conclusion: that he really had to take immediate evasive action. Unfortunately, that final conclusion wasn’t turned into useful locomotive action because just as the signal passed into his spinal cord on the way to his legs, there was a flash of energy and Grant was vaporised. Vaporising two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of flesh, fat and bone is by no means as clean a business as the movies make it out to be. For one thing, the



water which makes up seventy percent of the human body suddenly expands to seventeen hundred times its volume when turned to steam. That alone was enough to create a blast wave. To that was added the considerable amount of fat which, having been vaporised and distributed by the steam explosion before igniting, had plenty of oxygen with which to create its own explosion when superheated. It was somewhat similar to the spectacular gas explosions so beloved of Hollywood special effects experts. Three seconds after the explosion only two things remained of Grant. One was airborne – a white cloud of smoke, lighter dust particles and recondensed water vapour about twenty feet in diameter, which slowly drifted up and over the neighbours’ gardens. It was a sad and ghostly cloud, which grew fainter as the water vapour was burned off in the sun and the eddy currents in the wind dissipated the smoke. The second thing that remained was a small pile of heavier grey dust roughly two feet across, and about half an inch thick in the middle. A crematorium operator would have been proud of the uniformity of the composition, and it served the immediate purpose of absorbing the puddle of dog’s pee. Certainly it was the most useful function Grant had performed that day, albeit inadvertently and after his own demise. In years to come, Grant’s mother would take it as a sign from God that weeds would grow so well between the cracks in this area of the patio, when in fact it was down to the high phosphate content of her son’s bones. The robot observed all of this with interest from the remains of the kitchen. It had drilled four of its feet into the laminate flooring when taking aim. So, while it had been hit by the blast, it had remained unaffected. Part of its mission was to gather intelligence, and that included the effectiveness of its culture’s weaponry on this alien planet. One of the conclusions it came to was that the unarmoured beings were very easy to kill – just one hit, rather than the three required at home. Another was that they could be used to destroy property, since they were apparently so explosive when vaporised. It checked its communications systems and confirmed that there wasn’t yet a nearby command and control facility to which these interesting facts could be transmitted. It withdrew its anchor spikes from the laminate and folded itself back into its most compact form. Its transporter box flew in from the bedroom and landed behind it. It reversed into the box and was off into the air to find the next being on its list .



The scene of the blast mystified the local police, who gladly passed it to the FBI because a federal offence involving explosives appeared to have been committed. There was no equivalent to Britain’s two-person MI16 in the United States, but there was the all-seeing, all-knowing NSA. The NSA took a very keen interest because the incident had the same frustrating level of inexplicability that the attack on the US embassy in London had had the previous week. It wasn’t just the complete vaporisation of the teenage boy that baffled them; it was the four neatly drilled holes in the floor, and the analysis that a small area around them had been protected from flying glass. The scene would have perplexed Doctor How too, but she wasn’t there, and nor was she notified. However, when she did eventually become aware, she was able to make a few positive observations – though it’s unlikely any of the humans at the scene would have appreciated them. So far as impact on the neighbourhood was concerned, windows were only shattered to about an eighty-yard radius. This was because the slatted wooden fencing and the leafy Floridian shrubbery had dampened the force of the blast. The pieces of timber and shredded plant were far less dangerous than shattered glass because they had a shorter range, as well as being much easier to clear up and cheaper to replace. Grant’s mother wouldn’t have appreciated the Doctor’s other remarks regarding her personal situation. Yes, her kitchen was badly damaged, but the rest of the house was relatively intact. Had Grant exploded inside his bedroom she’d not have had much of a house left at all. Furthermore, Grant had been reduced to ashes. This saved his mother from indecision about cremation versus burial, and even saved on the crematorium fees. Indeed, the explosion had even scattered a great deal of his earthly remains. It also spared her the agony of waiting for a pathologist's report, and the knowledge that a doctor was cutting his corpse to pieces. Since he’d been reduced to ashes, no further worse fate could befall him – except that, unknown to her, his first act as a pile of ash had been to absorb a pool of dog pee. Last of all, her beloved dog had survived. As with all dogs, it was able to give her the unconditional love she so needed at her time of grief. It was the kind of love her son had never been able to provide. But life wasn’t so easy for Jasper the dog. He was, after all, the only living witness. Grant’s mother would often wish loudly that he were able to talk.



Jasper, in his simple canine way, would wish he could get rid of the nightmare about toy robots. Grant’s Facebook page disappeared within a few hours of the incident – that is to say, as soon as the NSA became involved. The photos he’d tweeted disappeared too. The handful of friends who had downloaded the photographs of the mysterious black container found that their hard disk drives were erased by a virus which was able to bypass their security software. Such was the speed and aggression of the action after the incident that it was talked about only in coded language. The mainstream media were able only to report that a teenager had died whilst apparently experimenting with a chemistry set. It helped a great deal that most of the conspiracy theorists were still preoccupied with the horrific eating-alive of two urban explorers in London, and a training exercise near the US embassy in Vauxhall which had gone badly wrong and resulted in a methane explosion. Unfortunately, the cover-up meant that there were a dozen other gamers who had no idea that they were on a death list. Not that it would have done anything more than make their lives worse as they awaited their inevitable fate. In their predicament, forewarned was not forearmed, because the technology to counter the threat they faced hadn’t yet been developed by their civilisation.



“It’s hopeless, I can’t make up my mind,” said the Doctor. She was comparing two pairs of black shoes. “Doc, they’re both identical, man. I mean, woman.” “How can you say that, Kevin? Look at the finish .” The Doctor thrust the right shoe from each pair into Kevin’s hands. Kevin held the shoes out and twisted them in the light of the control room. “Um. Is one, like, a little less polished than the other?” The Doctor snatched the shoes back with a loud tut . “You’re only halfwrong. One is polished satin and the other has a silk finish.” “Oh, my good God. Does it make any difference?” “I cannot believe you just said that. It makes all the difference in the universe. The subtleness of the play of light on the toes of my shoes could make all the difference as to what people think of me.” “No. No, I just do not accept that. I’m sorry, Doc, but I’m going to have to put my foot down here. No one, and I mean no one , is going to notice the difference. And even if they do, how could that possibly have any meaningful effect?” “The butterfly effect, young man.” “Aw, come on. I can maybe accept that a butterfly flapping its wings might just make a bit of difference to the weather somewhere else, but surely not the sheen on your shoes.” “Did you notice that, Kevin?” “Notice what?” “You said ‘sheen’, rather than ‘shine’ or ‘polish’. I’m already having a positive effect on your aesthetics.” “Look, I don’t mind what you wear, Doc. For me, it’s who you are inside that counts. You’ve taught me that. Which kinda makes it a bit mental that you’re now getting all fussy about what you wear.” “A precious diamond can sparkle far better when presented in a velvetlined box than a piece of old newspaper, wouldn’t you agree?” “It’s the complexity. I’m not built for this kinda decision-making. When you was a man – I mean a male Time Keeper – you just had the one choice of



clothes. You said it was a uniform, and that it let people know who you were. And you said having the same thing to wear every day made the agony of daily choice redundant.” “And there’s the admission: my male self recognised that dress sense is important. I remember lecturing you on the benefits of a gentleman’s suit. As a female Time Keeper I expect people to pick up on the non-verbal cues I’m transmitting through my choice of clothing.” “Well, if you don’t mind me saying, you’ve not ventured far from your old male self.” “Whatever do you mean?” “You’re in a two-piece black trouser suit and a white top.” “It’s not a top , Kevin. It’s a white collared woman’s blouse with buttons.” “Which is just like a man’s white shirt, except that the buttons are on the wrong side.” “The buttons are on the left of women’s shirts for a very good reason, and that is that ladies of a certain status were dressed by maids.” “Oh, good grief. But you’re not being dressed by maids. No one is these days.” “I am a female Time Keeper, and one must be authentic to oneself.” Kevin paused a second. “I bet you got one of the house-bots to dress you, didn’t you?” The Doctor blushed. “I was having trouble with the buttons, if you must know. ” “What? A super-being with the dexterity of a professional magician? Having trouble with her buttons? You’re having a laugh.” “Okay, I admit it. I was being a little indulgent. After a lifetime of hardship and deprivation I feel the need to pamper myself. A girl deserves to feel spoiled once in a while, doesn’t she?” Kevin let out a big sigh. “Like, once in a while. But so far this morning... Uh, hang on, it’s well into the afternoon now. So far you’ve had a bath with scented candles –” “Hang on, I never told you about that! Have you been peeping?” “Man’s intuition. So you’ve had a bath with scented candles and –” “I was traumatised. My legs were agony after I had them waxed. Didn’t you hear my screams?” “– a massage –” “I’ve just been regenerated. My muscles are strained.”



“– some expensive chocolate –” “There’s no cost. The Spectrel made it.” “– some very high quality bespoke chocolate –” “You are what you eat. Go for quality every time and you won’t go wrong.” “– a pedicure –” “You can’t put a man’s feet into women’s shoes.” “– a manicure –” “A woman can’t have a man’s hands. And why’s it a man icure when it’s predominantly women who have them? It’s so sexist. We have to take back ownership of that word!” “– a very long coffee break –” “This is the first break I’ve had in years. And I need to formulate my thoughts.” “– and finally a complete wardrobe has been designed and delivered by the house-bots. And you’re still not happy.” “A woman’s work is never done, Kevin. You, on the other hand, have just hung around.” “I had no flippin’ choice, did I? I’m worried sick about you.” “Dear boy,” said the Doctor. “Thank you. But I’ll be fine now that I’ve chosen today’s look. I do believe I’ll go for the satin . Just a touch more subtle than the silk.” She slipped on the black shoes and looked at herself in a full-length force-field mirror. “Hallelujah!” “Thank you, Kevin. Now that I’m ready to face the world, would you care to tell me what the day has in store for us?” “Uh. Lemme see. Well, we – primarily me, actually – dealt with the polyp problem.” “Yes. Thank you for that.” “Any time. Uh, we trashed the troublesome Chinese factory producing flowers, and your cousin Walter When destroyed all the ones that had been produced and distributed.” “And so the urgent problem that you needed to be addressed was?” “Uh…” “Let me tell you what it was. It was your male need to feel like you’re doing something useful. Your own human philosopher Blaise Pascal said, “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a



room alone.” Now just let me emphasise a couple of the words. All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” “Now you’re becoming a full-on man-hater, Doc. You were a man once. Just yesterday, in fact. And for all of your life before that.” “I’m just stating a few facts, dear boy. And I would like to reiterate that I have never been a human man. What I was trying to point out was that you could have made better use of your time. That Ph.D. you’re capable of attaining, for example.” “I did start learning some Squill this morning.” “Excellent! But you’d have been playing that awful video game, given half a chance, wouldn’t you?” “As it happens, I can’t get it when I’m in the Spectrel.” “So it was sheer boredom and lack of imagination, rather than an interest in communicating with other species, that pushed you towards Squill lessons?” “Aw, Doc… I can see you’re just the same as you always were.” “I’m so sorry to disappoint you.” Kevin was just about to retort when the Doctor held a hand up to stop him. “Something’s coming in,” she said. “A new incident has made it through the filters.” “You mean –” “Yes, something so inexplicable that the algorithm has informed the Spectrel and she’s just alerted me. Let’s see what we have…” A projection appeared in front of the console. The first images were stills of a small bungalow, accompanied by maps orienting the viewer to a suburb of Venice, Florida. The stills had clearly been taken by law enforcement agencies, and showed a pile of grey powder on a patio with a chequered measuring stick next to it, to provide scale. Half of the pile looked darker, as if it had absorbed some liquid. The rest of the images showed destruction to the rear of the home, and of the wooden fencing at the perimeter of the property. “She’s telling me that a youth has disappeared, and that these are his remains. At around the time he disappeared there was a loud explosion, the damage from which you can see here. The pile of powder is all that remains of him. Friends reported that he’d received a mysterious package. Live video has been removed from the internet by federal security agencies.”



“A cover-up! I’ve seen this kind of thing before, Doc. This is spontaneous human combustion, innit?” “Oh, stop it. SHC takes hours.” “You mean it really exists?” “Of course it exists. ” “Wow!” “Yes, but as I say, this isn’t SHC.” Kevin looked crestfallen. “I thought we was in for something exciting. So if it wasn’t SHC, what was it?” “This boy was vaporised.” “Vaporised? ” “Yes, vaporised. No other word for it. Quite literally vaporised. Well, apart from the bone residue that you see here.” “Yes! That’s even better than SHC! Cool, man!” “I don’t think the victim or his relatives would be using words like ‘better’ or ‘cool’ to describe his demise. Aren’t you being just a touch insensitive?” “Ah. Yeah, well. I meant that it would be more exciting to investigate.” “Who says we’re investigating?” “Uh. Well it was highlighted to us for a reason, wasn’t it?” “Highlighted to me for a reason.” “Well, yes. But I mean the Spectrel thought it was interesting.” “She did, yes.” “Interesting enough to bring to your attention.” “Quite.” “So you’re not going to investigate?” “I just have.” “What?” “I’ve examined the information and there’s nothing of interest.” “But… Aren’t you interested in what killed this geezer? I mean, like, people in Florida don’t just get vaporised , do they?” “You’re right. They don’t. It does take something or someone to vaporise them. Vaporisation is very much an active choice.” “So you’re not interested in finding out who or what vaporised him?” “Not really. ” “But… But you aren’t interested in how or why he was vaporised?” The Doctor smiled. “I’m pretty sure how he was vaporised.” “So how was he vaporised?”



“Blaster.” “A blaster ?! You mean like a… Like a blaster blaster?” “What do you mean, a blaster blaster?” “I mean like the kind of blaster from a sci-fi movie. That kind of blaster. The kind of blaster Han Solo would use against Imperial stormtroopers.” “You mean a fictional blaster?” “Yes!” “He can’t have been killed by a fictional blaster.” “Eh? Yes he could have.” “No he couldn’t.” “Yes he could.” “No he couldn’t. Why on earth do you think he could?” “Because you said he could.” “No I didn’t.” “Yes you did! “No I didn’t.” “You did so! You said he was killed by a blaster!” “I know.” “Well then.” “I didn’t say he was killed by a fictional blaster.” “Wh…” Kevin slumped down in his seat. It detected his resignation and reclined, easing him into his favourite supine steamer position to make sure more blood got to his overworked brain. He gave the Doctor an enquiring look. “How could he possibly have been vaporised by a fictional blaster, Kevin? Sometimes I do wonder whether there was a mistake in that assessment about your ability to get that Ph.D. And how come you’re such an expert in blasters all of a sudden, Earthman?” Kevin sighed. “I get it. You win. But he was killed by a blaster, right?” “Yes. And what I’m trying to tell you is that he was killed by a real blaster. Blasters in your sci-fi movies just seem to hurt people the way ordinary firearms with bullets do. Believe me, when you get hit full on by a proper blaster – as indeed this unfortunate chap was – you know all about it. Or, in fact, you don’t know all about it because you’re vaporised. Or, at least, you’re vaporised if you’re simple flesh, blood and bone, and don’t happen to be wearing any appropriate protective clothing.” Kevin rotated back up into a sitting position. “So we’ve got a teenage kid



in Florida vaporised by a blaster and you’re not interested.” “Oh, I’m interested alright.” “Apparently not enough to investigate, though.” “Bang on the money, Kevin.” “Why not?” “Oh, this sort of thing happens from time to time.” “What? Really ?” “Sure.” “I had no idea.” “Of course not.” “But there’s a conspiracy to cover it up.” “Yes. The authorities always cover up what they can’t explain.” “Can I ask something?” “Go ahead.” “Why was he killed? This kid.” “Now that’s the interesting bit, Kevin. Why kill a fat, obnoxious spoilt brat from Florida?” “You tell me.” “I think the clue might be in the character description I just gave.” “Gotcha. So, like, he upset someone?” “Almost certainly. Enough for them to want him dead.” “Could it not have been a case of mistaken identity? ” “Hardly. If you’ve got the wit and determination to bring in that kind of banned technology to Earth then you’re damned sure you’ve got the right target. He must really have antagonised someone. The Spectrel notified me because of the illegal use of that technology, not because the person was vaporised.” “But how did he make some out-of-towner angry enough to want to take him out like that?” “Easily enough done. Probably a bit like you – one hack too many where he shouldn’t have been prying. I’m sure you must remember how angry I was when you first came to my attention?” “Yeah,” said Kevin, sullenly. “You may care to recall that I saved your life. You’d tried hacking those illegal aliens, and they were in the process of stitching you up so that the Tulse Hill Crew would take you out. It was only because we shared a common enemy that you escaped both their wrath and mine.”



“Understood, Doc. Forever in your debt, et cetera .” “Still, you’ve redeemed yourself now. Sadly, it looked like your friend here wasn’t able to.” Kevin was silent for a few moments before speaking again. “Doc?” “Yes, Kevin?” “What do you mean, ‘your friend’?” “Hmm?” “You said ‘your friend’.” “Well, he was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?” “Not that I know of.” “Oh, of course. You all use handles , don’t you? How stupid of me. I thought it was a bit odd that you didn’t remember his chubby face.” “Like, no one uses an avatar that looks like them.” “Quite,” said the Doctor. “This is your friend’s avatar.” In the projection appeared a bronzed and muscled warrior. “Yeah, he’s kind of a mate of mine. Grant99. Known him maybe ten or twelve months.” The Doctor sniggered. “One of your longer-lasting online friendships, then.” “I wish you wouldn’t dis me like that. The geezer’s dead, man. Woman. Show some respec’ to him too, will ya?” “Oh, like the respect you showed him and his relatives when he was just an anonymous death? ‘Cool’ and ‘better’, may I remind you, were words you used to describe his premature and unfortunate demise.” “Don’t rub it in.” “No insights, then? Nothing you’d been working on jointly?” “Nah, nothing. You’ve kept me occupied the last two or three weeks, Doc. But…” “What?” “Well, it makes you think, dunnit? There he is, just fifteen and he’s gone. Bam!” “Could have been you, sunshine. You’ve been dicing with death recently.” “Yeah, but I was going into the thick of it. Know what I mean? This is just a kid sitting at home. It’s mental.” “Correct me if I’m wrong, but in your local community you can get knifed to death for a wrong look any day of the week. Or transgressing a postcode boundary.”



“I guess. But not, like, vaporised .” “Let that be a lesson to you, young man.” “Jeez, thanks, Doc. I don’t know what I’d do without your words of wisdom.” A house-bot flew silently into the control room. It was holding a large glass dish bearing a stump of mossy wood, around which a flowering plant had wrapped its roots. The house-bot placed the dish onto the control panel, adjusted its position slightly a couple of times and then withdrew. “What the hell is that?” asked Kevin, circling around the console, and keeping his distance. The flower consisted of a single, intricately sculpted white petal which was shaped like a broad arrowhead close to the centre, but reached down in two long and delicate semi-circular tendrils at the front – like a caricature of a Chinese moustache. Behind the flower were four spikes in a swept-back array. It had no leaves. It both impressed and disturbed him. “I thought the place could do with a woman’s touch. Don’t worry, it’s not an anemone , if that’s what you’re worried about. Even the male me wouldn’t have been quite that insensitive after our last scrape. It’s a ghost orchid. Dendrophylax lindenii . Not to be confused with Epipogium aphyllum , which looks nothing like it but shares the same common name.” “Yeah. Of course. Easily confused. My yet-to-be-earned Ph.D. is in Astrophysics, rather than Botany, so I’m allowed a degree of confusion.” The Doctor walked over to the orchid and examined it closely. “It has no leaves. All the photosynthesis is done by these thick roots. Beautifully simple – powerful roots, a tiny stem and a most extraordinary flower. Perfectly harmless, and terribly rare.” “As opposed to Time Keepers – terribly rare, but watch out when they’re about.” “Don’t be rude. We’re in the business of saving lives. Or at least I am.” “Well you’re certainly saying it with flowers, ain’t you? Must be plenty of unhappy spirits wandering around after our last adventure.” “I thought the Spectrel would benefit from the female touch. Don’t you think?” “I get it, Doc. I’m kinda getting over it, you know?” “Getting over it? Given that neither of us has any choice, I suggest you do more than get over it. I suggest you embrace it, laddie.” “Well I’m not going to start wearing pink or talking about me emotions. If anything, I should maybe become more masculine – the yang to your yin .



You get me? ” “So for every beautiful delicate orchid I put out, you’ll presumably deposit a smelly sneaker? No thanks.” “I won’t so long as you don’t paint the inside of the Spectrel pink or something.” “Now there’s an idea.” The Doctor’s face suddenly contorted in pain. She let out a low groan and collapsed against the console. “Yarg! ” she screamed. “Yarg? Who’s Yarg?” said Kevin, grabbing his boss. “Has a Yarg infected you?” “Euuuuhh !” groaned the Doctor, eyes closed tightly, clutching her stomach. She slid to the floor, where she lay on her side. “Oh my God! I know what this is – you’ve got like a parasite or alien growing inside you, innit? It’s a Yarg and it’s going to burst out! Med-bot!” A med-bot flew into the room and slapped a sensor onto the Doctor’s forehead. It hovered for a few seconds and then pulled the sensor off. The Doctor opened her mouth. The med-bot dropped a small white pill onto her tongue and she swallowed it. “What’s that you’ve given the Doctor?” demanded Kevin. “Relax, Kevin,” said the Doctor. “It’s ibuprofen.” “What?” “I’ve got period pains.” “…” The Doctor picked herself up off the floor. “If you’ll excuse me for a short while.” She shuffled out of the control room, leaving Kevin on his own. Kevin looked around the control room, empty apart from the damp mossy stump of wood with the ghost orchid growing off it. He sniffed the air, smelling its apple-like scent, but kept his distance. His recent experience with plastic flowers and anemones had affected his perceptions more deeply than he’d care to admit. He had a disturbing feeling that he was being watched, and lifted his gaze slowly. Trinity was sitting upside down on the ceiling, her eight eyes inscrutable . “I know. You would have done something if it had been a real emergency. I guess you knew before the Doctor did, didn’t you?” He paused for a few seconds. “I mean, it’s alright for you, innit? You know him. Her. I just dunno where I fit in, Trin. I thought… I thought I was doing pretty well. But now…” He let out a big sigh. Trinity dropped silently down beside him. She clambered halfway up his



body, her head at waist-height and her rear legs still on the floor. She wrapped the upper pair of legs around his torso and the middle two around his buttocks and legs. A few weeks ago, an outsized black spider would have freaked him out, even at a distance of a hundred yards. He reached down and rubbed the fur on her head, and she gave a peculiar purring sound. There was no one he trusted more.



What Mario enjoyed most about his parents’ religion was that it was so modern . There were none of the old-fashioned beliefs about Satan and hell. Nor were there crazy stories about casting out demons or bizarre miracles like feeding thousands of people with a couple of fish and a few loaves of bread. There were no strange rituals or superstitious beliefs – no communion wine or wafers, and no silent and invisible deity to keep happy. The Church of Astranism was the total opposite of all that mumbo-jumbo. It was based on pure science. Whilst their founding prophet had only started the religion back in the heady Summer of Love days of 1968, it claimed roots going back a hundred thousand years – right to the start of mankind’s mastery of fire. When other kids teased him at school about this, he was able to counter that the unseemly hundred-millennium delay was because modern science had taken that long to catch up with it and enable its founder to identify the religion. It was based on nothing less than scientific fact – even if the government and the scientific establishment continued to suppress it. That suppression itself could be argued as proof that the Astranists knew more of the truth than the authorities were comfortable to admit to. The Astranist creed was that it was a substantiated fact that human life had evolved from DNA that had come to Earth from the far reaches of outer space. It was also a fact that the government was trying to prevent contact with extraterrestrial cultures because they were afraid of losing their monopoly on power. All these things had been established by His Astral Holiness Dr Latot Norom before he’d met his heroic but untimely death by skydiving into the caldera of a freshly erupted volcano. In his defence, the Church had issued a statement saying that His Astral Holiness had every reason to believe the eruption had been caused by the crash-landing of the long-awaited mothership, since there had been reports of a meteorite strike in the area just prior to the eruption. In a religion with such a long undocumented history, its leader couldn’t be blamed for an inability to distinguish a slightly unusual volcanic eruption from a crash-landing mothership; nor could he be faulted for his- powerful desire to accelerate its progress.



The death had been the turning point for Astranism, having been caught on three cameras – a news helicopter a mile away, the private helicopter rented by the Astranists for the dive, and a live feed from Norom’s helmet camera. Whilst you could mock His Holiness for his beliefs, you couldn’t fault his courage of conviction. Rather than talk someone else into what looked like a suicide mission, or sending a drone instead, the prophet had put his own life on the line. And lost. Spectacularly. The fact that no remains had ever been – nor ever could be – found gave that little touch of mystery that the religion needed to push it more into the mainstream. No religion had caught quite such a defining moment on camera before. His last words had not been of doubt or despair, but “Wow! Totally awesome!” The picture from his helmet camera at that instant had shown a massive bubble of gas coming to the surface of the magma and bursting. Miraculously, the white-hot gobs of molten lava thrown up by the explosion missed His Holiness, flaring past him like a firework display from hades and – if you viewed the last second frame-by-frame – left a concave area in the molten surface into which he plunged. It made for extraordinary viewing, and the odds on this coincidence were long enough to give ordinary followers the faith that Norom really had known something the rest of the world hadn’t figured out, and that he’d been transported to a better place via some kind of gateway that human science couldn’t yet understand. The other enviable thing about Astranism was that it had absolutely none of the problems with modern life that the older religions did. Indeed, some of the religious education was based around video-gaming technology. Such was its embrace that the church had even produced a flight simulator based on Norom’s last journey, which was available from the website. Time your journey into the caldera just right to hit the bursting bubble and dodge the magma burst and you ended up going through a wormhole and into the next level of astral existence. Mario had even done a lot of the coding for the game. And so it was that Mario’s parents positively encouraged his interest in gaming – after all, he’d been named after a game character and his nickname at school was Super. As a leading member of the Astranist gaming team, he was sponsored to attend conventions, demonstrate his skills, and talk about how his belief in Astranism had helped to hone them. No matter how much other kids teased him about his religion, they couldn’t help but envy the fact that it actively encouraged his gaming. As an ambassador for his religion, he never felt he needed to evangelise: his lifestyle did all the talking.



Receiving a package identical to that which Grant had received the previous day was not such a big deal to Mario as it had been to his gaming acquaintance. His mother dutifully delivered it to his bedroom and left it on his desk with his evening meal, telling him that it had been waiting on the porch when she’d arrived home. Mario ignored the beautiful matt black box with the red lettering until it was gone eleven o’clock. He picked it up to put it on the trophy shelf his parents kept in the living room. As he walked downstairs, the uneven distribution of weight in the package piqued his curiosity and he shook the box. Nothing rattled inside, and he could see no means of opening it. Astranist clergy had taught him not to assume anything, and that even science had its dogmas. Perhaps this was not a package or box? Perhaps this was the finished item? What if he was just meant to receive this item and await further instructions? “Ma?” he called . “Hi hon. Didn’t you open your package yet?” “Um, no. I think, like, it’s maybe not a package. You sure there were no instructions?” “Nothing. It’s funny it would just be left there on the porch like that. You’d have thought the courier would have asked someone to sign for it. I mean, you were in. Right?” “Sure.” “And you didn’t hear the doorbell?” “Nope.” “Well, it must have been delivered between the time you got home from school and the time I got back from work. Shana across the road said she didn’t see anyone.” “I was concentrating. I’m doing some more coding for the Church.” “There’s a place in the mothership for you, sweetie.” “I know. Thanks, Mom.” He looked at the package again. “I know this sounds weird, but like, maybe it was meant to be left where it was?” “What do you mean, sweetie?” “Like, it wasn’t meant to be brought in. Maybe it’s a marker or something?” Mario gave his mother a meaningful look. “You mean a beacon for the mothership’s approach? Like in the Prophecies of Norom?” He shrugged. “I mean, why not?”



“It’s a bit of a stretch, surely?” “But we assumed it belonged in the house. It was wrong of us to hypothesise without instruction.” “Hmm. I see what you mean.” “Or it could be a test from the Elders.” “You’re right on that one. Especially with your Coming of Age ceremony on the official Event Horizon. But then that’s a hypothesis in itself.” “So let’s just get back to a pre-hypothesis state and leave it outside overnight.” “You’re so full of Cosmic Wisdom for one so young, Mario, and it makes me and your father proud.” “Thanks, Mom.” She unlocked the front door for him and he went through the screen door. It was a clear, dark night. There were no streetlights after nine in the evening in this mainly Astranist neighbourhood because they’d managed to change the town’s zoning laws. Once his eyes adjusted he could see the long strip of the Milky Way, with its ancient light from aeons before. Were photons from the mothership landing in his retina right now, but of such low intensity that he couldn’t make out the vessel itself? If it was on its way, an Observer would surely have picked it up. He placed the oblong object on the porch and went back inside. His mother locked the door behind him and gave him a peck on the cheek. There were a couple of rattling bangs on the screen door. “Did you see anyone out there?” “No.” “Who would it be at this time? Your father’s not expected back until after his Observation duty at three tomorrow morning.” Mother and son looked at each other. “You think…?” she said. There was just the faintest possibility that he could have passed a spot test by the Elders. He shrugged, trying to hide his excitement. She unlocked the door for him and held it open against the springs. Seeing no one outside, he burst out through the screen door. The doorframe had prevented him from seeing something short, shiny and heavy, which was sent tumbling off the deck and onto the lawn. He glanced around and saw that the black box had opened by itself. He looked back and could see only the top of the shiny thing at the edge of the



soft light spilling out from behind the living room blinds. It reached out with one polished metal appendage, then another, placing them on the wooden deck. Its claws found purchase on the cracks between the boards and it hauled itself up onto the deck, then righted itself. As it did so, Mario caught a glimpse of dozens of tiny legs on the base. Mario stared, open-mouthed. The robot’s bright red eyes stared back from the edge of darkness. “What is it, Mario?” His mother strode out and put an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, my . That’s just out of this world.” “MARIO. CONFIRMED, ” came a voice from the robot. There was an odd sound like something being screwed into the wood underneath it. “Mario, you were right. This really could be a sign! Maybe it’s… a sentinel. Or an advanced party of some sort for Re-Contact . There really is a place in the mothership for you! For all of us! Right now . Let me call the Observatory. And I have to film this. This is just so Wow Totally Awesome .” His mother ran back inside and the front door slammed behind her. “Wait there!” she called. Mario stared back into the glowing red eyes. “Forgive her for the assumptions she made,” he said quietly. “I am at your service and ready for RC.” The front door was blown inward by the blast, taking the frame with it. The porch roof was turned to matchwood, leaving the two supporting beams and pillars either side, with a few pieces of wood hanging off. The deck was made of sterner stuff, but the wood was split in a three foot diameter of where Mario had been standing. Luckily for Mario’s mother, the blinds caught most of the flying glass from the windows, but she was still badly concussed and bleeding when the police, fire and ambulance crews arrived. Her neighbours had helped her out onto the lawn and done their best to bandage her wounds. In her state of extreme shock, at first they’d thought she was babbling about her husband because she kept calling his name: Robert. When she realised they weren’t responding, she tried talking about a black package that had been left for her son that afternoon, and that it had contained Robert. It was only when Robert himself arrived back early, excused from the rest of his watch at the Observatory, that they were able to get something out of her that made sense to them – even if what she described didn’t fit the realms of the probable. The crowd, mostly Astranists, stared up into the night sky and saw the



same Milky Way that the late Mario had seen just an hour before, and wondered. Those who did spot the drilled holes at the edge of the deck didn’t give them a second glance. When the NSA turned up just a couple of hours later, the street was cordoned off and protective blue plastic sheeting hid the scene from further view. The Astranists were confused. Had Re-Contact taken place? What did the vaporisation of one of their best young members mean? Was it a positive sign, in that he’d shared a similar fate as His Holiness? Or did it explain the delay in Re-Contact with the mothership? One thing was for sure: the authorities didn’t want them to find out any more. In their eyes, a government cover-up meant that their religion was definitely onto something that the government didn’t want them to know.



The Doctor shuffled slowly back into the control room and gave a grimacing smile to her two companions. “You okay, Doctor?” “Perfectly fine, thank you,” she said through gritted teeth, sitting down slowly at the control panel. “Just… getting used to my new physiology, that’s all.” “You still don’t want to call any of your cousins?” She snorted. “The last thing a girl needs is a male chauvinist pig like David Where hanging around, or a hopelessly indecisive and incapable hermit like Walter When.” Kevin cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you’d consider contacting any of the others, then?” The Doctor’s eyes widened. “If you think Where is a male chauvinist pig, you should meet some of the others. What is positively Victorian in his attitude and as for Why…quite honestly, words fail me. A wastrel and a rake. And if there’s one Time Keeper I hold responsible for breaking us up, it’s him. My brother couldn’t help his bipolar disorder, but it was Why who fanned the flames.” As usual, Kevin was perplexed. For one thing, he hadn’t thought Where to be a male chauvinist pig – whatever one of those was. When had saved their lives on their last adventure, and to call him a hermit was a little hypocritical of the Doctor. Victorian didn’t sound too bad, and it probably meant that What at least had decent manners. He was fairly sure he knew what ‘wastrel’ meant, and thought it could have been applied loosely to either of the two other Time Keepers he'd met. However, ‘rake’ left him confused, and he thought it unlikely that Why would in any way resemble a garden implement. He couldn’t look it up because the Spectrel wasn’t even in the same dimension as a terrestrial mobile phone mast. “Aren’t you being a little…? I dunno. A little…” “Bitchy , Kevin?” “I didn’t want to use that word, but yes.” “I feel like I’m entitled after fifty years. And at this particular time of the



month.” “Okay.” Kevin leaned back and his seat converted to its steamer position. An alarm immediately went off and he shot back to an upright position, halfthinking it was something he’d triggered. “Oh, goody ,” said the Doctor. “Another unexplained death has been picked out of the millions of others.” “The Spectrel must have a reason for it, Doc.” “You think ?” “There’s no need to be like that, Doc.” “I know,” she said airily. Then she snarled, “But it feels so good .” “So,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could. “Any relationship with the earlier one?” “Hmm. As it happens, yes. Another pal of yours.” “What ?” “Super Mario.” “That’s a character in a game, Doc. He must die thousands of times an hour. Get real.” “No, you clot. That’s your friend’s real name. Or his nickname. His gaming name is SprMario1. Sound familiar?” The Doctor pointed at the projection area, where the name was spelled out for them. “Oh, no. I mean, yes. That’s awful.” “Another one of your obnoxious gaming types, then?” “No. He seemed like a really decent guy. I mean, he wasn’t like Grant. Grant was all about himself on social media. Mario was… he was one of those guys who always weighed in to help. A contributor, you know? And modest, too. Sometimes it would be months later that you’d find he’d helped you out behind the sc enes.” “Oh. Now that is interesting. Bio, please.” The Spectrel produced a biography of Mario – so many images, video clips and scrolling text that Kevin felt overwhelmed. “Gosh,” said the Doctor. “He really was a goody two-shoes.” “I told you he was a decent guy.” “Why would anyone want him dead?” “Did he die like Grant did?” “Yes, yes. Of course. Except that he was an Astranist.” “An Astran ? You mean, like the people who believe the mothership’s coming to get them. They had that prophet, Latot Norom –”



“Doctor Latot Norom. Credit the man his Ph.D. where it’s due. And technically it’s Astranist , not Astran.” “Whatever. He skydived into that volcano because there was a meteorite strike nearby.” “Very good, Kevin. Though I can only assume you know all of that because it made for such entertaining online viewing at the time.” “You have to admit it was spectacular.” “I don’t have to admit anything.” “They’re on the up, these Astrans. They believe all this mad stuff about extraterrestrials, and all sorts.” “Well, you’ve actually experienced it, laddie. Which either makes them right or you psychotic. Make your mind up.” “So they’re right?” gasped Kevin. “To an extent, obviously.” “But they say the government’s covering up all this amazing stuff!” “Well, duh , as you humans would say. Or did you not notice the complete lack of coverage of our last two adventures in the news? You didn’t happen to notice the interest shown in me by MI16?” “Um. But some of the Astrans’ beliefs are mental.” “Such as? ” “Apparently they keep a constant lookout for this mothership in the hope of what they call Re-Contact.” “I don’t want to get into a discussion about some of the more obscure religious beliefs in your culture, so let’s keep it scientific. You’re saying that the guys at SETI – search for extraterrestrial intelligence – are just barking at the moon? After all, they’re waiting for first contact.” “Well, no. I mean, they’re right.” “Yes, but they don’t know they’re right, do they?” “Eh?” “They don’t know what you know – i.e. that there’s extraterrestrial intelligence, and plenty of it.” “Yeeees,” said Kevin, feeling the trap closing around him. “You could argue that they’re completely bonkers because, after nearly forty years, they’ve found nothing. Admittedly that’s mainly because I’ve made sure they’ve found nothing. Or you could argue that they’re completely incompetent because it’s all around them and yet they’ve failed utterly to find it in front of their very noses.”



“And you’re saying...?” “I’m not saying . I’m asking why you think the Astranists are ‘mental’ as you put it, simply because they believe something for which they have no evidence.” “Aw, Doc.” The Doctor decided to let her fish wriggle off the hook for now. “What concerns me is why anyone in the out-of-town community would want an Astranist dead.” “Maybe they’d rumbled some out-of-towners?” “Possibly, but that wouldn’t really bother them in my view. Two incidents in twenty-four hours… That’s beginning to look interesting. And all I can say at the moment that connects them is you , my dear Kevin.” “So someone wants me dead?” “Well, we know that . Plenty of beings want me dead too. I should have thought that CIA chap, Colonel Schlutz, would want your guts for garters.” The Doctor turned to Kevin and gave him a penetrating look. “But what I can’t fathom is why they’re going after people you’ve never even met .” “Like, don’t look at me.” “You’re sure you weren’t up to some hijinks with these two?” “Positive.” “You never met them at – what is it now? ComicCon , or something like that?” “To the best of my knowledge, they’ve never been to the UK. And, as you so rudely pointed out, I’m lost outside south London.” “Quite so. Though you’ve at least been to China now – albeit only to blow up a factory. I think you’ve done one of your high-level team hacks. That’s the most likely explanation. You have only yourselves to blame.” “Thanks for the sympathy, Doc. Not. My life’s in danger.” The Doctor sighed wearily. “You’re perfectly safe in here. No one else has access to these dimensions the way us Time Keepers have.” “I have to step outside sometime.” “It’s not like you’re waiting at home like a sitting duck, like your two chums were.” “My Mum! She’ll be in danger.” “Whatever it was didn’t bother with this chap’s mother. Relax.” “But what about…? What about when my service with you is finished?” “Gives you all the more reason to do as you’re told, doesn’t it?”



“So there are no clues?” “Of course there are clues. Didn’t you see them?” “I don’t have a superfast brain like you do. It was all gone in a flash.” “Just like Grant and Mario,” the Doctor smirked. “Well, it appears that your friend’s mother saw a small robot with glowing red eyes. It said his name. Then after she went inside to notify the Astranist authorities her son was vaporised.” “A robot ?” “Yep. Not a particularly big one, but deadly.” “Where is it?” “No trace of it.” A shiver went down Kevin’s spine. A merciless robot assassin was tracking him down. “This is like Terminator . Oh, I’m forgetting. You won’t have seen any of that franchise because you’re too serious to watch movies.” “Au contraire, mon cher . I took a good look at that one to see what your collective thoughts were about the future of combat robots.” “What did you think?” “In reality, a human being wouldn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against a robot assassin.” “And you’re telling me to relax? Look, can I just check in on my Mum?” “Of course. Being a woman, I can sympathise with her for all the worry you’ve caused her.” “Don’t milk it, Doc. You may be a woman, but you’re not a mother. And if she knew the scrapes you’d got me into in the last month she’d have your guts for garters. And if it were between her and Colonel Schlutz tearing a strip off me, I think I know which one I’d prefer.” “There she is,” said the Doctor. A 3D projection of Kevin’s mother at work in King’s College Hospital appeared. She was eating a bar of chocolate. “Aw, she said she swore off those. She’s at risk of type two diabetes.” “Snooping on family and friends never ends well, Kevin.” “Yeah, yeah. But what about home? How do I know there are no nasty surprises waiting for her there?” “I already told you she’s in no danger whatsoever. ” “But what if this thing arrives and I’m not there and it gets angry? What if it interrogates her?” “Oh, very well. Here.” Multiple 3D projections of each of the rooms in Kevin’s mother’s apartment appeared. The views rotated to reveal the



undersides of beds, going through kitchen cabinet doors, into and out of wardrobes. Another scan appeared showing every electrical or electronic appliance in the apartment as a green glow on a black background. “How the hell do you do that?” “I keep telling you – it’s as easy as making a little hole between dimensions that lie outside the four you’re used to. A little tear in the fabric of the space-time continuum.” “Yeah, a total cinch.” “As you can see, your home is absolutely safe. The only danger you’ve ever had in that place was that plastic flower she picked up. I still shudder at the thought.” “So can you keep an alert out?” “Yes, yes. I’ll put an alert on. If anything suspicious happens inside your mother’s apartment, we’ll know immediately.” Back in Tulse Hill earlier that morning, Jabba the Hutt had seen what he’d thought was a large black bird land on the walkway outside Kevin’s place. Except that birds didn’t just fall from the sky like that, then land neatly and do nothing. Jabba was no ornithologist – indeed, he would have struggled to tell you that ornithology was the noun for the study of birds – but he knew birds were always doing something . He used the zoom lens on his digital camera to try to get a closer look, but all he could see was what appeared to be a black oblong box about fifteen inches high. Kevin was always trying out bits of new technology, and he’d been absent the last few weeks. Maybe this was a drone? Drones were expensive, and he figured that cheeky coconut owed him – big time. If Kevin had to come to him to get it back, then he’d at least be able to find out what Kevin had been up to. He scratched his head absently. He had this troubled feeling every time his thoughts turned to Kevin. He couldn’t describe it, but it was a peculiar kind of wariness, and he didn’t like it. He’d seen Mrs Thomson go to work just half an hour before and knew that the other three neighbours on their level were also out. He strolled across the grass. The wind was coming from the west, and an Airbus A-380 rumbled overhead on the final approach to Heathrow, a dozen miles distant. Maybe what he’d seen was a part that had fallen off a plane? Unlikely, but he’d heard of it happening. He took out the master key fob he’d stolen, swiped it against the sensor



and then entered the numbers to let himself into the stairwell. He was slightly out of breath when he reached the Thomsons’ landing, two storeys up. He leaned against the railing. Probably there were other eyes on him across the estate, but he didn’t care. He saw this as a public reclaiming of his territory, and an assertion of his rights over Kevin’s property. He sauntered over to the Thomsons’ front door and picked up the object. Its smooth, matt black surface was cool to the touch. He turned it around and saw KevT1994 etched on the top surface in red. It looked very expensive, but the customisation made it only valuable to Kevin. No chance of selling it on, but it gave him leverage to reassert control over his neighbour. Jabba couldn’t fathom how the thing had appeared to fly to the doorstep – there were no propellers, no air intakes and no fins or wings. It had been, he realised, a trick of the eye. He’d probably seen a blackbird or a crow descending quickly, and his eyes had probably alighted on the object he now held in his hands. That was how magicians worked – distraction and diversion. He continued to examine the box – which is what it clearly was – on the way back to his one-bed apartment, finding the off-centre weight intriguing. He opened his metal-reinforced front door and went into the living room. He pushed the previous night’s takeaway dishes, Red Stripe beer cans and full ashtrays to one end of the coffee table and set the box down. He got out his mobile and dialled another member of the Crew. “Yo, Bozza…. Yeah, I been busy this AM, blud. Got me a piece of Kev the Coconut’s tech, man…. Nah, no idea, but it looks very cool. He wants this thing back he’s gonna pay a biiig fine, man…. Okay, see you in five.” He went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee; if his eyes were that easily fooled, he needed to get himself wide awake. Over the noise of the kettle he thought he heard something in the living room. It sounded like metal on wood. His anger rose; it would be just typical of Kevin to have made some kind of device as a practical joke. “Kevin, you little runt. I’m gonna kill you,” he growled. Jabba took two paces into the living room and stopped. A sinister-looking polished metal robot spun its head to look at him with two evil red eyes. “KEVT1994. MUST. DIE , ” said the robot. “Uh?” “KEVT1994. MUST. DIE ,” repeated the robot. The thing’s body rotated around to point at Jabba, leaving the base where it was. He had to admit that the move was rather impressive. Then he noticed there was something



sticking out of the middle of the robot’s abdomen. There was a high-pitched whine. Jabba had recent experience of the tightening of the law on the use of threatening behaviour. Kevin had clearly enticed him to plant this thing in his apartment to try to entrap him. The thing pointing out of the robot’s stomach was clearly a microphone, and the high-pitched whine was obviously feedback. “Just a figure of speech, innit.” “YOU. ARE. NOT. KEVT1994.” “Yeah, whatevs. Get back in your bleedin’ box, will you? You’re going back home.” “WHERE. IS. KEVT1994 ? ” “The Planet Mongo for all I care. Come on. You’re outta here.” Jabba grabbed at the robot to pick it up. The robot had somehow stuck itself in position, so the end of the coffee table came up with it. The beer cans, takeaway dishes and ashtrays clattered onto the floor, spilling leftover food, stale beer and cigarette butts onto the carpet. “Damn you!” yelled Jabba, dropping the robot and table. “ABORTING. MISSION . ” The robot rotated its head and abdomen to face the living room window. “I’m going to kill you when I get my hands on you. You hear me, Kevin?” It only took a split second for the robot to assess the window, which was a double-glazed unit on a metal frame. A flimsy structure, but a wider and more dissipated blast would be the best guarantee of a definite exit. There was a blinding flash and a deafening bang as the glass was vaporised and blown outwards. The vaporised glass cooled into a shower of perfect glass spheres, the smallest of which were dust and the largest little beads which fell as hail. Jabba was thrown backwards into the hallway, banging his head on the metal-reinforced front door and sustaining concussion. He wasn’t sure whether he was knocked out for a few seconds or a couple of minutes, but when he became aware of his surroundings again there was absolute silence. He felt a fresh breeze from the living room wafting over his face, and he was glad of it, because there was a nasty burning smell that reminded him of something. His face and neck also felt like they had been stung, and the breeze soothed the pain. His mobile phone was vibrating silently in his pocket but all he could hear was a constant background ringing



noise, rather than a ringtone. Perplexed, he fished out the phone and saw that it was Bozza. He swiped to accept the call. “Yo, Bozza,” he said weakly, unable to hear himself. The line was silent. He terminated the call, and wondered why the skin on the back of his right hand and fingers had the same stinging sensation as his face and neck. Still puzzled, his attention was drawn to the intercom for the entry phone. The red light was flashing angrily on and off. His phone vibrated. It was Bozza. He answered, but again there was silence. He pressed the intercom button to hear who it was, but there was nothing. He felt weak, pressed the button to let the visitor into the stairwell and then unlocked his front door. He stumbled into the living room and saw the mess caused by the explosion. The stale beer, food and cigarette butts were the least of his worries. The main window had no glass, and the frame that was supposed to swivel was a mangled mess. Some of the metal appeared to have melted. Lighter objects that had been on the shelves were now on the floor, and delicate ones were broken. Only one picture was left on the wall. It had been facing the window and had taken the blast front on, and so had been shattered inwards. The couch, which had been directly under the window, had scorch marks on it, as did the blind, which had been rolled up to leave six inches hanging over the window. The blind now banged in the breeze against the empty window frame. He noticed that even the synthetic carpet looked like it had been melted slightly at the surface. That explained the acrid burning smell. Except that it didn’t. The horrible burning smell wasn’t nylon, it was… He reached up to touch his head and felt a horrible softness. He examined the palm of his hand, which was covered in the yellow ash of his burnt hair. The stench was stomach-turning. He put his hands on his face and was unable to feel his eyebrows or eyelashes. He felt his head again. The hair at the back of his head was still untouched. There was a hand on his shoulder and he spun around. It was Bozza. He could just about hear his friend mouthing his astonishment in adult language. “Kevin Thomson,” said Jabba, unaware that he was shouting. “A drone. It said it wanted to kill him. Not if I find him first.” Bozza was looking at him with an expression he couldn’t read. “You look ridiculous, man,” said Bozza, concentrating hard on not laughing, but realising this was maybe the only time he’d ever get to be frank with the man without facing retribution. Jabba had no eyebrows or eyelashes, and the front half of his hair had gone, leaving the rear of his head with what



looked like a shadow of afro hair. “What?” “I said, you need a good story for the Feds, man. The Feds.” As if on cue, two firefighters wearing respirators cautiously made their way into the apartment, tailed by a cautious-looking policeman in a stabproof vest. The firefighters removed their breathing apparatus. One of them went over to the window and shouted down, “Looks like a gas explosion. One walking casualty. Bringing him out now.” He turned to the two gang members. “Come on, gents. Let’s get you out and off to hospital. This is a crime investigation scene now.” This third operation hadn’t been in the robot’s plan of attack. The first termination had been a complete success when judged against its highly specific operational criteria. No witnesses apart from a low-sentience nonhuman life form. The animal’s only means of communication appeared to have been some kind of simple binary language, consisting of woof-woof , with occasional tonal adjustments to high whine and low growl. Furthermore, the target had been incapable of understanding even the underlying warning message given to it by the animal. Termination two had not gone quite so well. Fortunately, the older human had seen little, appeared to comprehend even less, and had not been present for the termination itself. It had been thought that the mighty warrior KevT1994 would prove so formidable an opponent that his termination would require far more resources. However, the success of these first two missions had led the robot’s algorithms to reprioritise the assassination schedule and put the number one target at the top of the list. But termination three – that of KevT1994 – had definitely not gone to plan. It had been part of the accepted understanding of human culture that everything was personal property. To discover that personalised gifts could be considered communal property by other parties was new and contradictory information. It had followed what it believed to be the correct operational procedure under the circumstances – to abort the mission as inconspicuously and quickly as it could, with as little collateral damage as possible. It had, it thought, done a good job of that. As it hovered two thousand feet above Tulse Hill, gathering more information, it could only conclude that it might not have done such a good



job after all. Despite the lack of fatalities, and limited damage to property, the aftermath was playing out in an almost identical way to the first two terminations. This was new and remarkable information. For a race that appeared to thrive on the almost industrial killing of life forms, including its own species, the importance of what had seemed to be a relatively minor incident seemed to have been exaggerated wildly. If it had been armed with that information previously, it might have vaporised the large human as a precaution. For a split second it considered going back and doing the job, but realised that it would face an almost exponential rise in the death-toll as it terminated each new witness to the previous vaporisation. This mission was supposed to be covert – at least for now. In the absence of its mission leader, Atruk, who wasn’t expected for a little while yet, it would have to draw up some new mission priorities. This was merely a minor setback. Something hard tapped at its surface. It had been aware of life forms floating around on the thermals from the concrete structures below. It knew that they had followed it up to its current altitude, but had not seen them as a threat, given their low sentience rating and complete lack of weaponry. A second creature swooped in and joined the assault. Like the first, it had a three-foot wingspan, was grey and white, with a sharp yellow beak. A third was starting to take interest, and lining up for a go. The robot had been planning on going to a higher altitude anyway, where the simple respiratory systems of these life forms couldn’t operate. Then the third seagull buzzed past and defecated on its protective outer box. The slimy, smelly seagull-dropping slid off harmlessly towards the ground. The robot checked its protocol. It adjusted a calculation in order to conclude that a threshold had been reached, and a line had most definitely been crossed. Aside from that, it could surely justify any action under the broad heading of gathering data . Would vaporising these life forms be any different to humans? Could they be used as weapons when vaporised? This experiment could be carried out immediately. The front of the box slid open to reveal the robot, and the stubby gun poked out of its abdomen and emitted a high-pitched whine. The seagulls swooped and dived, agitated by the noise, and lined up to take another shot at the intruder. There were three short, sharp cracks in rapid succession. Bozza, the



firefighters and a couple of police officers looked up to see three dark smudges of smoke, like anti-aircraft bursts. “Thassit!” said Bozza to one of the policemen. “Sounded just like that. But, like, I was just underneath. You wait, there’s going to be a shower of little glass beads in a minute.” “Uh?” said Jabba, following everyone’s gaze. “Fireworks?” asked one of the policemen. “Way too high and loud,” said a firefighter. “No trails, no launch noise.” “AA fire!” yelled the captain of a late-running 747 redeye from Los Angeles. A US Air Force veteran of scores of flights into Kabul airport, he switched off the autopilot, pushed the throttles to maximum and banked the aircraft into a steep turn, diving to gain speed. The south London suburbs filled the view as the aircraft lost altitude and one alarm after another went off. “Flaps up,” he commanded his co-pilot. “Flaps up, aye sir.” “ ALTITUDE. ALTITUDE. PULL UP. PULL UP ,” came the emotionless commanding voice of the alarm. Three seconds into the turn the engines began to throttle up and he was able to halt the descent and keep the turn tight. “Mayday, mayday,” said the captain calmly. “This is TransWorld fivezero. Have come under anti-aircraft fire. I have aborted my approach. Have come under anti-aircraft fire. I have aborted my approach. Advise all other aircraft on Heathrow approach to do likewise. Taking evasive action. Emergency landing at Gatwick. Over.” The captain ignored the buzzing intercom from the chief steward, but could picture the terror of the passengers in the cabin behind him. As the flaps fully retracted and the engines reached peak thrust, he felt the acceleration push him back reassuringly into his seat. He straightened up onto his new heading, roaring south along the line of the A23 at just two hundred feet and maximum thrust. He imagined the residents of Streatham Hill must be even more terrified than his passengers; the noise would be deafening, buildings would be shaking and car alarms triggered. A ground-based antiaircraft unit wouldn’t be able to touch him at this height and speed in an urban area. He felt a thrill run through him. As a pilot calling mayday he had complete and utter control and priority – he hadn’t had this much fun since leaving the Air Force. At the back of his head he could envisage the press



conference and the eventual Oscar-winning movie starring Tom Hanks. He looked across at his younger colleague, who was rigid in his seat and ashen-faced. “I mean, you saw that, right Terry? That was anti-aircraft fire.” “I’m not sure what I’m seeing, sir. Look at that .” He nodded towards the cockpit window, where the yellow beak of a seagull was fused to the glass. “ ALTITUDE. ALTITUDE ,” nagged the alarm. “Yeah, yeah,” said the captain to the alarm. He leaned forward to confirm that the object was what it appeared to be. “Well, that kinda proves my point.” Just twenty seconds from the attack they were now two miles downrange. If the anti-aircraft unit was going to have a second pop at anyone, then the next aircraft would be well within its sights, and he said a silent prayer for those doomed souls. He reduced the throttle and used some of his excess speed to climb away from the ugly concrete towers of Croydon. He cleared his throat and then flipped the PA switch. “This is your captain speaking,” he said smoothly. “My apologies for the minor aerobatics. Due to an incident with the local wildlife we will now be landing at Gatwick, rather than Heathrow. Cabin crew prepare for landing at Gatwick airport in just a few minutes.” He flipped off the PA again and turned to look at his co-pilot, who was a sweating blur of nervous activity, turning off alarms, monitoring engine performance, resetting landing information and talking anxiously with ATC. He shook his head. Maybe a young Danny Devito type would make his Tom Hanks lead look even cooler? The ambulance drew to a halt outside King’s College Hospital. Jabba the Hutt, accompanied by a police officer, insisted on climbing out of the vehicle himself. A police car drew up outside the area reserved for ambulances, and Bozza was let out of the back seat. Bozza went over to make sure that his friend's anger management issues didn’t get him into trouble. And he appreciated that Jabba’s story of a small robot with a blaster would cut no ice with the police. Jabba’s hearing had still not recovered, and his voice was too loud, so when he politely declined the wheelchair that was offered him it came across as too aggressive. Bozza gave him a look and guided him into the reception area. “Severe concussion. Deafness. First degree burns to face and right hand, coupled with superficial burning of hair on face and head, appear to indicate



an explosion,” said the paramedic, before handing his notes over to a doctor and leaving. The policeman stayed, notepad out. “It was a robot with a blaster,” said Jabba loudly. “Would have expected much worse from an explosion,” said the doctor, eyeing her patient. She motioned the three men towards a cubicle. She and the policeman exchanged looks. “I know you from a previous incident, don’t I? Something recent?” Her normally excellent memory was peculiarly fuzzy. “Yeah…” said the policeman. “Wasn’t it just a couple of weeks ago?” “Funny, I normally have a good… never mind.” She turned to Jabba. “Lie there, please. That’s it. Just relax.” She put on some blue gloves and examined his face and scalp. Then she examined his eyes closely, then his ears. Finally, she examined his clothes. After a minute she drew back. “And you say it was an explosion?” she said slowly and loudly, making an exploding sign with her hands. “No,” shouted Jabba. “It weren’t no explosion, you hear me? It was a robot with a blaster. Like an explosion, but not an explosion.” The doctor turned away from her patient and motioned to Bozza to turn away. “I take it you know the patient well?” “Grew up together. We is like brothers.” “Good. I take it he has a history of drug use?” Bozza looked at the doctor and then at the police constable, who gave him a pained smile. If Bozza and Jabba were like brothers, then the constable had been their personal law enforcement advisor for half a decade. The man gave Bozza an understanding nod. “Aw, Doc… Yeah, a bit of stuff here and there. You know how it is. Recreational only.” “Skunk on a daily basis?” “Nah, he’s not stupid.” He eyed the constable warily. “He’s got a business to run. Has to keep his head clear.” “What’s this about a robot?” asked the doctor. “Straight up. That’s what he told me. I mean, I was right outside when it happened.” “The explosion, you mean?” “Yeah, that. But he’s right: it wasn’t like no explosion. It was like a… I dunno. A big flash and bang. No smoke and no flames. But, like energy . You get me. Pure energy . Then it started raining, like, sand and glass beads.” The doctor studied Bozza closely. He was wondering what she was up to



until she picked a tiny glass sphere from his afro hair and held it between finger and thumb. “Thassit!” “The area around the scene was covered with those,” said the officer. “Forensics will be taking a look. I must advise you that I’ll have to take that as evidence.” He took out an evidence bag. The doctor continued to examine the bead. “It could only have formed from molten glass. That’s how it was raining glass beads, officer. The heat was so great that it liquefied the glass. Indeed, I might go so far as to say that some of the glass would have had to have formed vapour for it to condense into some of the smaller particles that I can see in this man’s hair. And yet all the casualty got was a flash of heat. His clothes show evidence of that too. In a gas explosion I’d expect him to have evidence of high temperatures and combustion all over his clothes. But it looks like he was standing in a doorway, and that it protected him from the heat. As if it was heat from a light, and that he was in the shadow of it. Can you see the line down his clothes where the singed material forms a line? Very peculiar.” She dropped the bead into the evidence bag. “What about this robot stuff?” asked the policeman. He tucked the evidence bag into a pocket. “No idea.” She pulled aside the curtain at the end of the cubicle. “Nurse, please!” she called, then addressed the constable and Bozza. “I’d like to keep him here just for a couple of hours. We’ll get a psychiatric evaluation.” She hesitated a moment. “Was it the two patients who appeared in the A&E waiting area? ” “Sorry?” said the policeman. “A couple of weeks ago. Two patients just…appeared in the waiting area. Security service personnel. One of them had had his leg stitched back on.” “Oh. Yeah,” said the policeman. “We’d been told to guard the entrance. No idea how they got past us.” “If it’s any comfort, we’ve no idea how he got his leg stitched back on. The other person on duty was…Oh, Nurse Thomson. Speak of the devil.” Mrs Thomson looked at the policeman, then at Bozza, before seeing Jabba on the bed. Jabba glanced over to see who the new arrival was. There was an instant flash of mutual recognition and he jumped off the bed. “Your son!” he shouted. “Your son tried to kill me!”



The policeman stepped in front of Jabba. “Get back on the bed,” he ordered. Bozza put a calming hand on Jabba’s chest to get him to back off a few inches. Jabba jabbed his finger. “It was her son’s fault! That robot was meant for him!” “My son is away on business ,” insisted Mrs Thomson. “Business?” said Bozza. “Since when has your boy had a job?” “He works at Imperial College, you ignorant boy. He works long hours and spends time away from home. He’s helping this very eminent doctor look at new technologies.” She turned to the consultant. “You’ve met him, Ms Miller. He brought in those two injured men a couple of weeks ago.” She turned to the policeman. “And you,” she said. “You instinctively tried to arrest him. Thankfully, Ms Miller managed to talk some sense into you. And now you’re just standing by and letting a couple of cheap no-good hoodlums make false accusations against my boy.” “Doctor Miller –” “Ms Miller. I’m a consultant. You drop the ‘Doctor’ title for consultants.” She had unwrapped a syringe and was filling it from a small vial. “Technically, it’s ‘Miss’, since I’ve been no more successful in finding a husband in the last two weeks than I have in the last five years.” “Ms Miller, could we assign a different nurse to this patient, please?” “Of course.” She held up the syringe and tapped it. “Just let me administer a little sedative.” She motioned Jabba back onto the bed as Mrs Thomson stormed out of the cubicle, muttering under her breath. “Sedative?” said Bozza. “He don’t need to have no sedative.” Ms Miller fixed Bozza with a stern look. “Then maybe you should look at it as an inoculation.” “Uh?” “Stupidity is a big killer. Look upon this as an inoculation against it. It’ll give him a bit of time to get his story straight before he digs himself any deeper into trouble. You get me, blud? ” Bozza nodded his assent. Ms Miller turned to her patient. “Sharp scratch,” she said, and emptied the syringe into Jabba.



“It’s him again,” hissed Thickett. “Who?” asked Sir Adrian Brown. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d agreed to see Thickett. He supposed he ought to feel sorry for the man, who was still wearing a bandage on his hand where he’d been stung by a deadly anemone a few days before. On the plus side, he was accompanied by the delightful Doctor Peterson, who smiled from above and behind her short superior. She winked at him and he stifled a grin. Lord knows why a bright young thing like her put up with an idiot like Thickett. Still, he mused, the man might yet come in handy as a scapegoat. “No, not Who ,” said Thickett, unable to hide his irritation. “How . It’s Doctor How .” “Now look here, you can’t just go around pinning the blame for everything on this Doctor How fellow without proof,” said Sir Adrian. “We’ve been through this before, just last week. Personally, I think he’s probably a jolly good chap. At least, that’s the conclusion I came to, and Camilla – Doctor Peterson – seems to agree. The very worst you could probably say about him is that he’s benign. We’ve got good reason to believe he saved us from those awful anemones.” “No, no, no! It’s his constant tinkering that causes all these things. At best the man is a bungling fool, and at worst he’s a malign destructive force. It’s cause and effect – he actually attracts these disasters,” insisted Thickett. Sir Adrian had his own opinion about who the bungling fool was who attracted disasters. He was still trying to find a way to explain to the minister the millions of pounds’ worth of damage apparently caused by a giant exploding insect to a supposedly secure Cold War bunker under the capital in an operation organised by a department that everyone had forgotten even existed. “It’s terribly unfortunate that it was an American aircraft,” said Sir Adrian. “They do take these things ever so personally. Doubly unfortunate that it was a former US Air Force pilot – anyone else would have just flown on instead of barnstorming across the suburbs. Doubtless it triggered his post-traumatic stress disorder.” He let out a deep sigh. “Luckily, Schlutz doesn’t yet know



the details of the witness statement from James Hart. You said there was a problem with his nickname, Commander Bunce?” “Jabba the Hutt, Sir,” said Bunce. “From The Empire Strikes Back . Part of the Star Wars trilogy. A self-styled gangster.” “Good grief. That doesn’t help at all, does it?” “No, Sir Adrian,” said Commander Bunce. “Knowing that Schlutz seems to have access to most of our communications, I’ve requested that the records be kept as paper-only.” “Oh, splendid, Jane. Splendid.” “But he could put two and two together and make more than four. He could quite reasonably assume that an explosion on the ground in Tulse Hill equates to the launch of three anti-aircraft…” She struggled for a word. “Devices.” “Tish,” said Sir Adrian. “Ack-ack shells travel supersonically. That’s how they can reach the heights they can reach. There was at least a ten-minute delay between the first explosion and the three airbursts at just a couple of thousand feet. The first explosion was definitely not a launch.” “Doesn’t stop him from jumping to that conclusion,” said Bunce. “Besides, we do think they’re related. Don’t we?” “Oh, good God, yes. Of course they are. The explosion on the ground was exactly like the three in the air. I just don’t like the witness statement, that’s all. A robot , for pity’s sake. A killer robot at that. No sooner have we got rid of an infestation of killer insects and killer jellyfish than some clown comes along with killer robots with plasma guns. It’s ridiculous . Why can’t this be happening somewhere else? I mean, we were outclassed by a bunch of jellyfish, so what chance can we possibly stand against a robot with anger issues and a blaster?” “If you recall,” said Doctor Peterson, “You persuaded Schlutz that it was not necessarily a bad thing to have been outclassed by a foe.” “Yes,” said Sir Adrian. “Didn’t we raise a glass to parties unknown? I can only hope Doctor How – if he really exists – can get us out of this scrape. On the plus side, at least this robot’s only attacking housing estates south of the river. As if anyone cares, frankly. Surely even an idiot could see that if this thing had meant to down that jumbo jet, then it would have done so. What mystifies me is why it put those shots across its bow. Or nose.” He turned his attention back to Doctor Peterson. “Did you have any luck on the cover-up?” “Fireworks,” shrugged Peterson. “Best we could do under the



circumstances. Thought about a convoluted story involving freak atmospheric conditions but that didn’t ring true. I can’t imagine what the tabloid headline writers would have made of ‘ball lightning’.” “And the seagull’s beak spot-welded to the cockpit window?” “Very hot fireworks.” She shrugged. “Sorry. But luckily we’ve been able to persuade the cabin crew to keep quiet about that particular detail.” “Ho-hum,” said Sir Adrian. “On the plus front, at least the American embassy isn’t under attack or anything.” He glanced upriver towards the building itself just to satisfy himself. “Can’t you see what How is doing?” spluttered Thickett. “He’s antagonising the Americans again. Tulse Hill is only three miles from the American embassy as the crow flies.” “As the seagull flies, surely?” quipped Peterson. “Quite,” said Sir Adrian. “We need this Star Wars character – what’s his name again?” “James Hart, aka Jabba the Hutt, Sir,” said Bunce . “We need him to keep his mouth shut.” “A bit late for that, Sir,” said Bunce. “He was taken to King’s College Hospital.” “Couldn’t he be sedated?” “Indeed he was, Sir Adrian. But only after he lost it with one of the nurses, very loudly. The explosion affected his hearing, you see.” “Quite. Been there myself. Told you that story about being caught short on the karzi during a mortar attack, didn’t I? But why did he lose his rag with a nurse?” “It turns out they’re near-neighbours on the same estate. Mr Hart accused the nurse’s son of being the one who used the robot to try to kill him.” Sir Adrian sat bolt upright. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” “We’re just verifying a few things. That conflicts with what the victim’s associate said.” “What?” “Mr Hart’s associate said that when he arrived in the flat seconds after the explosion Mr Hart said the robot expressed a desire to kill Mr Thomson, and that he agreed with it.” “Good grief.” “It does rather complicate matters. If this robot was programmable, then it might be that Mr Hart could be charged with incitement. Except that we have



no witnesses.” “Except the robot,” said Sir Adrian. “Yes. Except the robot.” “Which is armed and dangerous.” “Exactly.” “And not human, being a robot.” “Exactly, Sir Adrian.” “And what about this Thomson character? Why would Mr Hart or the robot want him dead so badly?” “We’re not sure. His records are proving…. difficult to find.” “He’s got a police record? ” “Did have. The electronic files seem to have gone missing.” “Hacked?” “It would appear so.” “The plot thickens. Go on.” “The attending officer was a local beat bobby. He’s known Mr Hart and his associates for some years. He also knows the nurse’s son, one Kevin Thomson. Mixed race. Afro-Caribbean mother and white Scottish father, deceased. He’s called a ‘coconut’ because his eyes –” “Are blue ,” said Thickett, triumphantly. “And I bet he’s five-foot ten, medium build. There’s your answer, Mr Brown.” “Sir Adrian,” corrected Sir Adrian. “Sir Adrian, that’s your man. That’s your lead-in to Doctor How. His assistant is Kevin Thomson.” “Oh, really?” said Bunce. “One of my detectives has just spoken with one of his former teachers. He’s smart, and reasonably good with computers. But he’s a natural coward. And although we can’t locate his electronic records, what we have on file suggests a very minor level of criminality. How do you elevate a south London boy like that into the realms of criminal mastermind with access to weaponry from the pages of a Marvel comic? Or, on the other hand, being the target of such a sophisticated device? The only sighting of this robot was by a gangster with a string of drug-related offences.” “He’s How’s assistant . That’s how it all happens. Don’t you see?” said Thickett. “Well, not really,” said Sir Adrian. “But do educate us.” “Have you seen the start of a new series of Doctor Who ?" “Yes, of course. It’s a rite of passage if you’re British,” said Sir Adrian.



“Yes, as a child and as a mother,” said Bunce. Peterson nodded. “Well,” said Thickett. “It’s exactly like it is in Doctor Who . The Doctor takes an ordinary member of the public and makes them his assistant. ” There was an exchange of looks between Sir Adrian, Commander Bunce and Doctor Peterson. “Within the space of that first episode of the new series, that ordinary member of the public is transformed into a courageous dare-devil, capable of doing battle with aliens,” said Thickett. “There’s normally a bit of conflict with the Doctor, but they adjust very well. And then they become the assistant for the rest of that series. Maybe even for two or three series if they’re really good, or popular with the viewing public." Sir Adrian stared at Thickett, who sat back smugly, misinterpreting the stunned silence. “You do realise,” said Sir Adrian, choosing his words carefully, “That Doctor Who is fiction?” “Oh, yes ,” said Thickett. “Doctor Who is pure fiction. That’s what makes it so brilliant.” “It’s certainly tremendously popular. And… you’re clearly a very serious fan.” “What?” “What Sir Adrian is trying to say rather politely,” said Bunce. “Is that he thinks you’re such a strong fan that you’re mistaking fiction for reality.” “No, I’m not a fan. Quite the opposite. I hate it! No, more than that; I loathe it. I’m telling you that the whole Doctor Who concept is based on reality. The Time Keepers have hidden it all in plain sight. That’s how it’s done. Truth is stranger than fiction – don’t you see? What do you do if you want to hide something? You make up some confusing cover story that everyone believes. And that means no one even bothers looking there because no one will believe you because it’s all fiction.” He glanced at Sir Adrian and Commander Bunce. “So the whole thing about how Doctor Who gets his assistants is actually the truth. The Time Keepers really do get their assistants that way.” Sir Adrian cleared his throat. “It’s always helpful to have some kind of analogy to help the layperson understand a difficult concept. But I can’t see someone as sophisticated as you allege this Doctor How chap to be just going around picking up assistants on the fly.” Thickett opened his mouth to



protest. “However, I’m sure Commander Bunce’s operational teams will want to speak with Kevin Thomson and his mother in the very near future.” “Indeed, and my detectives are conducting door-to-door enquiries on the estate.” “But the one thing you’ve failed to establish,” said Sir Adrian, “is a motive. Why would Kevin Thomson or Doctor How want to kill a secondrate gangster?” “Revenge. Pure and simple,” said Thickett. “Possible,” said Bunce. “Against Mr Hart, certainly,” said Sir Adrian. “But not against the passengers of an American 747 heading into Heathrow. What kind of idiot would want to go to war with the Americans?" “With respect, Sir Adrian, I think we need to start eliminating people from our enquiries.” “Are you saying…? “We have to start somewhere.” Bunce dialled a number on her mobile. “Bring in Kevin Thomson… No charges. Voluntary statement.” She waited several seconds as commands were issued to officers in the street. “Oh, that’s a stroke of luck. No, Brixton nick should be fine.” She smiled at Sir Adrian. “I might have some ranking company. Cheers.” She smiled. “My officers said he just came out of his mother’s place, wondering what all the fuss was about. Bless him. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.” If the robot had been human and not inside its protective travel capsule, it would have kicked itself. The attack on KevT1994 had been a terrible mistake. It could safely lay the blame on the targeting algorithm for that error of judgement – the human was known to be the most formidable of foes, and the possibility of a change in priorities should never have been allowed . It had to admit that it could have carried out the mission a little bit differently. It should have sought to co-opt the other human into its plans after it had also expressed a desire to terminate the target, for example, or at least asked the human for intelligence on the target. A less overt exit could have been attempted – although it couldn’t find a suitable sub-routine for that in its software. Finally, vaporising the aggressive seagulls had, it realised, not been the right decision at all. It hovered safely above the maximum altitude for seagulls and continued to monitor the situation below. As the day drew on it worked on the problem:



how could it make up for its recent mistake before Atruk arrived to take control of the situation? As its mission prioritisation algorithm made yet another recalculation and cross-checked some data, the solution became apparent. Its target was just three miles away. It could be there in seconds.



“We can’t just sit here and do nothing!” shouted Kevin. “I don’t wanna sound sexist, but since you became a woman all we seem to have done is hang around and talk about stuff.” “Can you please not shout, Kevin? I’m feeling terribly delicate. I may have to go and lie down shortly. I think I shall hibernate and time-travel through the last couple of days of my period for the sake of operational effectiveness. As for the action, the female mind is more flexible than that of the male. War, dear Kevin, is not the answer. I’m sure we can find a peaceful and satisfactory solution to this.” “Look, there’s something on the rampage down there. That was meant for me, wasn’t it?” “We have no real proof of that. You saw the scan. It showed –” “You never scanned outside the apartment, did you?” “Your concern was that your mother was going to get ambushed when she got home.” “Right. I’ve had enough of this. Can’t you just go and open a little viewing window thingie and look outside my mum’s place earlier this morning?” “Oh, alright. Do as he says please, Spectrel. Front door of Kevin’s home. Same time as the previous scan.” Two images flashed up in 3D. One showed a scan of the immediate area surrounding Kevin’s home. There was a faint glow on one side of the door. “That,” said the Doctor, “is your entry phone. Hardly anything to get worked up about. It is only slightly more sentient than a two-bar electric fire. And most definitely not a threat.” “Hmph .” The other image was a straightforward visual of the outside of the door. It showed a black box. Jabba swaggered into view, picked up the box and examined it. The parallel scan of the scene showed Jabba’s smartphone glowing in his pocket, but the black box showed no sign of activity. “Cheeky, thieving toad,” said Kevin. “I don’t remember ordering anything. Maybe…” “Yes. Exactly,” said the Doctor. “Almost certainly.” She ordered the



Spectrel to track the black box. It was kept dead-centre of the picture as Jabba carried it into his apartment and put it down on his coffee table. “Revolting,” said the Doctor. “Makes the sewers look clean. Scanners indicate serious bacterial infestation, and at least one species of mould deadly to mammals just waiting for a damp spell to take over the entire habitat. I doubt the mice would stand a chance.” “Shush, Doc.” “Don’t shush me, young man.” The scan showed the glow of various electrical and electronic devices around Jabba’s apartment. There was nothing out of the ordinary. “I ain’t ever been in here apart from once. A lot of that stuff’s been nicked off the other brothers. And the rest of it, well I hope he managed to flush the toilet before the fire brigade and the feds arrived.” They watched as Jabba set down the box on the table in his living room and went into the kitchen. “Oh. My. Lord.” Kevin watched open-mouthed as the front of the box slid open to reveal the red-eyed robot. There was something strangely familiar about it that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Or perhaps it was just that he knew it was programmed to kill him, and he knew he was destined to confront it in battle at some point? The panel showing the scan lit up, and an alert flashed something in Squill that Kevin couldn’t understand. “Sentient,” translated the Doctor, eyes fixed on the scene. “My, what a powerful little war-machine that is.” The robot slid forward onto the end of the wooden table. There was a drilling noise as it fixed itself to the surface. A mean-looking, snub-nosed weapon emerged from its belly. They heard Jabba come into the room. “KEVT1994. MUST. DIE ,” said the robot. They heard Jabba mumbling his response. The robot swivelled its abdomen and there was a blinding flash. Two seconds later the robot was back inside its protective box and heading out of the window. “Can’t you just go back in time and destroy it?” The Doctor sighed. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times about the complexity of faffing around with timelines over trivial matters." “Trivial?” spluttered Kevin. “End visuals, but continue to track,” ordered the Doctor. “Well, Kevin,” she said. “It appears that someone really very specific does want you dead.” “That was the thing what killed the other two. Right?”



“At a guess, yes.” “It wasn’t very trivial for Grant and Mario. And it ain’t gonna stop until I’m dead. Right?” “I’d put money on it. Except that I’m not a gambling woman. What I mean is that this is kill or be killed, Kevin.” “That don’t leave me much choice.” “As I said, you’re safe in here.” “Yeah, but no one out there is. We gotta do something.” “We? You clearly did something to brass someone off pretty badly. Given that it’s after some of your ordinary associates, I’d say it was something you did that was prior to your apprenticeship. If you look at the terms of our agreement, I offer no warranty against offences or actions committed prior to your employment.” “It’s aliens , Doc. The fact that it didn’t show up even on the scan of the doorway means that it’s really sophisticated stuff. You know us humans can’t do that kind of stuff yet. And what if it had brought down that jumbo jet?” The Doctor looked at her polished fingernails for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose there might be a case on the basis that it’s prohibited technology being deployed on Earth without my say-so.” There was an alarm signal from the Spectrel’s control panel. “Oh dear quarks above,” said the Doctor. “It’s heading for the US embassy.” Kevin’s eyes widened. “Don’t just stand there, laddie. Put your blasted suit on and get your ConBat out. You’re going in!” Kevin opened his mouth to speak as a couple of house-bots raced into the control room with his kit. “No, I don’t have phasers or photon torpedoes . The Spectrel is like me – she relies on wit and guile to keep her out of trouble.” “Can’t we –” “No. I am not having the Spectrel flying alongside that thing whilst you hang out of the doorway and swipe at it.” “But how am I –” “With this.” The Doctor nodded at a small device that was being attached to his back using a piece of webbing. “But I don’t know how to fly,” he protested as the Doctor pushed him towards the exit. “You didn’t know how to fight, either – but your Con-Bat and suit took



care of that, didn’t they? Now get out!” “What about Trin?” “She’s a spider, not a fly. Now get out!” The Doctor spun Kevin around and pushed him to the exit. There was a hiss from above and behind the Doctor. “Oh, he’ll be alright, Trin. He just needs some gentle persuasion now and again. I’ll make a man of him yet.” There was another hiss and Trinity’s head bobbed up and down with laughter. “Oh, very funny. I think I’m getting used to being a woman, actually.” Kevin felt his stomach flutter as he dropped. A quick glance behind told him he’d been dropped straight through an opening in the space-time continuum without even an appearance from the Spectrel. He knew the Doctor and Trinity would be watching, but he was completely on his own. He gasped as he looked down and saw the streets of London thousands of feet below him. His instinct was to wave his arms and legs as if he was swimming. He began to tumble, the horizon, ground and sky becoming a spinning, dizzying mess. “For photon’s sake, relax ,” came the Doctor’s voice in his ear. “I can’t flippin’ relax! I’m gonna die. You didn’t turn this thing on!” “Everyone dies eventually, but now isn’t an appropriate moment to have an existential crisis. Luckily,” the Doctor chuckled sarcastically, “I thought you might let me down . So I dropped you directly above this blasted robot. Now if you just think about straightening up, you’ll find your unit does it for you. Works exactly the same way as a Con-Bat. Except it’s for flying.” Kevin stopped struggling and spread his arms and legs out like he’d seen skydivers do. He was now falling stomach-first, but still spinning horizontally. Blood rushed to his head and he felt sick. “Take control, lad! Why do you always have to make things so blasted difficult for yourself?” Kevin concentrated his thoughts on floating, and suddenly his stomach felt like it was going to burst out of his belly. He had stopped his descent. “Well done. Now, it’s down there. Fifteen-hundred feet below you.” Kevin’s vision swam as it took in the full breath-taking horror of the situation – five-thousand feet of nothing between him and the certain death of an impact with the concrete and tarmac of the city below. His goggles put a bright orange marker to his left. When he looked in that direction the marker stayed over its target: the black box.



“Direct feed from the Spectrel has tracked it for you and your goggles can take it from there.” Some numbers appeared in his vision – his altitude, and what he guessed was the range of the object. The range was increasing. There were a couple of other numbers, one of which was at zero. He guessed the zero was his speed and the other number was the speed of the box containing the robot. He concentrated his thoughts on catching up with the box. His speed shot up and he heard the air whistling past his ears, which were covered by his protective balaclava. A surge of excitement shot through him. “I’m like Superman!” he shouted. “Don’t flatter yourself, laddie. Besides, your underpants are still on the inside. And they probably need cleaning now.” “Oh, ha, ha.” His altitude was dropping rapidly and he could see the city streets in astonishing detail. “Does it know I’m here?” “Not with the technology it’s got. Since it’s on stealth and you’re in a stealth suit, you’re probably invisible to it.” “Probably ?” He was now just two hundred feet away and still closing in. His altitude was just over a thousand feet. The American embassy filled his view and he was beginning to feel nervous. He unsheathed his Con-Bat. When he was reassured that he was still able to fly, he clutched it in both hands. Although he knew its power, it felt inadequate in the face of a blaster. “It’s opening up! You have to get it now, Kevin.” Kevin focused on swooping down the last two hundred feet and drew his Con-Bat back behind his shoulder. The flying pack followed his thought patterns and he rapidly closed the distance. “Quick! It’s getting ready to –” The rest of the Doctor’s sentence was cut off by a jarring explosion as the Con-Bat made contact with the back of the robot’s box. He felt the shock through his elbow and shoulder and felt a blast of pure energy through his protective suit . Out of the corner of his eye he saw an explosion in the compound of the American embassy as a crater opened up in the landscaped grass, sending a fountain of earth and steam a hundred feet into the air. “You only caught it with a glancing blow. But you put its aim off.”



Kevin saw the black box hurtling through the air, apparently out of control, gaining height and heading north. As it spun, the robot’s shiny body glinted in the sun once in every rotation. “Uh-oh. You’re in a spot of bother.” “What? What do you mean?” “Stealth mode is off. Probably a glitch caused by interference from the anti-gravity pack and the energy from the robot’s blaster.” “You mean it can see me?” “In a word: yes. So can everyone else.” Something buzzed past him, followed rapidly by more buzzes. He looked down and saw a couple of uniformed men kneeling on one knee and shooting automatic weapons up at him. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt if they hit you.” “Easy for you to say, Doc. You ain’t got no family jewels no more.” Kevin zigzagged across the sky in the direction of the robot. He was now between it and the American compound, hoping that the fire from the ground might hit it, but knowing that bullets would have no effect. “Look out!” Kevin twisted as his Con-Bat sprang a reflective field in front of him. The bolt of energy deflected off it and blew a hole in the concrete paving in front of the embassy, hurling shattered slabs through its high-security windows and forcing the soldiers to the ground. A particularly large chunk of concrete crushed a parked car. “Oh, great ,” said the Doctor. “Stop complaining. It could have hit the railway station. ” “Aim for the sky if you can.” “Not the Thames?” “No! The steam explosion would flatten the area, rupture the Victoria Line tunnel and flood the whole Tube network.” Kevin pressed on after the box. There was another flash and this time the Con-Bat’s shield deflected the bolt of energy upwards. He couldn’t help but marvel as he watched it do the opposite of what he would expect. Instead of leaving a vapour trail, it left a clear gap in a low cloud. There was a massive, thundering roar seconds later as the sound of the superheated water exploding reached his ears. And then suddenly the view disappeared and he fell to the floor at the entrance of the Spectrel.



“What the –” “Mission aborted, dear boy.” The Doctor gave him a hand up, and Kevin felt a surprising strength in her grasp. “I could’ve got it!” Two house-bots hovered expectantly and one started unclipping the device that had allowed him to fly. He got the message and began to take off his combat gear. “Too dangerous. I can’t have energy bolts flying around London. At least, not in this particular era. There’s also a slim chance of one of those things coming through the little crack in the space-time continuum and damaging my apparatus. And then where would we be? As it is, we’ve gone and kicked the hornets’ nest again.” She nodded at the display area in front of the console. A view of the American embassy showed swarms of armed personnel in black combat gear fanning out across the perimeter, whilst British fire engines and ambulances queued to get through the locked-down gates. “Not our most covert mission, Kevin." “What I don’t get is why it was trying to kill me this morning, and then attacking the American embassy in the afternoon? I mean, who’s next?" “You know that old saying about lightning not striking twice in the same place? ” “Uh. Yeah. But I don’t see… No! Doc, I am not going back to my Mum’s!” “It’s for the best. And it’s only temporary. I’m going to drop you off ten minutes ago.” “What? But –” “Frankly, I’d like to drop you off earlier this morning, but I don’t want to complicate the timeline. And for heaven’s sake, make yourself visible when you get there.” “Visible?” “Don’t sit in your bedroom and mope, lad. Now out .” Kevin found himself bundled out of the Spectrel again, this time into the drab interior of his childhood bedroom. Everything was as he had left it – except that his mother had clearly been in with a duster and vacuum cleaner. He gave a heavy sigh and wandered into the living area. Across the estate he could see Jabba’s blown-out window, and marvelled at the precision of the destructive technology that had vaporised it but had stopped short of laying waste to anything else. He figured he might as well go and take a look in real time. He patted his pockets, smiling as he found his keys were still there –



perhaps the most well-travelled house keys in human history. He unlocked the front door, went out onto the walkway and leaned over the balcony to take in the scene. There were furrows in the grass from the fire engines, and the building itself was cordoned off with blue police tape. A team of forensics officers in white onesies and masks were searching the grass blade by blade, picking up the myriad glass beads and anything else that might be linked to the scene. Jabba’s apartment was open to the air, and the bottom of the rolled-up blind banged gently against the heat-distorted remains of the window frame. He could see officers in white onesies in there too. One was taking photographs whilst two more were putting things into evidence bags and marking them. Would the place be an Aladdin’s Cave of the stolen and illegal, or would Jabba have had the sense to disperse his inventory elsewhere ? A uniformed sergeant in a peaked black cap with chequered markings was talking into the handset on his lapel. He looked up towards Kevin. There was a flash of recognition between the two of them. He fixed Kevin with his eyes, smiled and pointed his finger at him, then made a slow and deliberate ‘come here’ motion with it. Being a mixed race south Londoner, Kevin knew better than to give the sergeant the ‘What, me, boss?’ routine of looking over his shoulder. He raised his hands in an open-palmed surrender, trotted down the stairs and exited the stairwell. “Kevin Thomson?” asked the sergeant. “Yes, boss.” “Long time no see, I’m glad to say.” “Sergeant Greenwell, isn’t it? How are you?” The sergeant smiled. “All the better for seeing you, Kevin. You’re aware of this, I take it?” He jerked a thumb towards Jabba’s apartment. “Gas explosion, looks like.” “We’d like you to help us with our enquiries down at the station. Unless you have anything else in your busy schedule?” “Like, top of my head, I don’t think so. I’ll call my PA to cancel the rest of the day’s appointments, shall I?” The sergeant grinned. “Hop in, lad.” Greenwell opened the back door of his marked car and nodded his head at it. Kevin hesitated. “Like, I’m not under arrest, or nothing?” “Not this time.” “So I don’t need no lawyer or nothing?”



The sergeant shook his head. “My mother –” “My colleagues will be talking to her, too. We promised to have you back in time for your tea.” He gave Kevin a meaningful look. “Apparently that’s something you’ve not been doing recently.” “You can understand my suspicion, Sergeant Greenwell.” “Come on. I promised someone very senior that you’d come in for a chat. Eliminate you from our enquiries. Maybe help fill in a few blanks for us.” There was a deep and distant boom , and the sergeant’s attention went immediately to the north. Even if he hadn’t known what it was, Kevin was now experienced enough to tell the difference between thunder and a distant explosion. Kevin followed the man’s eyes. The estate buildings were blocking the view – not that he suspected he’d have been able to see himself at a distance of three miles. But it was strange knowing that he was at that very moment locked in combat with a robot over the American embassy, and yet simultaneously on the ground with the sergeant. There was an eerie silence, then the faint rattle of small-arms fire. The sergeant turned his attention back to Kevin, searching his face for a reaction. Kevin couldn’t stop his lips turning up in a slight smile. He shrugged. There was another distant explosion. Seconds later there was a flash overhead and a longer, rumbling explosion which left a hole in a cloud. He was the only one who didn’t flinch. The sergeant eyed him with increased interest. “More gas explosions, Sergeant?” he suggested. “That’s the same thing! The same thing! You hear me?” a neighbour screamed down from her window. “It’s not safe round here. What are you people doing about it?” The forensics team combing the grass searched the sky, and Kevin wondered if they were expecting another shower of glass beads to add to the painstaking agony of their current task. “Sounds like there’s a storm coming, Sergeant,” said Kevin. “Better get inside.” Kevin ducked into the back of the vehicle and buckled the seatbelt. The sergeant walked around the driver’s side, took off his cap and got in. He buckled up and then turned around to give Kevin a long, meaningful look. “I done nothing, Sergeant Greenwell. Honest.” Greenwell shook his head. “You’re a funny one, Kevin.” He started the car and headed out of the estate, down the hill towards Brixton. Kevin felt nervous. He was without the Doctor and Trinity. Just a matter of



minutes ago he’d been flying like a superhero over the streets of London in his battle suit and using his Con-Bat to fight his nemesis. He checked his mental state. It wasn’t the first time he’d sat feeling nervous in the back of a police car, but this time was different. The Law and the Metropolitan Police weren’t the threat. Sure, he’d be safe in their custody from the likes of Jabba, but what made him nervous was his knowledge that the Met didn’t even understand the level of threat they were facing. And the prospect of going back home after the interview filled him with terror. A roasting from his mother made vaporisation by the robot look the more humane fate.



“Artillery fire!” shouted Sir Adrian. “Get down and cover your heads!” He pushed Commander Bunce and Doctor Peterson onto the paving in front of him and lay across their backs. To his surprise, it was Doctor Peterson who rolled out from under him immediately, jumping to her feet, intent on the direction of the US embassy. “Safe distance,” she said, “even without the buildings.” Once again, he felt overcome with something like paternal pride for this woman’s exceptional qualities. Small-arms fire chattered and echoed around Vauxhall. The second explosion was louder, harder somehow, and followed by a heavy thudding rain of masonry and the lighter tinkle of glass shattering under its impact. Bunce scrabbled to her knees and she and Sir Adrian followed Peterson’s eyes over the tops of the buildings where a tiny stick-figure of a man, black against the bright June sky, appeared to be suspended in the air. Out of nowhere there was a flash near the figure, then some kind of discharge of energy right in front of him, and a streak of something invisible and yet somehow at the edge of perception appeared to tear through the fabric of the clouds. It happened in an instant, almost too fast for the human eye. A second later there was an ear-splitting and prolonged bang, like the sonic boom of a fighter jet. It echoed around the concrete and glass buildings. But Sir Adrian knew that no physical object was the cause: it was the very air being rent by some terrible energy. And then the stick figure disappeared into thin air. Sir Adrian came out of his mesmerised state and became aware of the cacophony of alarms and sirens of every description. He fended off a couple of security personnel, who were trying to bustle him back into the safety of the building. “It’s over,” he insisted. “Now shoo .” The men continued to hover near him, hyper-vigilant, scanning the crowds who were vacating nearby buildings. “That was him!” said Thickett. “Did you see him?” “Who?” asked Sir Adrian, then rolled his eyes at his faux pas , waiting for Thickett’s descent into idiocy.



“No. It was Thomson . How’s assistant!” Sir Adrian regarded Thickett with contempt. “He’s in police custody, you oaf.” “Time travel!” spluttered Thickett. “That’s a stunt to throw you off the trail. He’s here and he’s there. He’s everywhere!” He waved his arms around. “You make him sound like the Scarlet Pimpernel,” said Sir Adrian. “The Scarlet what?” said Thickett. Peterson coughed politely. “If I may quote?” Sir Adrian nodded. “‘They seek him here, they seek him there, those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That damned, elusive Pimpernel.’” “Thank you, Camilla. Now Thickett, go and file a report or something.” “But –” “Go. Whilst you still have a job and a pension.” “You –” “Get him away from me,” Sir Adrian ordered the two guards, who moved towards Thickett. Thickett glanced hotly at his three colleagues and gave Peterson a foul look before stomping off back into the bowels of the MI6 building, tailed by the heavies. “You still want to see Thomson, Sir Adrian?” asked Bunce. Sir Adrian sighed and grimaced at the noise of the emergency vehicles screaming their way towards the American embassy. “Between our dear American cousins and the minister, I think I can safely say I –” His mobile phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket. “Colonel Schlutz, how wonderful to hear from you,” he said laconically. “Is this a social call, or is there something more pressing with which I can help?” Schlutz’s voice exploded in rage. Sir Adrian held the phone a few inches from his ear and winked at his female colleagues. “But you were only bragging last week that it was bombproof. ‘Good old American know-how’ was a phrase I distinctly remember you using.” He smiled at Bunce and Peterson and headed off back into the building. “He’s not the only one feeling the pressure,” said Bunce as they got into the car. “But I think this one might fall outside my remit. This has to be the RAF or the Army, surely? Let’s go and see what Mr Thomson has to say about all this.” “You think this morning’s explosion in Tulse Hill and the jumbo jet are both linked to this?” asked Peterson, gesturing at the cloud of smoke and



concrete dust drifting over the buildings. “One incident is isolated. Two is interesting. Three is a pattern.” Peterson nodded her agreement and kept her thoughts to herself. As the unmarked car sped the pair towards Brixton police station, Commander Bunce listened intently on her phone as a detective inspector briefed her on Jabba and Bozza’s witness statements. She thanked the officer then turned to Peterson. “In answer to your previous question: yes. There’s a definite link. There has to be.” The robot brought its spin back under control and continued to gain altitude, scanning the skies for the threat, which had simply vanished. Satisfied that the ambush was over, it shut its protective container and went back to stealth mode. Three shots and it had failed to achieve its objective. It started an urgent recharge of its blaster. A quick assessment revealed that the damage was mainly cosmetic and not critical to its fighting capacity: a small dent in its body and the protective casing, plus the inability to change the name of the target. This latter piece of damage meant that one of its covert ploys was no longer available. It welcomed the chance to move towards a more overt operational status. It repeatedly played through the data from the seconds before the combat through to the disengagement less than ten seconds later, analysing first the new information about its unexpected opponent; it then set a sub-routine running to analyse how it could improve its tactics. Meanwhile, its targeting algorithm sorted new data. London was a target-rich environment, but its masters had not anticipated this level of technology, let alone difficulty. The American embassy was clearly off-limits, guarded by something unexpected. Although KevT1994 was still top of the list, he was unavailable for termination. The targeting algorithm came up with another option – one that it could get to work on immediately. It did one final systems check and went in for the kill. Kevin stood as Commander Bunce entered the interview room. He recognised her immediately, and had to control his urge to greet her by name – or perhaps even apologise for her humiliation at Schlutz’s hands the previous week after he stole back the remains of Tim from Schlutz’s office. “Please sit down, Kevin,” said Bunce. “You’re rather polite for a young man with a bit of a record.” “Good manners cost nothing,” parroted Kevin. He glanced up at one of the



CCTV cameras, wondering who was watching them. He felt sure that Doctor How would also be observing through one of his cosmic keyholes. Doctor Peterson sat in an adjacent room with a detective inspector and Sergeant Greenwell, who’d been introduced as the man in charge of neighbourhood policing for Tulse Hill. Of the two available camera angles of the interview, they were looking at Kevin. Sitting behind the two policemen, she could afford herself a little smile. Thickett would have been doing his nut at the proximity of Thomson. The young man’s demeanour seemed to have changed from being the south London wide boy to a more relaxed adult. Maybe there was something in what Thickett said about the rapid development of Doctor Who’s assistants? “According to Sergeant Greenwell, you’ve got a job with a scientist of some sort. Is that right?” Kevin felt his toes curl. He’d never been good at lying. “Sure. I’m kinda like his helper. He’s a bit of a mad professor type. An inventor. Except he ain’t no good at computers and stuff. Whereas…” “You’re a bit of a natural, aren’t you?” He shrugged. “I pick stuff up easy.” “And you repair computers for your neighbours.” “Used to. Not at all in the last few weeks, in fact. Not now I’ve gone straight.” “I understand that you didn’t do a particularly good job a little while back, and a couple of your clients got into trouble.” He raised his eyebrows. “I think I might need a lawyer if you’re going to imply that I was in any way handling stolen goods, officer.” “Hmm.” Commander Bunce let silence hang for a few seconds. “You’re right. And I’m not interviewing you under caution, so this is inadmissible. But what I am suggesting is that there were threats against your person.” Kevin shifted uncomfortably, remembering the beating Doctor How had saved him from. “You get unhappy customers in any business.” “Enough for someone to want to kill you?” Kevin shrugged. “South London, innit?” “Would it be enough for someone to plant some kind of hi-tech explosive device – a drone maybe – to ambush you?” “That’s not for me to say, is it, officer? You would have to ask the person or persons responsible.” “You seem just a little bit too knowing, Kevin. ”



“What do you mean?” “If I was you, and someone hated me enough to program a drone to kill me, I’d be – to say the least – nervous.” There was a commotion and voices outside the interview room door. There was a knock and the door opened. A uniformed junior officer put his head round. “Sorry, Commander. Thought you should know. There’s been another incident. Mayfair. About ten minutes ago.” “Mayfair ? What the hell’s in Mayfair?” “Residential and business buildings, Ma’am. Embassies.” “Some super-rich Russian oligarch? You sure this isn’t some mafia hit?” “Yes, Ma’am. I mean, no. Same kind of attack as on the US embassy.” “Casualties?” “Heat burns and shock. Some minor lacerations from secondary blast debris. Details are hazy, but a few buildings and cars seem to have sustained damage. Just the one explosion, thankfully.” “Thank you, Constable.” The officer hovered at the door. “Thank you; that will be all.” “Yes, Ma’am.” He glanced at Kevin before leaving. “Looks like you’re not the only target, Kevin. But do you know what really puzzles me?” “No,” said Kevin. He was quite certain that myriad things puzzled Commander Bunce right now. Some of them puzzled him too, but even if he had the answers he’d not share them with her. “An American passenger aircraft and the American embassy, I can understand. High-value, high-profile targets. Mayfair fits the bill too. The US embassy used to be there, so maybe that’s the common link. Terrorists love to pull the tail of the big American tiger.” She drew in and locked her eyes on his. “But why start with Kevin Thomson from Tulse Hill? Hmm? What makes you so special, Kevin? ” The new commotion outside the door was different from the first; there were sounds of protest. There was a knock as the door opened. “I said you can’t go in there, sir. There’s an interview in progress.” “Nonsense,” said an upper-class male voice from outside the door. Bunce stood up and faced the door to take control of the situation. It opened and a man stood in the doorway, his posture reminding Kevin of a swordsman from the era of swashbuckling movies – a confident, chest-first swagger. He was tall, about six-feet two inches, and of athletic build – not



bulging with muscle, but there was clearly an athletic and toned body underneath. His golden hair was collar-length and parted in the middle. Unusually, for a man in his early fifties, it looked good on him. He wore a light-brown tailored tweed suit. His crimson shirt was of silk, and he wore a loosely tied pink cravat. He had a flyer’s moustache on his tanned, handsome face, and high cheekbones. His eyes shone blue. “I do apologise for barging in like this, dear lady.” Commander Bunce seemed to flush. “It’s…I’m… I’m Commander Bunce.” “I’m very pleased to meet you, Commander.” He took Bunce’s limp hand and held it whilst gazing into her eyes. “What a splendid uniform, Commander. It gives you such an air of authority. You must have had to work so much harder than your male colleagues to achieve such seniority.” He lowered his voice to a purr. “Especially at such a young age .” Bunce cocked her head shyly. “Mid-thirties, I’d say. Not that one should ever guess a lady’s age.” “Oh,” said Bunce, and giggled. “I do apologise for interrupting.” “Really, it’s fine. Kevin and I were just finishing our interview, Mr…?” “Wye. Francis to you, my dear Commander.” Kevin’s mind swam as Wye winked across the room at him. He found that he’d stood up involuntarily out of respect, and was holding the back of his chair for support. There was an irresistible magnetism about Wye. Kevin realised that it was something as powerful and fundamental as gravity, and that it could influence the orbit of anything around it. He felt drawn to it the same way a star was drawn to a black hole, and wondered whether the man was just as dark and deadly at his core. “May I offer you any help, Francis?” asked Bunce. “I was rather hoping I might relieve you of my client.” “Your client?” “I’m Mr Thomson’s solicitor. I do hope he’s not in any trouble?” “Oh. Oh, please.” Bunce was flustered. “We merely wanted to ask him a few questions. He’s not under caution, so there was no need to –” Wye’s teeth glinted and he held up a hand. “Oh, Commander. I wasn’t suggesting that Her Majesty’s Constabulary wasn’t complying with the very highest standards of professional behaviour. It’s merely the case that I need a few answers from him myself.”



“He’s free to go at any time.” Bunce turned to Kevin. “Run along now, Kevin. There’s a good lad.” “My Mum –” “We’ll tell her you’re with Mr Wye.” “Commander, you’re too kind. Kevin, say thank you to Commander Bunce.” Kevin’s eyes widened, and Wye glared back at him. “Thank you, Commander Bunce.” He took a few steps towards the exit. “Not at all, Kevin. I’m so glad you have such a wonderful mentor as Mr Wye.” Wye bowed his head. “Alas, we must away, Commander. Adieu .” He put a hand in the middle of Kevin’s back and propelled him through the doorway. Wye kept his hand in place and walked at speed through the back corridors of the police station, and out through the front door. Without a word uttered, police officers of both sexes stood aside and opened doors for the pair. Wye’s hand was pressed so powerfully against Kevin’s back that he had to jog down the steps to the pavement, the bright day making him squint after the dark interior. “There,” said Wye. Without being told where ‘There’ was, Kevin knew it was the car parked illegally on the double red lines, blocking a lane of traffic and causing chaos as the A23 squeezed through the centre of Brixton. A uniformed traffic policeman had dismounted from his motorbike and was directing traffic around it. Wye’s Spectrel was a two-door red Mini Cooper with a union jack painted on the roof. The black and white licence plate marked it out as an original from the sixties. The paint glowed and the chrome shone as if it had just been driven from the showroom. Wye went round to the driver’s side. “Thanks,” he said to the mesmerised officer, who gave him a salute. “You. Jump in,” he ordered Kevin. “I was told never to get in cars with strangers.” Wye shot him a look across the union jack roof. “I’m not a stranger. I’m your boss’s cousin Why, in case you hadn’t guessed. And I need answers. Now get in, if you know what’s good for you.” Kevin opened the door and was hit by the smell of factory-fresh leather trim. He lowered himself into the seat and reached behind for the seatbelt. There wasn’t one. Why grinned across at him, and started the engine. “Not fitted as standard back in those days, sunshine. Unless you were on the rally circuit, in which



case you had the full harness.” He shifted into gear and the car shot off, weaving miraculously – and illegally – through the dense traffic. The speed was so fast and the probability of collision so certain that Kevin didn’t know whether to close his eyes or brace himself against the dashboard. Annoyed at his indecision, his subconscious mind decided to glue him to his seat in wide-eyed terror. His feet pressed against the floor in front. Why reached down to shift up into third gear. “No!” protested Kevin, and flung his arm across his face. In an instant, everything became tranquil, and he was sitting in an obscenely comfortable chair. He brought his arm back down, and was aware of light jazz playing gently in the background, and the smell of a recently-expired joss stick. He looked around at the plush and garish interior of what he assumed must be the control room of Why’s Spectrel. The Time Keeper was sitting in an expensive-looking white leather swivel-chair at a designer desk in the middle of a sea of purple shag pile carpet. On the walls he could see autographed photos, in black and white and colour. He recognised the faces of celebrities from the entertainment industry, past and present. “Welcome aboard, Kevin,” purred Why. “You don’t mind if I smoke.” It was not a question, but a statement; almost an order. Why sucked and tamped his pipe to life, blowing out blue clouds of smoke, then pointed the stem at Kevin. “Well, well, well. Dear cousin Peter’s new assistant.” He took a long puff as he regarded Kevin. The scrutiny felt uncomfortable. He blew out a huge cloud of smoke. “Sorry to be so obviously non-plussed, old chap. But one has been rather spoilt over the years. It’s a shame one only realises it in retrospect.” “Sorry?” Why stretched back and put his expensive shoes on the desk. “Oh, don’t be. Clearly not your fault. Can’t help being a chap , can you?” “What?” “Assistants , man. Always female, always good-looking. Eye-candy, Kevin. Nothing like it.” He gazed up at the ceiling, and Kevin noticed that it was covered with a kitsch painting of the heavens featuring nudes that were far too on the lewd and self-knowing side to be in any public building. “Golly, that used to get his goat.” “Who? ” “Oh, don’t let’s start on one of those conversations,” said Why, meeting Kevin’s eyes again. “How . Your boss. Your gaffer , as you would say in



south London. It used to drive him mad when I’d steal his dolly-birds off him.” He puffed on his pipe again. “Golden years. Tell me, how is the old monk? Always had my doubts about him, if you know what I mean. All that ripe fruit in his orchard and he never picked any of it.” He flashed Kevin a wink. Kevin still wasn’t sure what to make of Why. His charisma was extraordinary, but there was something about him that made Kevin uneasy, and he felt a surge of loyalty to Doctor How. He chose his words carefully. “Your cousin told me you’re a wastrel and a rake.” Why let out a rich cackle. “Oh, he did, did he? I say, how absolutely wonderful. We never did see eye-to-eye on the material trappings of life. In fact, you could say he’s more of a Trappist .” Why threw back his head and roared with laughter. That, at least, told Kevin that he knew something that Why didn’t know: that How was no longer a ‘he’. “With respect, Mister Why, I can see his point. You’re like some kind of throwback.” “Throwback? How very dare you,” said Why in a teasing tone. “The male of the species has always been the superior of the two sexes. And if you know your natural history, you’ll know that we’ve always been the ones to display. The peahen is a drab creature compared to the peacock . The lioness has no mane and it is the stag which grows the most spectacular antlers. For all your culture’s angst about equality, there are a dozen Jim Morrisons for every Janis Joplin and a score of Jay-Zs to every Beyoncé. You can’t defy nature, sunshine. Teenage male fans don’t scream and faint when in proximity to the object of their adoration.” “I have to give you credit for being more up to date with popular culture than your cousins,” said Kevin. “But aren’t there female insects and spiders that kill the male after mating and then eat them?” “Touché, Kevin. Why, yes, there are. But arthropods are a whole different ballgame, baby. Personally, I’m not sure I trust any creature that chooses to wear its skeleton on the outside. Are you? A permanent coat of armour says about as much as you need to know about their emotional capacity, don’t you think?” “Well, I…” Why snorted. “Oh, don’t tell me you think you’re bosom buddies with that shape-shifting carnivore that my cousin uses to plug his obvious



inadequacies?” “Trinity’s a strong and courageous individual,” said Kevin hotly. “Exactly my point. You get me, bro ’?” Kevin glowered at the implied insult to Doctor How. Why laughed, and continued. “And what was I saying about the emotional capacity of hardshelled creatures? I can’t think of a better-matched pair.” He threw his head back and laughed again. “You said,” spat Kevin, “that you wanted some answers. So why don’t you just start asking me some questions and be done with it?” “I think I’ve got you down as having an exoskeleton, son. The three of you must make for a good team.” Kevin jumped to his feet, fists clenched. “That’s it, I’ve really had enough. Doctor How and I have a major emergency on our hands. You’re getting in my way and putting lives at risk, Mister Why.” Why clapped slowly and sarcastically. “Bravo, Kevin. I admire your loyalty, really I do. And it’s not like having a doctorate marks you out as anything special in my view. And as for science, I view it as a servant and not a master. “But now that you’re on your feet, what’s your next move, Earthman? Walk out the door into… what? You don’t even know where and when I’m parked up right now, do you? I might not even be in your four crummy little dimensions, in which case – whump – you distort in a most awfully uncomfortable and fatal way. Even if we’re somewhere you can exist, who’s to say there’s oxygen? Or even an atmosphere at the right pressure? You might boil away or be crushed.” “So you’re in the business of kidnapping? Is that how you achieved your success with the ladies?” Why’s face set into a stern expression that discomfited Kevin. “Rather a low blow. But since you make the accusation, I must rebut it. I would never stoop to that level with a woman. I never needed to and never will. The ladies want to be with me, and the men want to be me. I can’t help that. “What I’m trying to get into your thick skull is that you’re rather out of your depth here, sunshine. You’d do well to remember that you were just an ordinary Joe up until dear Cousin How plucked you from obscurity. And don’t pretend he’s not held the threat of instant insignificance over your head, because I know he has.” Kevin felt his face flush, and knowing that Why had seen his reaction



made him all the angrier – at Doctor How and himself. “You might have been an invincible comic-book superhero an hour ago, but without the Time Keepers and our technology you’re still just Kevin Thomson from Tulse Hill. The Met Police and MI6 could bang you up and throw away the key. God alone knows what the Americans would do. Don’t you ever forget that.” “No,” said Kevin, feeling as deflated as if he’d had a dressing-down from his mother. Why motioned at him to sit back down, and he did. “Good. Now tell me why some jumped-up droid tried to vaporise me?” “I’m sorry?” “After you tried to play baseball – or more likely cricket, given your heritage – with the deadly droid, it came to pay me an unwelcome visit in Mayfair. Someone less generous than me might be inclined to pin the blame for that one on you. Fortunately, I’m always a bit more understanding with my attribution of causality.” “It was your home?” “Reports of your mental acuity seem to have been exaggerated.” “You weren’t killed or injured?” “If your grey matter were any denser it would undergo gravitational collapse.” “No need to be rude. It’s just that –” “It’s just that the other Time Keepers you’ve met are a bit hopeless, or – to use your vernacular – pants . Cousin How? Oh, we’ve been there. Requires a ferocious carnivore to do his dirty work. Cousin Where? Where to begin, if you pardon my pun. Abused and then abandoned his Spectrel. Borderline alcoholic, heavy smoker and a type two diabetic by now – unless he’s changed his ways. Sank so low that he thought that becoming King of the Cabbies was a career advancement – until he wasn’t even capable of being a decent cabbie. Looked past his sell-by date back in the fifties, frankly. And as for Cousin When? When indeed? Probably never.” “Pretty arrogant, aren’t you? Think you’ve got it all sorted.” “No. I don’t think I’ve got it all sorted, Kevin,” said Why in a low growl. “I know I’ve got it all sorted.” He nodded his head to the area in front of his desk. As Kevin had come to expect, a 3D projection appeared. It showed the exterior of a four-storey townhouse in a Mayfair street, built of the dark purple brick popular in the late eighteenth century. Kevin’s mind boggled at



how much the property must be worth. From somewhere above there was a dazzling surge of energy, which was reflected, absorbed or dissipated – Kevin couldn’t be sure which. But despite the countermeasure, the passage of the energy through the air caused the kind of explosion he’d seen in the clouds. This time, its proximity to the ground blew out a few windows in neighbouring buildings and caused the glass in expensive nearby cars to shatter into opaque green-white sheets, as if they were blinded creatures. “Ouch,” said Kevin. “Not as bad as the US embassy, you must admit. Nevertheless, a lossadjuster’s nightmare. Act of God? Terrorism? Natural phenomenon? Anyway, you can see I’m far from helpless. And at least my place wasn’t damaged, so the cops aren’t interested in it.” “And the robot – did you get it?” “I let it go.” “What ?” “I need to know who sent it. We need to know. I need to be able to join some dots. I need answers, and I need them now. Above all else, I need to understand why . Don’t you get it?” “But that thing’s back on the loose. It’s obviously got a hit list and it’s not going to stop until everyone on it is dead.” “Oh, really ? Please, do tell me more.” “You mean you didn’t know about…?” Why shook his head slowly. “But you’re a Time Keeper. And you had the cheek to accuse other Time Keepers of being hopeless.” “I didn’t say I was doing the same job as dear Cousin How, did I?” “Oh. I see. You can dole out the criticism, but you don’t take the responsibility. You’re just another one of the Time Keepers who left Doctor How to hold the fort.” “He loves it,” said Why. “Can’t keep his nose out of it.” “Just for the record, he’s spent the last five decades battling it out alone against the forces of evil whilst you’ve been… glamming it up!” Kevin gestured towards the celebrity photographs. “And it’s little wonder why he needed Trinity if you all left him to do the job on his own.” “Yawn, yawn,” said Why. “The threats have been overstated, and what’s good or evil is a matter of perspective. We could argue all day about whose responsibility it is to do what, if anything. If you tell me what this current threat is, then maybe I can do something about it. But from what you’re



saying, I understand there’s a definite and proximate threat. What bothers me is why my personal dwelling is higher on that target list than How’s.” “Well, it’s obvious that your sudden interest is only down to you wanting to save your own skin.” “You could argue that, Kevin. But your skin is also well and truly in the game. What I want to know is why . Why are you and I ranked higher on the death list than How, who has been doing nothing but antagonise everyone in the Pleasant universe for decades?” “You’re right,” said Kevin. “Why would someone put me in the same class as a low-life womaniser like yourself? It’s rather insulting.” “Envy will destroy you, Kevin. Don’t pretend that power and status have no meaning to you. Now, tell me who else this thing has killed.” Kevin thought hard, but could see no reason not to divulge what he knew, and told Why in detail about the two previous killings. The Time Keeper sat back and thought quietly. “Why would some alien species more advanced than humans come after three pretty ordinary young men? And, having failed to kill you, why would it do what it did?” He took a puff of his pipe. “The airliner is incidental to this, and I’ll tell you why. If it had been a target, it would have been annihilated. The robot’s previous killings have been covert and apparently low-value individuals – not overt and politically charged status symbols like the embassy. This smacks of desperation in the wake of a mistake or two. My guess is that the American embassy was hit either because it housed another human target on its hit list, or because it would draw you and How out. It can’t have been the latter because you took it completely by surprise. Having failed there, it went to its next target. My guess is that it didn’t know that I am a Time Keeper, or I doubt it would have dared to attack. This is all about my human persona.” “Which is what, exactly?” asked Kevin . “Warning: gravitational collapse of grey matter. For heaven’s sake, look around you and join a few dots. I’m in the entertainment industry, baby .” “Like, I can see that. But what part?” “Any part that makes me some filthy moolah. I follow trends and cash in. I’ll take anything you’ve got – any old rubbish – and turn it into gold.” “Huh. I thought it was Doctor Who that got into the entertainment industry by selling his story.” “He didn’t have the contacts. To be honest, I started milking it long before the boys broke up in ’sixty-three. I made a few contacts in the propaganda



unit during the war and I was away. Gave one of the guys the idea for The Man in the White Suit .” “The film with Alec Guinness. Doctor How told me about that. He said the title role was based on him.” “So much for his lack of an ego, eh Kevin? Damned hypocrite. The title role was based on his suit , and not his character.” “Your career choice seems a bit of a waste of a good mind, not to mention all your resources.” “Whatever do you mean?” “Just being an impresario.” “I was never just an impresario, Kevin.” There was a chill in Why’s voice. “I’m a brief.” “A brief?” “A lawyer, sunshine. What better profession for the type of mind that’s interested in why? Don’t you get it?” “But someone who’s interested in why… Wouldn’t they go into philosophy?” “If you’re going to spend your life arguing, my view is that you ought to be paid handsomely for it. The pauper’s pay of a philosopher doesn’t cut ice with the chicks. At least not the ones I like. As for the sartorial options – a beard, glasses and a jacket with leather elbow-pads – spare me!” “Okay. I get it now. Really, I totally get it. You’re a ruthless self-centred narcissist.” “Your description is harsh but fair. I find new talent and tie it up. Not enough to strangle it, but tight enough to squeeze every last drop of money out.” “And enjoy all the material trappings of the lifestyle without the inconvenience of the fame.” “Got it in one. Danger of gravitational collapse in grey matter over.” “I’d hate to come up against you, but I’ve got serious reservations about being on the same side as a sleazeball like you.” “Spare me your moralising, Kevin. I think you’ll find your boss has had his share of dubious behaviour.” “Only because he’s been pushed into hard choices. You’ve made a lifestyle out of it.” Why got to his feet and began walking around his control room. “But I’ve made life so much fun for everyone else, Kevin! I put the swing into the



sixties and the cool into Britannia. I’ve even used a big dollop of my capital to invest in this country’s video gaming industry, which I know you’ve enjoyed. This sceptred isle would be set in a sepia sea, were it not for me. Think of all the entertainment, the enjoyment, the joy, the laughter, the thrills and spills! Cousin How is so square he makes a Puritan minister look like Mick Jagger.” “There was something else Doctor How told me. He said he held you responsible for the split. You fanned the flames.” “Never let it be said that my cousin had enough emotional intelligence to forgive.” “I can guess what happened now. It was you who put Doctor Who up to selling his story to the BBC, wasn’t it?” “What if it was?” “That blew the whole thing, that’s what!” “Doctor Who has brought pleasure to millions in the last half-century. Not to mention all the licencing income it’s made for the BBC. Do you know how much the foreign rights have made for this country? Then there are the spinoffs – Torchwood , and dear old Sarah Jane and her Adventures . I still timetravel to visit her, you know. Dear, dear lady. Alas, taken too young.” He touched an autographed portrait of the actress on the wall. He spun around again. “Then there are the figurines – think of the hours of creative play – and not to mention the conventions, where retired actors may make a decent income. Would you wish that all away, Kevin?” “Think of all the millions, alright. All the millions that you’ve pocketed .” “Whatever How says, it’s been the perfect cover for him. All hidden in plain sight.” “You took advantage of a man suffering from a serious mental illness. You exploited Who.” “I allowed a sick individual to generate a good income without too much stress. Would you rather my cousin Who was unemployed and homeless? He could have no future as a Time Keeper. Indeed, he was a liability. Did How tell you about his brother’s near up-ending of the time lines over the Kennedy assassination?” Kevin spluttered with rage. “For every argument, there is an equal and opposite argument. It is one of my fundamental laws.” “But can’t you see that if you’d even had half your mind on your job as a



Time Keeper then you might not be facing this threat to your life?” “Listen to yourself. You sound like a school principal.” “Will you please stop sniping and arguing and just help?” “So long as you bear in mind that the world is not black and white, and that there are more perspectives than there are individuals, and you agree to cut me a bit of damned slack.” “You drive a hard bargain.” “And that, sunshine,” Why flashed a bright smile, “is what makes me the most successful lawyer in the industry. Now sign here.” He spread out a sheet of paper on his desk . “What the hell is this ?” “A contract covering your agreement to cut me some slack. It also appoints me as your sole manager and agent for a thirty percent fee, if I think your story’s worth selling, with a break clause at five years.” He put a fountain pen in Kevin’s hand. Kevin opened his mouth but no words came. “Come on, sunshine. Put your John Hancock on it.” “This is outrageous.” Why shrugged. “Of course.” “Thirty percent! Five years!” “Better thirty percent of something than a hundred percent of nothing. What’s How promised you? Word on the street is that you’ve been given a contract of some sort, but I bet it still pays peanuts. None of his old assistants used to get a penny. He told them he was teaching them valuable life-skills, and that virtue was its own reward. Cobblers to that, eh?” Why leaned closer, and Kevin could smell the acrid tobacco on his breath. “I could make you rich, son. And famous.” “I don’t want fame and fortune,” said Kevin. “I just want to get the job done, and done well.” “If I’m your manager, then I’m more inclined to look after your interests – to weigh in and help you when you’re in trouble. Aren’t I? Sign it.” Kevin picked up the pen and scribbled his signature. “Excellent. That puts our relationship on a more formal level. Now, let’s pay the monk a visit.” “He lives life more simply because it makes his choices easier. He can then devote more time and energy to his work. Which he has more of since the rest of you bailed on him.”



“He lives that way because he’s anti-social and a bore. Despite all his positively laudable work in defending the Pleasant universe, he’ll never win a popularity contest.” “It’s not about popularity. It’s about results.” “I wonder if you really do become a school principal later in life. You show all the sociopathic and moralistic lack of vision. ” “I asked you to give it a rest.” “You agreed to cut me some slack.” “Not this much. Now, how do we get in touch with the Doctor?” “Clicking your heels together three times isn’t going to work, toots. I’ll alert his Spectrel. I’m quite sure he knows where you are. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find that it was him who turned the droid on me? Now park your arse and let’s get going.” The sun was setting on the robot’s bad day as it hovered a couple of miles above London. The streetlights were coming on, and the Thames was a silvery-blue ribbon through the centre. It looked peaceful and harmless, but to the robot it was an inexplicably hostile terrain for which it had been unprepared. It was annoyed. The question it was digesting was whether to continue its attacks in London, or to change its priority list and head for easier targets. The algorithm concluded that, after three failed terminations in a single day in a single city, it had to move back to targets lower on the list.



Three miles above Moscow, the robot observed the activity below with quiet satisfaction. It had been a clean kill. It knew that Atruk’s arrival was now imminent, and that it had to impress him. This last kill would surely excuse it from the three aborted missions. The two-hour time difference with London had meant that it had been completely dark. The target’s window had been open to let in the cool night air after a stifling summer’s day with the sun’s glare on the cheap Communist-era concrete. She’d been concentrating hard on her computer and not noticed the robot as it had landed silently on the window sill and then lowered the front of its protective cover. The apartment was a dozen storeys from the ground and, with its recent experience in mind, it decided that it wouldn’t dig in to resist the force of the blast. Instead, it could use it as a means of rapid escape. Everything checked out for the target’s ID. He could even see the target’s name on her computer screen. There was no need to ask questions before shooting this time. The human had turned around when she heard the little whine as the blaster powered up. She sat open-mouthed and transfixed when she saw the red glow of the robot’s eyes glaring back at her from the windowsill. The last thing Olga was conscious of was a sudden flash before the bolt of energy reduced her to atoms. She was a petite woman, so the explosion itself was much smaller than Grant’s had been. However, the living room of her apartment was tiny, and the confined space meant that the force of the blast was more concentrated. The robot was blown backwards several hundred feet, crashing through the window of an apartment in a block opposite and into a television set. It was able to exit seconds later through the window it had broken, leaving behind a traumatised family of four. It emerged to see that the target’s apartment was now completely open to the elements, the last traces of Olga dispersing into the night air. Now it received a faint signal which had been bounced off Earth’s socalled second moon Cruithne. It shot upwards, accelerating out through the



stratosphere, past satellites in low Earth orbit to a small ship beyond the orbit of the moon. The alien ship had arrived out of subspace a few hours earlier to a point behind the moon, away from prying human eyes and sensors. It had parked itself in an orbit which took it around the moon once every sidereal month, which meant that it was always on the side of the moon which faced away from Earth. Whilst it was invisible to the sensors of most civilisations, it wasn’t taking any chances. The ship had but a single occupant: the fearsome warrior called Atruk. He sat strapped into his pilot’s seat in full battle dress, not yet comfortable in the zero gravity environment, but ready for action. The robot entered through an airlock and floated out of its protective box. Atruk swivelled his seat to face it. “Report,” ordered Atruk. The robot downloaded its data onto the ship’s computer, including moving images of the three successful attacks. Atruk nodded appreciatively at the annihilation of the unarmed enemy warriors. “Your weapon logs do not tally with your report.” The robot spun its abdomen involuntarily then downloaded the files showing the unsuccessful attacks. “The one they call KevT1994 is a master of evasion. The other two have the luck or the protection of the gods. Unless there is something else we do not understand. Now, your logs still do not tally with what you have shown me. You fired your weapon three more times. Download the rest of your reports.” Atruk barked out this last order. The robot hesitated. It and Atruk were the only outpost of their civilisation in this part of the universe. In a nanosecond it considered and dismissed an alternative course of action. It downloaded the files showing the vaporisation of the three seagulls. Atruk watched silently as the jumbo jet took evasive action. The robot had thought its actions would be questioned and, as part of the debrief, showed Atruk video images from the human news services for that evening. There were graphics showing the supposed anti-aircraft attack on the airliner, then footage of damage to the American embassy, as well as to the street in Mayfair. There was widespread panic in the populace. Atruk watched the footage twice and sat back to consider. The robot twitched. After a long silence, Atruk spoke. “You have done well. You have sown terror into the hearts of the enemy. But it is clear that the targets in the



city called London are more sophisticated and better protected than our intelligence had led us to believe. We will need reinforcements – other ways to overwhelm their defences and destroy them. We must draw out the warrior called KevT1994 and his allies. But we are limited in what we can achieve because the portal to our home planet is closed until KevT1994 attacks us again. I pray to the gods of war that he makes his attack so that we may annihilate him.”



The soft furnishings of Why’s Spectrel vanished and Kevin found himself in the passenger seat of the Mini Cooper once more, heading through the evening traffic on the A23, up towards Streatham Hill. A couple of miles away his mother would be returning home from her shift, disappointed not to have him waiting there for her, no doubt itching to give him one of her characteristic hard talks about his lifestyle choices. “Could never stand the south London ’burbs myself,” said Why. “I’d rather this than the flat concrete of Tottenham, any day of the week.” “Oh, I’ll grant you that, old son. Streatham Hill used to be the West End of south London. I used to have a few acts down there. Tommy Trinder, for one. Loads of talent comes from Streatham. Roger Moore, for example, and even one of your Doctor Who actors.” “Who?” “Please, don’t let us get into one of those routines – they’re so tiresome. You meant to ask which one .” “That’s one thing you share with Doctor How, then. He’s also a pedant. Go on, then – which one?” “Precision is important in language, be it words or mathematics. Peter Davison. The fifth Doctor. Nineteen-eighty-one to ’eighty-four.” “I wasn’t even born.” “One day you’ll time-travel to a time before you were born.” The lights had just turned red as they hit the snarl of traffic at the junction with the south circular, and Kevin knew they’d be in for a long wait. But the lights turned suddenly to green again, catching the other drivers unaware, and Why was able to slip impossibly between the lines and cross just before the lights turned back to red. He grinned as Kevin glanced over at him. “I was, of course, the inspiration behind The Italian Job . The original, starring Michael Caine – not that abomination of a remake. We had terrific fun on the set.” “Yeah, I can see that: the Mini and the traffic lights. I’m sure they also based the theme song on you too; This is the Self Preservation Society . It sums up you and your priorities pretty well.” “Oh, miaow . In point of fact, that’s the chorus. The song is actually called



Get a Bloomin’ Move On . And it’s about getting washed and dressed smartly, ready for some well-oiled teamwork.” “Your cousin also said that the character of Austin Powers is based on you.” “And don’t tell me – he also said that Austin Powers is less of a joke.” He glanced over at Kevin, who knew this Time Keeper could read him like a book. “Like, I see what he means about the way you treat women.” “Most of them love it. Let a woman choose between a gentleman and a rogue and she’ll always choose the rogue – it’s a primal instinct and you’ll never conquer it.” After a few sharp turns, Why pulled the Mini onto the gravel in front of How’s house and stopped it with his handbrake and a jerk of the steering wheel. It slewed through a perfect hundred-and-eighty-degree skid within the length of the car; the rear wheels gouged a trough in the gravel, spraying stones into the plant border below the wall. “Ta-dah!” he said. “See that?” He pointed to the drive entrance. “Ready to go at a moment’s notice.” “I’m sure your cousin will be impressed.” “Young man!” came a voice from over the neighbouring wall. “I shall have to report you to the police if you persist in driving like a maniac.” Why was out of the car in a flash. “Mrs Roseby,” he said. “ What an absolute pleasure and delight to see you after all these years.” “Mr… Mr Wye . But I thought…” “I’d love to know what your secret is, Mrs Roseby. You’ve not aged a single day in all this time.” He put his hands on her shoulders and bent down to kiss her on both cheeks. “Why, Mr Wye. Oh, thank you. How simply wonderful to see you! My niece will be delighted to know that you’re still around.” Kevin was agog – the miserable old woman was visibly transformed. Although her wrinkles and grey hair remained the same, something had changed deep within her, and it showed through her posture and body language. “Lovely to see you too, my darling.” “Oh, Mr Wye. I don’t suppose you could have a word with Doctor How about this black cab that’s been left in the driveway?” “You know me, Mrs Roseby. I can’t make any promises, but I shall petition my cousin this very evening.”



“Oh, thank you . Are you staying long?” “A flying visit, I expect. Delivering back his assistant.” She gave Kevin a disdainful look. “In trouble with the police, I suspect!” “Au contraire , my dear Mrs Roseby. The young gentleman has been of great assistance to Her Majesty’s Constabulary.” “Gosh. Well, that’s a relief. Thank you for your assurance. I’ve been worried sick. All these comings and goings late at night. And today has been a complete nightmare. We had a jumbo jet practically knocking the chimneys off the roofs this morning. Then this afternoon there was some kind of attack on the new US embassy in Vauxhall. Someone let off a giant firework or something in Mayfair. My Albert has been quite perturbed.” “Your Albert can rest easy, Mrs Roseby. I’m sure he can’t understand the news on account of the fact that he’s a cat. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must call on my cousin.” “Cheerio, Mr Wye. Do drop in on me next time for a cup of tea and some cake. Give me enough notice and I’ll have my niece there too. She’d love to see you again.” “I shall look forward to it, Mrs Roseby. Give my love to your niece. Toodle-pip.” She went back into her house at a lively pace. “And for your next trick?” asked Kevin as he rang the doorbell, wondering how this reunion was going to go. He had to hide a smirk at the prospect. The outer door opened, letting them into the porch. “I’m sure you know the routine,” said Kevin. They raised their arms as the ultraviolet light bathed them. Why clasped the door handle but Kevin brushed him aside. “I think it might be better if I go in first.” He twisted the handle and opened the door cautiously. “Doctor?” he called. “Trinity? I’ve got your cousin Why with me.” The house was dark apart from a light at the end of the hallway. He saw the Doctor’s silhouette framed in the doorway to the kitchen, a single light on behind her. He couldn’t see Trinity, but knew she must be around somewhere. “Come in, Kevin. And you too, Frangan.” “Frangan ?” asked Kevin. “That’s the Gaelfrayan for Francis?” “You chose a rocket scientist for your latest assistant, Peter. How are you, old son? Aren’t you going to come and shake hands?” “I… think I have a little viral infection.”



“Cobblers. You can’t not know whether you have one or not. Not with your med-bots and not with Trinity. Which means you don’t have one.” “I’m just feeling a little delicate, that’s all.” “Cobblers. I want to know why you won’t come and greet me. Are you still angry about ’sixty-three and me helping your brother get a leg-up in the magical world of television? ” “You mean am I angry at you exacerbating his bipolar disorder and feeding his megalomania?” “Yes. That.” “I’ll take that as an admission of guilt. Of course I’m still angry.” “I gave him –” “A livelihood; that’s how you justify it to yourself. What you really mean is enough of a living to pay for his medical expenses and care.” “To keep him in comfort. He’d be living in a dumpster, carrying around bags of rubbish and talking to himself without that residual income. And it’s not like you were going to take care of him, is it?” Why took a small step to his left. “I have my job to do. I run a tight ship.” “You haven’t even visited him these last five decades. At least I write to him regularly and see him once a year.” “Sending royalty statements and getting him to sign legal documents hardly counts as compassionate,” the Doctor spat out the words. “My thoughts are always with him. He knows that. He’s my twin: my own flesh and blood. I can’t bear to think of him in that condition.” “But you’re still holding this against me after five decades?” “Of course.” “Flaming Norah. You hold grudges like a woman, Peter.” “That, Frangan, is a sexist comment. I do not allow them in my Spectrel or in my home.” Why turned to Kevin. “See what I’m up against? He needs talking therapy.” He took another step, slightly bigger this time. Kevin opened his mouth to agree but caught himself. “Doctor How is suffering from the effects of stress. And, uh, I think it made him have a kinda tough regeneration.” “That would explain it,” said Why. “Or at least some of it.” “Guys,” said Kevin. “We have a situation here. We can’t afford any high profile attacks like the one on the US embassy. We can’t have human



military and intelligence taking an interest in all of this.” “It’s my job to meet this threat,” said the Doctor. “I just don’t want it turned into a Hollywood blockbuster or a West End musical.” “That’s an idea,” said Why. “If they can make Bend it Like Beckham into a musical then we can do it with this franchise.” “I said no!” The Doctor stamped her foot. “Keep your hair on, Peter, I was only joking.” Why took another step and flicked on the lights. Doctor How gasped and covered her face with her hands. This had the effect of pushing forward her chest. “Peter!” gasped Why. “You… You regenerated as –” “A female Time Keeper, Frangan,” said Doctor How, dropping her hands and glaring down the hallway at her cousin. “Have you any objections to me being one of what you would regard as the weaker or fairer sex?” “I –” “Because I can assure you I’m no weaker, dear cousin. And I’m certainly not in the mood to be any fairer.” “I didn’t mean to –” “And I won’t take any of your sexist behaviour. Is that understood?” “Peter, I mean. Wow. I thought I heard something in your voice, but… Wowser.” “It’s still me underneath. It’s just a regeneration.” “Did you have any idea it was going to happen?” “Not an inkling.” “I was just wondering. What with – you know – a male assistant.” “Oh, to balance out me being a woman, you mean? I told you I have a zero tolerance policy for sexism.” “Woah! Chill out, baby.” Doctor How fixed him with a cold stare. “I mean, relax, Peter. I’m just trying to get my head around this. It’s never happened before. Do the others know?” “No. Only you so far. ” “And, um. Is everything. You know…?” “If you’re referring to the completeness of the change, then yes. I am – how can I put it? – plumbed differently now. Even my hormones are different.” “Good grief. It must have been a shock.” “Thank you for your concern. It is taking some adjustment. I am hoping



that it will give me a new perspective on the world.” “I’ll say. By the way, may I be the first to say that you look fabulous?” “What?” “I said you look fabulous, Peter. Really, you do.” Why’s voice had become a purr. “Oh. Oh, why thank you, Frangan. Francis. That’s very kind of you to say so.” “Not at all, my dear lady. Now, I propose we all get comfortable whilst we put our heads together and talk about what we’re going to do about this problem we have.” “That would be very civilised. Let’s use my Spectrel. It’s secure.” “One thing before we do. I did promise Mrs Roseby that I’d mention the problem of the black cab in your drive.” “Oh, did you?” She searched Why’s face. “Well that’s Where’s terrestrial transport. Not much I can do about it, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint your lady-friend. You always over-promised to the women in your life. I do hope you’re not going to disappoint me on this mission.” “I’d hate to disappoint you, Peter. Sincerely, I would.” Trinity dropped down from the ceiling, where she’d been camouflaged in her spider form. “Good girl,” said Why, warily. Trinity regarded him with her eight eyes and remained silent. Doctor How led the way down to the basement, with Kevin behind Why and Trinity bringing up the rear. How’s Spectrel stood glowing in the corner as a red telephone box. Why shook his head. “I could never understand you, Walter and your brother using bits of street furniture, rather than an actual vehicle.” “Classic British design. Authority. The permanence of street furniture. Besides, aren’t Minis made by BMW these days?” “Still a British design classic, Peter. Rock ‘n’ roll with front-wheel drive. A revolution in motoring. But you’re right – only the Germans could save British engineering from British management.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m glad they’re getting on now.” “Like cousins should,” said Why. “Cousins who are prepared to work.” Doctor How stepped into her Spectrel, followed by Why and Kevin. When Trinity entered, she came in as her feline form and gave a miaow to signal her



presence. “Still the same o–” began Why, before he saw the ghost orchid. “That’s a lovely touch, Peter.” He strolled over to the log in the bowl of water and sniffed the bloom. “I knew there was good taste lurking somewhere deep within you. I’m glad it’s finally surfaced.” “Why, thank you,” said How. “Hold your horses,” said Kevin. “Your Spectrel’s like some hideous bordello. I swear part of it had flock wallpaper. It’s such an awful clash that the taste police would have to report it as a crime scene.” “Says the boy in jeans and a hoodie,” sneered Why. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said How. “Let us –” There was an alert from the control panel, but it was Why who was there first. “My own Spectrel directing emergency messages to a male of the species instead of me!” said How. “It’s not that, Peter. It’s one of my own people. She’s been vaporised." “What? Who’s been vaporised?” Why made a motion and the area in front of the control panel came alive with a series of 3D projections and rolling data, including a map. “Is that –?” asked Kevin. “Moscow,” said Why. “Oh, damn. There’ll be hell to pay for this. Poor Olga.” The Spectrel had a bird’s eye view of an apartment block which had a gaping hole in the side. Emergency services busied themselves around it. “Don’t worry. They’ll just blame it on Chechens, or something,” said Kevin. “That’s what worries me,” said Why. “The Russians are so blasted paranoid. Not that they’re averse to assassinating on an extra-judicial basis.” “What are you doing with an assistant in Moscow?” asked How. “Not an assistant. More of a freelancer for one of my businesses.” “What was it she did?” “Gaming. She was my little mole.” “Hacker, you mean,” said Kevin. “Pot calling the kettle black, Kevin,” said How. “Do continue, Francis.” “Not the kind of hacking that you’re thinking of, Kevin. She would find little shortcuts in programs. Gaming programs. She was fantastic. Those are worth a lot of money to the right people.” “Too right,” said Kevin. “Did she buy and sell stuff in Second Life too?”



“Yeah, she did a bit of that. But her most important role was being my eyes and ears for the latest hits. I’d be able to get in on the action early.” “Rather than just travel forward in time and see?” How looked at Why for his response. “I’m sure Peter has told you about how it can mess up the timeline if you start making investment decisions. We’re forbidden. Everything I’ve done has been above board.” “I’m glad to hear that you’ve not committed the cardinal sins of some of our relatives.” “How could I, Peter?” “True.” “What do you mean?” asked Kevin. “He means,” said Doctor How, “that the pair of us are special.” “Oh, yeah?” said Kevin. “How so?” “We are the two Time Keepers specifically concerned with causality, Kevin. How and Why are the two most powerful questions one can ask.” “I mean, at the end of the day, Who cares?” said Why with a wry smile. “Or What,” said How. “Or When, if you can time-travel.” “And Where is just a place,” said How. “How did it happen, and Why?” These are fundamental questions to which all the others are ancillary.” “Of course, the others don’t necessarily see it that way,” said Why. The two Time Keepers looked at Kevin, smiling. “You are a pair of smug gits,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out it was the pair of you who were really twins.” “There wouldn’t have been a womb strong enough to contain us,” said How. “You mean there wouldn’t have been one big enough for your heads – or your egos. You’re two sides of the same coin. I can see what it is now, Doctor. You’re as conceited as Why is. And just as arrogant.” “How dare you, Kevin?” “Leave him, Peter. I gather he’s saved your skin on a couple of occasions.” “Young men like you are two a penny, Kevin,” said How. “Now that you’ve both polished each other’s egos, can we please get on with this?” Kevin turned to Why. “If you’re so clever, can you now tell me why the robot is targeting the pair of us?” “I should have thought it was obvious. It’s the world of gaming. All four of you humans are keen gamers.”



“Yes, but why you? How could it possibly have known about you?” “Through Olga, I suspect.” “No. No, I get it now. There’s a player called Y. That’s you. You game yourself, don’t you?” Why looked uncomfortable, glanced over at How and cleared his throat. “I just dabble.” “Just dabble? You have got to be kidding me. You’re a legend . I was stunned when you turned up in a game I was playing a few weeks ago.” “Despite what you said about my ego, I have to admit that –” “But you’re still not telling us why , damn you,” said How. “Well, it could be professional jealousy.” “You’re clueless,” said Kevin. “The pair of you. Let me ask you a series of questions.” The two Time Keepers shifted uneasily. “Not only do we not know Why we’re being targeted, but we don’t know Who is targeting us. Nor do we know What, exactly, is targeting us.” How raised her hand. “You’ve seen it, Kevin, it’s a droi–” “Exactly What kind of droid, sent by Who?” Kevin asked. “By whom,” corrected How. “Sorry,” she said, as Kevin fixed her with a stare. Kevin continued. “We don’t know Where it’s from. What the motive is, we don’t know. We don’t even know When this mission started, or When it will finish.” How and Why looked sheepishly at Kevin, then at their feet. “And neither the King nor the Queen of Causality can provide the answers as to Why or How it’s happening. So you’ll forgive me if I feel a lack of confidence in your joint leadership of this operation at the present time.” “I’m not myself at the moment, Kevin,” said How. “You know that. ” “And I’m a little out of practice. Bit rusty.” Why got his pipe out but How put her hand sternly on his and he pocketed it again. “I simply must have a smoke,” he said. “I can’t think without my pipe. Could you create a temporary smoking room?” “Most certainly not. I will not create a new room anywhere in my Spectrel to accommodate that kind of activity.” “Still your obsessive self underneath, Peter.” Why turned to Kevin. “You wouldn’t believe some of the rooms he’s created to hold stuff. He’s got some mates called Tim, you know, and they’re toxic to everything in the Pleasant universe. He won’t allow smoking and yet –” “He lets them stay for free in the basement of a property in Tooting,” said



Kevin. “Tim are mates of mine too. They might be toxic, but they’re the bravest out-of-towners I know.” Why regarded Kevin with what he hoped was a little more respect. “Right. I see. Well I’ll have to go outside for a smoke, if anyone would care to join me.” “I suppose we’ve enough to think about,” said How. “If we’re going back to my place I’ll whistle up a meal whilst you feed your addiction. Kevin, you can brush up on your Squill.” They left the Spectrel and returned to How’s kitchen. Why went out to smoke and Kevin turned on his tablet. The talk of all the gaming had made him itchy for a game of Rorrim . He logged in, and notified his reduced circle of friends that they could have a quick ten-minute game. He used his earphones to keep the sound down as he and a couple of friends blasted their way around the alien landscape. The Doctor called that dinner was ready, and Why came back in from the garden, carrying with him a rich aroma of pipe smoke. “It does smell rather alluring, I must admit,” said How. “I’ve never thought about it before, but it does go with your outfit too.” “Pipe smoker of the year, 1971,” said Why. “You’re not in very good company,” said How . “Magnus Magnusson and Stephen Fry,” said Why. “Harold Wilson and Tony Benn,” countered How. “And wasn’t that idiot Wilson made Pipe Smoker of the Decade? I’m quite sure he was a Dolt for the way he governed the country.” Why looked around to change the subject. “What’s that, Kevin? Rorrim ?” Kevin was writing his name on the score and taking his earphones out. “Yeah, surprised you know about it. Some kinda beta test. Invitation-only.” “Of course I know about it. My gaming division is backing that beauty. Going to be a big hit. Goes on to a pre-release a couple of days from now. Worldwide launch a couple of days after that.” “I’ve not seen any advertising for it.” “Doesn’t need it, son. It’s going to be a viral smash. I can feel it. It’s going to take the world by storm.” Doctor How served them steaming plates of spaghetti bolognaise and sat down. “I was thinking about your reintroduction into the out-of-town community, Francis.” Why took a mouthful of food. “Absolutely delicious, Peter. Go on.”



“Thank you. There’s a party tonight to mark the appointment of a new Rindan consul.” “Yet another Rindan consul, you mean? I’ve heard they’re going through them at quite a rate.” “Yes, quite.” The Doctor cleared her throat and gave a little titter. “Some in the community are holding me responsible for this series of terrible misfortunes. I mean, anyone can see that introducing an alien carnivorous species into your own home is asking for trouble. Indeed, it caused a great deal of trouble for the rest of us – even the human population. Didn’t it, Kevin?” “Yeah. It was a nightmare.” “So what are you proposing, Peter?” “I don’t know where Where is. As for When – well, you’d never get him along to one of these things. So… ” “You’d like me to accompany you to the party?” “If you’d do me the honour, yes.” “Woah!” said Kevin. “Like, are you sure you’re ready for this, Doc?” “Whatever are you saying, Kevin?” asked How. “I mean, you’re only just – how can I put it – getting comfortable with your new identity. And as far as I understand it, the Rindan stuff means you have to… you know, take your clothes off.” “And?” “Are you quite sure you’re ready for that?” “The lad’s got a point, Peter.” “There is no point in hiding my new incarnation. Given that the female is the dominant sex in Rindan culture, it may prove to be a blessing in disguise.” “Well…” said Kevin. “Out with it,” said How. “You may have the body of a woman, but…” “If certain subcultures of humans can effect a convincing show, then I’m sure a good shave and a little makeup from the house-bots will suffice. Along with a wig. Francis, being of the entertainment business, you can help me, I’m sure. I mean, I don’t mind if you don’t mind.” “Yes,” said Why. “I’d be… delighted, Peter. Really delighted.” “It will be a show of force. Of intent,” said How. “The old team are coming back. We’ll right all the wrongs and protect the weak.”



“I’ll drive,” said Why. “Marvellous. Come, help me get ready in the Spectrel.” “Am I coming along?” asked Kevin. “You, young man, must stay and guard the fort like the brave warrior that you are.” How gave him a patronising pinch of the cheek. The two Time Keepers left the kitchen. No sooner had their footsteps disappeared into the basement than he heard them trotting back upstairs, the Doctor’s voice excited. The door opened and Doctor How appeared in a black number – not a little one, but small enough. She had shoulder-length brown hair. Her face was made up tastefully, with just enough lipstick and mascara. “Wow!” said Kevin. He would have had difficulty recognising her if he’d walked past her in the street. A wave of expensive perfume wafted into the kitchen with her. “Heels were a bit difficult,” she said, examining her flat black shoes. “Besides, I’m quite tall as it is.” Why grinned from behind her. “She’s got the X Factor, hasn’t she, Kevin? She’ll knock ’em dead.” “This is a whole new chapter in Time Keeper history,” said How. “A chance for a fresh start. History made. The last half-century of doldrums blown away by the winds of change. Come on, Francis, let us away.” She turned and left the kitchen. Kevin heard her footsteps go down the hall, following Why’s. “Don’t wait up!” she called. “We may be in for a bit of action tomorrow. And stay out of trouble.” The front door banged shut and the house suddenly seemed very empty. The smell of the Doctor’s perfume hung in the air. Kevin turned to Trinity, who looked at him and gave a giant miaow . “No,” Kevin said, “I’m not sure about it either. But it is what it is and we have to roll with it.” Trinity jumped up onto the seat next to his and purred as he stroked her head. He turned his tablet back on and considered another game of Rorrim but his heart wasn’t in it. “Bedtime, Trin. You heard the lady – we might be in for some action tomorrow.” He made his way up to his room and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He thought he heard something in the middle of the night, but couldn’t be sure. He saw Trinity’s eyes in the darkness of the bedroom and knew he was safe, whatever the threat. Reassured, he went straight back to sleep. He was woken by the sound of the front door closing, and heard the



unmistakable sputter of an old Mini coming to life, then the gravel being crushed as it drove out onto the road and was gone. Trinity looked at him and blinked. He checked his watch – it was just after six in the morning. He got up and wandered downstairs into the panelled hall, followed by Trinity. There was the faint whiff of Why’s distinctive aftershave and the smell of pipe tobacco. He and Trinity trotted downstairs into the basement, where the Spectrel stood. They looked at each other and entered. Again, there was a faint note of Why’s aftershave and pipe tobacco. They padded through the entrance to the rest of the Spectrel and down the corridor to the sleeping quarters until they reached the Doctor’s bedroom door. Kevin had only been into the room once, when he’d had to carry Doctor How to his bed before his regeneration. He looked down at Trinity, who looked back at him and made a small yowl , which he took to mean that he should open the door. He knocked gently and, receiving no reply, stuck his head through the door. Trinity dashed through the gap between his legs. The room was still the stark black and white décor. The wig was on the desk and the black dress was hanging over the back of the chair. The shoes had been kicked off and one of them lay on its side. Kevin knew the Doctor always set her shoes down carefully and neatly. There was a body under the covers on one side of the bed. But what sent a judder through Kevin was that someone had smoked a pipe in the room in the last few hours. “Doctor?” There was a moan from under the covers. When the Doctor’s naked arm reached across to the empty side of the bed, Kevin realised that the other side of the bed had been slept in. “Uh, Doctor? Are you alright?” “Mmm? Francis, is that you?” said the Doctor quietly. She giggled. “Did you bring some breakfast? You should have let the house-bots do it, you dear, silly thing.” “Erm... ” Trinity jumped up onto the bed and gave a loud miaow . The Doctor sat bolt upright, her duvet clasped across her chest for modesty. She had traces of smudged lipstick on her face, and her mascara was smeared around her eyes. “Kevin!” “Doctor!”



Doctor How looked around. “He’s gone.” “Who?” The Doctor looked at Kevin as if he was an idiot. “Francis. Oh, we had such a wonderful time last night, Kevin.” “Oh. My. God.” Kevin put his hands to his face. “You have got to be kidding me.” “You should have seen us, Kevin.” “Like, my imagination is in overdrive, Doc. And I’m trying to stop it, ’cos I’d really rather not go there.” “You have no poetry in your soul and no song in your heart, Kevin. Imagine the scene,” continued the Doctor breathily. “We were at the Out-ofTown club. None of that lot had seen two Time Keepers together since ’sixtythree. What with recent events, our demise had been written in the history books by those who would do us down. The two great Time Keepers walked into that party. You should have seen the stares.” “Well, the fact that you’d changed sex might have caused a few heads to turn, surely?” “I looked fantastic, Kevin. And Francis looked so handsome.” She stared off wistfully at the ceiling. “We make quite a couple.” “Um. Yeah. I get you.” He cleared his throat. “And did you have anything to drink?” The Doctor giggled. “You know I’m not a drinker, Kevin. And for good reason. But a girl can’t resist a glass of bubbly, can she?” “No,” Kevin said flatly. “Apparently she can’t.” “And we met the new Rindan consul. She is such a sweetie, Kevin. She showed me some holograms of her brood. They are absolutely gorgeous .” “I can imagine. Little pale things with veins showing through. And beaks?” “Yes! The cutest things.” “Great.” “And then the dancing started and the champagne flowed. I totally lost track of time.” “Which is completely unlike you. Especially since you’re a Time Keeper and we’re in the middle of a major unresolved problem involving a killer robot with a blaster loose on Earth.” “Oh, don’t worry about that . Francis is so smart. He’ll help us get that sorted out in next to no time.”



“Is that what he told you?” “He’s got a reassuring manly confidence about him, Kevin.” She eyed him. “You could learn a thing or two.” “Really,” said Kevin. “Could I?” “Yes. You have to cut people a bit of slack, for one thing. Sure, we might have an ongoing emergency, but it’s important to let your hair down and lighten up from time to time. Morale is so important. And,” she gushed, “if you show just how relaxed you are, it instils confidence in your abilities.” “What time did you get back in?” “Some ungodly hour. Francis’s Spectrel drove us back here.” “Ooo-kay. I get the picture.” “So where’s Francis? Is he outside in my kitchen in Streatham Hill making breakfast?” “I heard him leave at six. Just a few minutes ago.” “Oh. He didn’t say goodbye. I had… I had plans for today. A nice brunch, perhaps – you, me, Francis and Trinity. A pleasant stroll on Tooting Common for me and Francis if the weather was nice.” “Perhaps he didn’t want to wake you, Doctor?” “Yes,” the Doctor thought for a moment. “Or I suspect he’s rather busy. He’s got that launch coming up soon. He’s a tremendously astute businessman, you know, in his human persona. Terribly successful.” “Yeah. Maybe that’s it, eh Doc? He’s a bit busy right now. ’Course he is.” Kevin was somewhere between heartbreak for the Doctor and rage at Why. He also felt complete disbelief at the situation and was desperate to get on with the mission. “You’re not jealous, are you, Kevin?” The Doctor winked a smudged mascaraed eye at him. “No. Not at all. I’m very happy for you. For both of you. It’s just that we do have a job to do and we need to get cracking. The enemy will be regrouping.” “Relax, Kevin. Francis and I have it all in hand.” “Right. Of course you do.” He shook his head and turned to go. “I’d better let you get dressed and ready for action, eh?” “Give me half an hour. I’ve got a bit of a headache, to be honest.” “That’s what we mortals call a hangover, Doc. I just hope your head clears soon.” Kevin went and sat in the control room. He felt so dejected that he got out



his Sliver and started practising Squill. Trinity wandered slowly out of the living area and lay silently at his feet, the tip of her tail flicking in agitation.



Atruk was delighted, and broke into a battle song as he navigated the ship away from the small merchant vessel that was scheduled to deliver goods to the out-of-town community on Earth. The robot was as disconcerted as a battle robot could be. Part of it was that Atruk had shown a side of himself that the robot had not expected. He’d been positively jovial with the captain of the merchant vessel. And, rather than ask for money, he’d actually given the being a hefty bribe to take goods that the captain could then sell on to another out-of-town merchant on Earth. This was contrary to the robot’s basic understanding of commerce – not that it was a commerce robot. And the reason it had seen this was because it was told to play stupid whilst it was given to the merchant, who had examined it before handing it back to Atruk. All very strange. But now they were heading towards Earth, which loomed ever-larger in the pilot’s window. “You, little one,” said Atruk. “You are assigned back to assassination duties. I have larger targets. In the unlikely event that I fail in my mission, you will be in command.” The robot received its orders via the ship’s computer. New data had been received from their home planet, and the Time Keepers were firmly on the target list. Resigned to its fate, it got back into its protective cover and was expelled from the ship seconds later. It took stock of the situation. It was in low-Earth orbit, some fifty miles above London, where the sun was just coming up. A few hundred feet away it could see Atruk’s ship, which was no longer in stealth mode – though there were cultural and technological differences as to what counted as stealth mode. It was invisible to human technology, but was on the radar for any other species that had made the jump to interstellar travel. And, armed with the kind of weapon that was emerging from the belly of the ship, its pilot needn’t worry too much about being detected and challenged. The robot decided that putting itself in a different orbit to Atruk would be the most sensible course of action. As for assassination duties, it was relishing the chance to go back to London whilst Atruk was laying waste to



its key buildings. KevT1994 and its other targets were in for a surprise.



“Walter When!” said Kevin. “What are you doing here?” The bespectacled Time Keeper had just appeared where the 3D projections normally did, but to Kevin’s eye he looked solid. When spun around, looking flustered. “K-K-Kevin!” “What?” Kevin jumped up and ran over to him. “There’s t-t-t-terrible danger. Is P-P-Peter around?” “Um, she’s… She’s just getting dressed.” When’s eyes widened as his confusion and distress grew. “Walter, just tell me what it is.” “At-t-t-tack!” “Calm down. Who and when?” “I don’t know about him, but I’m here to help.” “No. Who is attacking?” “One of these bellicose tribes from the outer reaches of the Pleasant universe. Just one of them, I think. But he’s got a massive blaster and he’s attacking now!” “Stop. Just stop. Where’s he attacking?” “London! Now!” “Now? Now in what time zone? I mean, is now, now, or at some future now?” “Right now. In your present time line, Kevin.” “Why aren’t you doing something about it?” “I am , Kevin. I’m telling you.” “But you’re not –” “I’m doing this in the interstices.” “The what?” “I-i-it’s too complicated to explain, Kevin. But if this were one of your video games it’s as if I’d placed it on hold. But, to continue the metaphor, I can’t keep my finger on the hold button for too much longer. ” “Gotcha. So what do you want me to do?” “The alien has just fired its first pulse of energy at the Houses of Parliament.”



“Holy –” “I really can’t hold this much energy any longer, Kevin. It seems to have a trans-dimensional connection to wherever it came from. It can suck up almost unlimited amounts of energy from its base and obliterate targets. We have to do something.” There was the click of heels entering the room. Doctor How appeared in a black business skirt, white blouse and black jacket. “Kevin, get into your combat gear.” “P-P-Peter! You’ve changed!” “I’m still the same old me underneath, Walter.” “Oh, dear. I don’t like change, Peter. You know that.” “Fine. You will be working with Kevin. Kevin is still his usual sexist self.” “Hey –” A couple of house-bots entered the room with Kevin’s combat gear. He began to change into the kit. “Talk about gender stereotyping,” said Kevin. “Looks like the man will be doing the fighting again.” “Not to mention terribly brave,” said the Doctor with a trace of sarcasm. “The real tool in our armoury is dear cousin Why.” “He’s a tool alright,” said Kevin. “What do you mean by that?” “Nothing, nothing,” said Kevin, slipping on his combat boots. “Let me call him. I’m sure he’ll drop everything.” “Dropping everything again so soon?” said Kevin. “Shut your trap!” said How. She fiddled with the control panel and watched the space in front of it eagerly. “We do have to get a move on, Peter. I’m consuming so much energy at the moment.” “Yes, yes,” said the Doctor. She tweaked some of the dials and looked puzzled. “I can’t seem to get him.” “Why not?” asked Kevin . “He seems to be… disconnected.” “You mean his cosmic phone’s off the hook?” “Yes,” said the Doctor, hiding her obvious dejection. “Something like that.” “J-j-just the three of us, plus Trinity.” “Friends you can rely on,” said Kevin, quietly. “He’s busy,” said How firmly. “He has a big product launch on.” “More important than saving the world?” said Kevin.



“Enough, Kevin,” snapped the Doctor. “P-p-please. C-c-can we get a move on? Do you understand the urgency of the problem?” “My Spectrel briefed me. This alien craft has a transdimensional feed. God knows where it got that from. Impossible. Impossible . So long as it has that, it can just keep coming at us.” “P-P-Peter!” “I’m thinking, I’m thinking!” The Doctor drummed her shellac nails against the control panel. “Got it! You boys are going time-travelling. Walter, we’re going to use your museum.” “Oh, n-n-no. P-P-Peter. N-n-not my precious time-pieces. They’re p-ppriceless art-t-t-efacts.” “Yes! That’s what we’re going to do. I can hold it with my Spectrel and then we can use items from your collection of ancient time-pieces to draw it back in time. We can’t actually stop the attack, but we can minimise the impact. What do you think, boys?” “I h-h-hate it. F-f-for reasons I’ve already st-st-stated.” “I ain’t got a clue what you’re talking about, Doc. Will it work?” “Of course, it will work! It has to.” “That sounds like wishful thinking to me.” “Every plan has an element of luck. Now, both of you – off! And you, Trini – away with cousin When. ” “This is like the bleedin’ starship Enterprise ,” said Kevin, going to the projection area. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” said Doctor How. “I’ll be in constant touch via your head gear.” “Constant nagging, just what I need.” Before Kevin had finished his sentence he found himself in the gloomy interior of When’s Spectrel. Trinity gave a yowl . “I-i-if you’re hungry, the house-bots can get something for you, T-TTrini.” “I’m not sure they could give her the kind of meal she’s after. So what’s the plan, Walter?” The Time Keeper ushered his colleagues away from the 3D projection area. A projection of an alien ship in orbit around the Earth appeared. From its belly there projected a giant cannon-like weapon. At what was clearly the business-end of the weapon, the light from the background was warped by



the colossal amount of energy emanating from it. “So, like, you’ve got this thing on hold as it’s firing, yeah?” “Yes!” said When. “And it’s t-t-taking all of my Spectrel’s energy just to hold it there.” “And we are in this kinda non-space in time?” “Yes.” “So what’s the job?” “My Spectrel’s getting co-ordinates from Peter’s and it’s going to push us backwards in time and space.” “Yep. Gotcha.” “And then we’ll let the weapon discharge onto a pre-specified target once we’re there.” “Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.” “N-n-no, K-K-Kevin.” When looked at him hollow-eyed. The Time Keeper almost never made eye contact, and it unsettled him. “You have to go in and place an object from that exact era in there as a target.” “You freakin’ what?” “You heard me.” When rushed off into the dimness of the rest of the cabincum-museum. At first Kevin thought the man had run away from his responsibility, like others of his kind, leaving him with the mess to clear up and no instructions. But then he saw that When was dithering near a display table. He went over to join him. “I still don’t get it.” When was mesmerised by the half-dozen antique watches in the display case. “One of these beauties has to perish. It is from that era, but we have it here at the present moment. If we can get you back to another time, you can plant it there and we can get the energy blast to hit that time and place, thus keeping the event out of the present. Do you see?” “Like, vaguely… No. Hold on a minute. You guys are going to go screwing up the timelines if you do that.” “No, no,” said When. “You don’t understand.” “No surprise there.” “If we restrict the energy discharge to times and places where we know there was a significant discharge, then we will not adversely affect the time lines.” “Uh-huh. Whatever.” When opened the cabinet, closed his eyes and tried his best to choose a



watch at random. He opened his eyes and groaned. “Oh, my little precious.” “Bleedin’ Norah, Walter. You ain’t Gollum and this ain’t Lord of the Rings .” “Maybe, but the intensity of the energy is far greater than the Crack of Doom.” “Thanks for the reassurance. Now, where am I going?” “We are going to October the sixteenth 1834.” “Oh, yeah? What happened then?” “It’s when the Houses of Parliament burnt down.” “What? I thought we were avoiding that?” “They burnt down in 1834. You must have seen the picture hanging on my cousin’s wall? The one by J.M.W. Turner? It was a study for his later paintings. ” “Um. Yeah. I remember now. Coolio. So we just go back there, drop the watch off, retire to a safe distance and then watch the fireworks.” “I wish it were as simple as that, Kevin.” “Oh. I was hoping you wouldn’t say something like that. You’re more like your cousin than you think, you know.” “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or not.” “Yeah. I’m not sure whether it was an insult, a compliment, or an accusation. Sorry. Go on.” “Thank you. I shall.” Once again, Kevin was disconcerted by When’s oblivious nature to humour. “Due to the excessive amounts of energy involved,” When gestured at the projection of the alien ship and the warping of the space-time continuum around it, “I can’t manoeuvre too close. Certainly not within the target area; that is to say –” “The Houses of Parliament,” finished Kevin. “Exactly. My, you are a perceptive fellow.” “Think nothing of it. Your cousins don’t.” “So your job will be to take the artefact – that is to say, this timepiece – into the centre of the target area.” “Cracking. Not dangerous at all.” “Oh no, Kevin. It’s extremely dangerous.” “That was sarcasm.” “Oh. I see. So long as you understand the dangers.” “Probably better if I didn’t, to be honest.” “I’m not so sure.”



“In for a penny. Spill the beans.” “Well, it’s not just a question of you getting completely vaporised, unless you get out of the target area in time.” “Which was kinda my biggest fear.” “Indeed, which I can understand. But there’s also a danger you could get really tangled up in the – let me use a term that is within the human lexicon – oh, yes, time warp that lies behind this ship.” “I can’t see no time warp behind the ship. ” “That’s right. You’re only seeing it in your four dimensions of time and space. In that projection I can see the time warp trailing away in other dimensions. The Spectrel will now tweak the image so that it can be represented in your dimensions.” The projection changed. There was now a multi-coloured whirling trail spiralling away to the rear of the spaceship. “Wow.” Kevin walked over to it, and whatever angle he viewed it from the spiralling trail was always at right-angles to his point of view. “Amazing. I know people who’d pay a lot of money for something like this. Kinda psychedelic.” When was clearly frustrated. “It doesn’t look at all like that, you see. It’s in another dimension, so we have to project something akin to the shadow of it for you to be able to understand. My apologies.” “No worries.” Doctor How’s voice broke into the control room of When’s Spectrel. “Okay, boys. I do hope you’re ready. I can take over the interstitial stasis of the alien ship whilst you shoot off to the coordinates I’ve given your Spectrel. Let me just say that this would have been a great deal easier if another one of my cousins had been available.” “Be grateful Walter manned up to it,” said Kevin. “I am, I am. Are you ready, Kevin? You should be getting targeting information into your goggles now.” The lenses of Kevin’s goggles showed a map and a schematic of the old Palace of Westminster, including the Houses of Parliament. “Roger that one, Doc.” “By which I take it you mean yes.” “Just a little problem, guys. I’m dressed like a ninja, yeah? I need some period gear.” The Doctor laughed. “Oh, please . Do you really think I hadn’t thought of that? Even your Con-Bat, which is not Time Keeper technology, will



transform into a walking stick for disguise once it detects the style around it. As for your suit… well, that’ll take care of itself. ” “Reassuring,” said Kevin. “Totally reassuring. What could possibly go wrong?” “Oh, lots could go wrong,” said When. “This is a terribly complex and dangerous mission.” “That’s enough, thank you, Walter,” said How. “Okay, stand by. I will be making the stasis transfer in three. Two. One.” Kevin had braced himself and shut his eyes. He opened them to find nothing at all had changed. “Yo! Whassup?” “Job done,” said Doctor How with a note of triumph in her voice. “I have the alien ship in stasis and cousin When’s Spectrel is in 1834. Along with you and Trinity, of course.” “Sure. Of course.” “A few notes on your mission, Kevin. First of all, follow my commands.” “Yep.” “Second, try not to be offended.” “Eh?” “Back then there weren’t that many chaps around who looked like you. Mostly they were in low-status positions.” “So no change there, then.” “Don’t be surprised if people seem a little… racist.” “If they were only a little racist, I wouldn’t have a problem with it back in me own time, Doc.” “Don’t get into fights over it, is what I’m saying. Ignore it and move on. The law is liable to come down on the side of the white folks, unless they’re notorious criminals.” “As I say: no change there.” “You’re the one with a string of criminal convictions, Kevin.” “Ouch. Look, this sounds like a nightmare. You sure they ain’t going to just clap irons on me and send me to the Windies to cut sugar cane for the rest of me life?” “Although slavery had only just been abolished in the British Empire the year before, since 1706 any slave stepping foot on British soil was considered free. Judge people by the standards of their own time, and not your own, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Some people of African origin were kept as what one might call ‘exotic’ servants. Many of them were very well educated.



I suggest that’s your best cover.” “Oh. Cool . This is an undercover mission. I get it now!” “And don’t use words like ‘cool’. Oh, dear. I wish I’d installed a language chip in you. I’ll put that on the list for the next mission, then.” “Language chip?” “Yes, of course. It would do the work for you. For now, try to speak like someone of that era.” “Like Charles Dickens?” “Yes. Exactly! I take it you’ve read some classics like Bleak House , and probably watched a televised version of Great Expectations ?” “Yeah. I know all the words.” “What? Really ? I’m terribly impressed. I’ve obviously underestimated you, Kevin. No wonder the Spectrel thinks you could get a Ph.D. in Astrophysics.” “Here we go. See what you make of this: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! Even though the sound of it Is something quite atrocious If you say it loud enough You’ll always sound precocious.” Kevin stuck out his right hand and foot and stamped the floor. “What do you reckon? I should have had a career in the West End, eh?” “You nincompoop! That’s Mary Poppins !” “Same thing, innit?” “No it isn’t. Look, you’re wasting time. Just get on with it.” “Keep your hair on, Doc.” “Is that a reference to my wig?” Kevin rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so sensitive. It’s a turn of phrase. ” “Out, laddie. Walter, get him out of your Spectrel this instant. We can’t lose any more time.” “Alright, alright. I’m going. Is Trini coming with me?” “Do you need her to walk into the Houses of Parliament and then back out again?” “Um...” “Exactly. She’ll deploy herself if she thinks she’s needed.” “Right. Thanks for all your support.” “You’re welcome.”



“G-g-good luck, Kevin. I think you’ll do a splendid job.” “Thanks, Walt. Catch you later.” Kevin squeezed out of the Spectrel via the door in the side of the red Post Office pillar box and found himself on cobbles in a back street. As he looked behind him, the Spectrel disappeared. He was in a dead-end. On one side there were what looked suspiciously like stables. Four storeys above between the stone buildings he could see the light grey cloud cover of what must be a mid-October day in London, 1834. He heard the muffled hrrph of a horse from inside a stable. “Walter will come back for you. It doesn’t pay to hang around, even with masking technology.” The Doctor’s voice was resonating in his head from a hat he suddenly seemed to be wearing. The balaclava had morphed into the hat, and the goggles had become spectacles. “He wouldn’t look out of place, surely? I thought he said his post box was Victorian?” “Two things, Kevin. First, Post Office boxes weren’t invented until 1852. Second, the current King is William IV. Victoria won’t be queen for another three years.” Kevin looked down and examined his clothes. Comfortable black shoes, black trousers, white shirt, a grey patterned waistcoat and a blue long-tailed outer coat. His Con-Bat had, as promised, turned into a walking stick with a silver end and a stylish silver knob at the top. “You look a million dollars, Kevin. Try not to stare too hard at yourself in shop windows as you pass.” Kevin found a handkerchief in his top pocket and covered his nose. “What’s that terrible stench?” “Normal life in London. Or, indeed, pretty much anywhere.” “It has to be the river and the Big Stink, right?” “The Great Stink in the summer of 1858, you mean? The Thames did stink at the time you’re in, but that stench is just the street you’re in. If the only form of locomotion is horses, what do you expect? You’re also in what’s called a mews. That’s where the rich people have stables for their own horses so that they don’t have to wait for cabs.” “Yeah, but there’s other smells too.” “The rich ammonia smell making your eyes water is stale urine from the horses. The acrid smell is pollution from all the coal fires. You’ll find the inside of your nose soots up.”



“Lovely.” “I shall leave you to discover the source of the other smells. Now get a move on. You’re in Belgravia. Eccleston Square Mews, which means you’re behind Eccleston Square, and not far from Buckingham Palace.” “I’ve gotcha. Near Victoria station?” “Won’t be built for a couple of decades. Now stop talking to me. They’ll think you’re bonkers and lock you up in Bedlam. Then people will only visit you for entertainment on Sundays.” Kevin felt more nervous than he had when stealing back Tim’s remains from the US embassy. He walked the dozen yards to the end of the mews, focusing his eyes on the display in his glasses. He could see himself as a little red flashing dot, with a path highlighted showing the route he should take to the Palace of Westminster. “Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy,” he muttered to himself as he wheeled left up into Warwick Place North. He had to stop when he reached his left turn at Warwick Way because the scene took his breath away. Never in his life had he dreamed he would witness any other time than his own . The street was far, far busier than he’d envisaged. And filthier, too. Horse manure had been swept into piles by the side of the cobbled street, and yet more had gathered in the middle. The noise, too, wasn’t what he’d been expecting. The clip-clop of horses and the rumble of metal-banded wheels on stone was far from gentle or relaxing. Its unfamiliarity to his ears made it disconcerting, and almost uncomfortable. As for the people, they were far more colourful than he’d expected – especially the men, who seemed not to have a problem wearing bright red or pink. Then he realised how easy it was to identify men and women. Or, rather, he realised how difficult it had been in his own time. Even over a sea of people a hat would single out a man and a bonnet a woman. Trousers were for men only, and many of the women took up half the pavement with their dresses. But none of the faces on view was anything other than white. He checked When’s timepiece and saw that it was just after three o’clock in the afternoon. A cold gust of wind blew down the street, bringing with it the threat of rain. It felt cold for the time of year, and he wondered if it was something to do with the lack of climate change. He turned his back to the wind and walked the few yards to the junction with Belgrave Road. A man in a black uniform wearing a black top hat was directing traffic from on top of a wooden box. Despite the man’s efforts, the



junction was still a little chaotic. He moved up Belgrave Road, away from the junction, towards the whitewashed pillared buildings which were familiar to him in his own time. The iron railings at the front of the properties weren’t painted black, but a variety of bright colours, and he silently applauded these hard-bitten people for their efforts to brighten up what was to him a grim and grey age. He had to time his crossing carefully to avoid going under a coach. They didn’t seem to move in quite the same way as cars – once they got going they seemed to want to keep going, and their brakes were lousy. Furthermore, in the absence of road markings, smaller and faster coaches were not averse to using the other side of the road to overtake slower delivery carts if the opportunity presented itself. As he trotted safely to the other side he saw a couple of young women looking at him, and doffed his hat. “Good afternoon,” he said, feeling like an extra on a film set. The women giggled and bustled away in their long skirts. “Enough flirting, laddie. I told you not to create a fuss,” came the Doctor’s voice through his hat. He continued along Warwick Way towards Vauxhall Bridge Road. He knew he had the choice of going the long way via the banks of the Thames, but the display in his spectacles seemed to insist that he take the shorter route when he tried to divert. “You’re not there to sight-see. You’re there to do a job. You’ll see the river soon enough.” When it came to crossing Vauxhall Bridge Road, he was glad of the practice he’d had earlier on a less busy road. He guessed this was the nineteenth century equivalent of a freeway, with two lanes of traffic in each direction, fast and slow. Costermongers sold their wares by the roadside, shouting their sales calls. It reminded him of documentaries he’d seen of India or Africa, with their roadside sellers. A couple of them eyed him malevolently as he walked up the road and away from the junction. He realised he must look privileged to them. Their clothes were worn and grimy but he, with his foreign looks, was dressed fashionably. One of them approached him. The man was much shorter than Kevin’s five-foot ten, his hair greasy. His clothes stank of stale sweat, despite the coldness of the day. “A nice fresh Kent apple for you, squire?” The man’s breath was as fetid as a sewer to Kevin’s twenty-first century nostrils, and hardly a good advertisement for his wares. He resisted the urge to wince.



“Uh... No thanks.” “Only tuppence, squire. You’d be ’elping me out.” “Sorry, I’ve no money on me. ” “No money on you? Lawks!” He called over to another costermonger. “Did you hh e-are that, Robert, old chap? This young gentleman hh e-are hh asn’t a penny on hh im!” “Oh, la-di-da!” said the costermonger’s mate, coming over. He was also shorter than Kevin. “’Ow terribly hunfortunate. A penniless mulatto dressed up to the nines. Whatever will he do? ‘ow ever will he feed ‘isself?” “Maybe ’e’ll have to pawn ’is ’at for a place to sleep, Robert? Come on, squire. Just give us an ’apenny and I’ll be on me way.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “I’ve got a family of ten ter feed, yer know.” “Kevin!” broke in the Doctor, “They’re going to go for the watch. Get the hell out of there!” “If you’ll excuse me please, gentlemen.” The one called Robert placed his arm in front of Kevin. “John ’ere is just asking for an ’alf penny to ’elp ’im out. Sir .” “And I,” said Kevin, “am telling you I have no money about my person. I must make a note to tell my master never to let me out of the house without money in the future,” he added, pointedly. “Now let me pass.” “Oh? And what are you going to do about it, young feller-me-lad?” asked John. Kevin rolled his eyes, and a plan hit him. “I am a master of the black arts ,” he whispered. “Says you,” said Robert. “I’ll let yer go if yer shows us a trick.” Kevin looked at his Con-Bat for a second, hoping it would indulge his frivolity. “Hold out your apple, Master John,” he said, and stepped back a foot so that he was out of the way of the two men. The one called John held out the apple. “Now, gentlemen, keep a very close eye on it because I shall do this trick only once, and an audience normally pays… a shilling each to see it performed.” Keeping an eye out for a gap in the traffic, Kevin reached over and touched it with his Con-Bat. The apple exploded, blinding them with its remains whilst the Con-Bat shielded him from the spray. He shoved the men out of the way and hurried across the road. He heard them shouting curses as they wiped their eyes but as he put four lanes of traffic between them he thought there was little they could do, and didn’t think they’d get the police



involved. “So much for a covert mission, Kevin,” said the Doctor. “These people are still intensely superstitious, so just watch yourself.” Kevin put his hand over his mouth as if to cough. “Mulatto?” he asked. “Comes from the Spanish meaning mule. A mule being a cross between a donkey and a horse.” He pretended to cough again. “Charming.” “Not meant as a derogatory term – not even in your own time in some parts of the world.” Kevin upped his pace along Rochester Row. The tone of the neighbourhood fell, but he was sure that there were much worse places. Here it was a mix of residential and business – drapers, greengrocers, cobblers. Contrary to the Doctor’s orders, he stopped to look at himself in a shop window. He’d never have recognised himself. Even if he thought so himself, he looked striking – handsome and educated. No wonder the costermongers had picked him out. He became aware of a man gesticulating at him to push off – he was blocking what little natural light there was in the shop – because the man was straining to read. He smiled at the man and moved off again at a brisk pace. He found himself on a busy street, which he thought must be Victoria Street, but which his display was calling York Street. Through the stench of everything else was the smell of a brewery and, sure enough, he could see a large Watney’s building down the street to his left. There was slum housing all around it . “Weren’t expecting the centre of town to be so industrial, were you? Your neck of the woods is open country, at this point. Well, farmland at least. As for your countrymen, they still live off beer. As bad as their German cousins. Mind you, the water isn’t safe to drink because cholera is a scourge.” Kevin looked to his right, east towards the Palace of Westminster. The view was shocking in its difference. He could see Westminster Abbey towering over the other buildings, even then looking ancient. Beyond that was a series of long buildings around a courtyard, running north-south. “Big Ben’s gone!” he gasped. “You sure I’m in the right time line?” “Shush! Stop drawing attention to yourself, and get going. It was called the clock tower when it was built. Big Ben is the bell. You sound like a damned tourist. The little job you’re going to do will lead to the design and construction of the buildings familiar to you. At the moment it looks like a set



of houses because that’s exactly what it was. Hence the name ‘Houses of Parliament’.” Kevin navigated his way through the crowd, noting that the body odour wasn’t confined to those of a lower rank in society. The ladies, at least, perfumed themselves to mask it. It was not what he’d been expecting at all, and he realised that this was completely acceptable. Quite how great romantic novels could have been written about such vile-smelling people was beyond him. He decided bold was best, and strode up York Street with renewed purpose. He kept himself to himself and tried to look as if he knew where he was going. When he came to what he would call Parliament Square in his own time, he was impressed by the amount of space available. The buildings were lowrise, and there were even what seemed to be domestic houses quite close to the government buildings. “You need to be heading for the House of Lords. The fire started in the furnace room.” He was just about to ask the Doctor how he’d get there when the voice in his ear said, “Join the short queue over there. They’re waiting to get into the public gallery. If anyone asks, you’re there to report back to your master on the proceedings of whatever Bill it is they’re debating.” Kevin steered himself towards the back of the queue. Two men in front turned around to look at him. He smiled at them and they smiled back politely and returned to their conversation. A handful of men joined the queue behind him, and presently the queue started moving forward at a decent pace, with each person inspected briefly for weapons by a man in what Kevin would have described as plus-fours and a frock coat, and wearing a powdered wig and hat. When it came to his turn, Kevin removed his hat for inspection. The guard took his Con-Bat and pulled and twisted at the silver top. It dawned on him that firearms and explosives of that era were bulky and difficult to hide, and that the concealed weapon of choice would be a sword stick. They would understand the Con-Bat’s technology even less than he did. He followed the man who’d preceded him into the dark and dingy corridors of the House of Lords, but quickly lost him. The navigation projection on his glasses kept him on track. To say that it smelled musty was generous. There was also a background stench of stale tobacco smoke and alcohol. Whether that was coming from the people or the place itself, he



wasn’t quite sure – but a fair proportion of people he’d encountered had alcohol on their breath. As for the building, he could see that it was a fire hazard. It was a labyrinth of wooden-panelled corridors, and the floorboards creaked loudly under his feet. “You are looking lost, sir,” said a portly man in his fifties. He was dressed like a gentleman, and Kevin recognised him from the queue. “My master sent me to attend the sitting of the House of Lords, sir,” said Kevin . The portly man roared with laughter and banged his cane on the floor. “I fear your master is having a joke at your expense, sir! Parliament is adjourned, and shall not be back until the King’s Speech.” He laughed heartily again. “Surely any man of education knows the terms of parliament?” “Forgive me, sir. I am, as you can tell, not from these parts.” “Ah! But of course. You are from the Colonies, come to visit our great Mother Parliament.” The man bent in a little closer, and Kevin was sure he smelled alcohol. “I have the measure of your master. He is a good man. On a cold autumn day he has sent you to the warmest place in London, lest you freeze, sir!” He laughed heartily again. “Though some might say parliament is even warmer when it is in session, because it is full of nought but hot air!” He roared with laughter, and Kevin did his best to laugh along. “May I ask why you are here, sir, if the Lords are not in session?” “Why, to see the Armada tapestries in the Lords’ chamber. I have a written pass from Lord Grey himself. Would you give me the pleasure of your company, sir?” “Thank you, sir. I was hoping to visit the furnaces.” “The furnaces ?” “I hear they are the most modern in the land. A wonder of the age.” “Good gracious me. I had no idea. Well, why don’t you and I regard the tapestries first? Then we shall see about these infernal furnaces . What?” He laughed at his own pun. “Thank you. Do you know where you’re going?” “Yes, yes. I have visited Lord Grey before upon occasion.” The man spun slowly around, trying to get his bearings. “Though it was some years ago.” Kevin picked up a direction from his glasses. “I believe the entrance to the chamber is this way, sir.” “By Jove, I think you’re right. You have a good instinct, young man. Lead the way. ”



The guard at the entrance gave the man’s letter a brief glance and then allowed them into the chamber of the House of Lords. It was much smaller than Kevin had imagined. There were benches padded with red leather on either side, climbing up to a height of twenty feet or so. What little light there was came in from a couple of windows at the top on each side. At one end there was the empty public gallery, hanging as a mezzanine, and on the other, steps led up to a couple of gilded thrones. Although the architectural style was ancient to his eyes, it was in a far better state of repair than he would have thought, and the paint seemed fairly fresh. He looked around him in wonder at the gilt glistening on the ceiling. “You are from the Colonies, sir. This is not the original. It has been remodelled. What Guy Fawkes failed to do in 1605 was achieved by committee less than ten years ago. Many of their Lords have complained that it is a tinder box ready to go poof ! Now, the tapestries of the Armada are over near the Speaker’s chair.” “Should there be quite so much smoke in the air?” asked Kevin, as much to the Doctor as the gentleman. He checked his watch – it was getting towards four o’clock. He felt a sudden pang of nerves – the place was a death-trap. The Doctor spoke to him. “Relax, it doesn’t go up for a couple of hours yet. Enjoy it – you and this man are the last people ever to see these tapestries. Think of your unacknowledged place in history. Many historians would die to be in your place.” Kevin wished he could make the obvious rejoinder to the Doctor’s comment, but couldn’t, due to the presence of his companion. “I can barely see the tapestries,” said the man. “How terribly disappointing. Perhaps we may get a better view from over here by Black Rod’s box.” They walked over a few feet. “Good Lord! Do you feel that heat, sir?” “I do!” said Kevin. The man was right – he felt heat coming through the soles of his shoes. He stepped away from the hot patch. “I think we would do better to come back another day, sir,” said the man. His unflustered reaction to the prospect of incineration amazed Kevin. “Whilst I’m sure you are enjoying the heat, I am enjoying neither the air nor the view.” “I quite agree. We should go.”



“Do you wish to see the furnaces? I’m sure the staff would be delighted to give you a grand tour .” He took out his timepiece as they filed out of the chamber. “There are more than two hours before I must be at my club.” Kevin’s new friend accosted a guard. “My friend and I would like to inspect your furnaces. He is a man of science from the Colonies.” “The office of the Serjeant-at-Arms would be the ones to see about that, sir,” said the guard. “It could take weeks for written permission to be granted. Unless, of course, you has got written instructions from one of their Lordships, or perhaps your constituency MP.” He cleared his throat and glanced around. “But I am often asked to accompany private parties on guided tours as part of my duties. Such parties often decide to give me a gratuity, sir.” “Would a shilling be enough to cover the inconvenience?” “Very good, sir. I can take you to the cellars myself right this minute sir, finding myself at the end of the day’s duties, and their Lordships not being in session.” “Understood.” Kevin’s companion handed the guard a shilling. “Come on then.” The guard led them away from the public area to the top of a stone stairwell lit by oil lamps. He took one off the wall and beckoned them to follow him. “Watch your step, gentlemen. These stairs is historic in themselves. Whilst the building above was demolished to make way for the new chamber of the House of Lords, it was decided that the cellars beneath were of sound construction, and should be retained.” He stopped and addressed them in a hushed tone, every inch the seasoned tour guide. He waved a hand at the ancient vaulted ceilings. “These is the very cellars Guy Fawkes stored the gunpowder he planned to blow up the King and ‘is peers in 1605. Back then the space was rented out for storage to merchants. As you can see, it is now used only for items related to ’is Majesty’s Government.” “What are those?” asked Kevin. He pointed at some sacks full of carved sticks of wood. “Oh, the young ones today!” exclaimed Kevin’s companion. “Tally sticks, dear boy. Oh, you make me feel so very old, sir!” “I’m sorry,” said Kevin. “I don’t know what a tally stick is.” The guard and the older gentleman looked at each other in mock horror. “Young sir,” began the gentleman, “a tally stick is the means by which debts used to be recorded. You Colonials, I’m sure, have your money-only systems, but the Exchequer stuck to sticks until just a few years ago. May I?” he asked



the guard. “Worthless now, sir,” said the guard, giving him a nod to continue. “One would tally the debt on the stock by cutting an amount of wood. Here you see a palm’s width. That is a thousand pounds. Here is the width of a thumb, and that is twenty pounds. There are four of them, so that is eighty pounds. One the width of my pinkie is a single pound. The stick was then split, as you can see. This is the long portion, and is the stock . This would be retained by the Exchequer. The smaller one is the foil. Here is one.” He picked up a shorter piece of wood. “It would be the receipt. But you can see that these two pieces of wood could never be stuck together again – each break in wood is unique. Thus, one cannot forge a tally stick, which means that the system is impossible to circumvent.” “But you could burn the tally sticks,” said Kevin. “Indeed, sir,” said the guard. “And that is how they are being put to final use: as fuel for heating their Lordships’ house.” As he spoke, a grubbylooking man stripped down to his shirt came through another door and eyed the trio suspiciously. He was perspiring heavily. “These gentlemen wish to see your furnaces,” said the guard. “Be my guests,” said the man, in a thick Irish accent. “If you can stand the heat. Red-hot they are. We’re putting the final load in for the evening.” He walked over to some tally sticks which had been put into hessian sacks and put a couple over his shoulders. “Here, I’ll give you a hand,” said Kevin, and grabbed the last two sacks. His gentleman friend looked at him disdainfully. “Sir,” he said in a forced whisper. “You are not in the Colonies now. I pray you do not step below your place, or if you do, you shall be trampled by those who should be beneath you. It sets a bad example for us all. Especially in front of a man of Irish extraction. Lord knows, he should be digging a canal or some such thing.” “Honestly, sir. I need the exercise.” The guard held the door open for Kevin as he dragged the heavy sacks into the furnace room. He was hit by a wave of heat, and the roaring of the two furnaces. Above them the giant copper flues led away, and these were glowing red-hot at the base. There was another grubby man in the room. He was also stripped down to his shirt, throwing tally sticks into the furnace furthest away. He stopped when he realised he had company, and looked aghast to see Kevin dragging the sacks behind him. Then his look became one of disdain as he registered



Kevin’s skin colour in the gloom. Kevin propped up his two sacks against the others a few feet away from the nearest furnace, next to the ones the first man had just brought in. “Thank you, sir.” The man tending the furnace furthest from them stuck a six-foot poker through its open door and agitated the burning wood, keeping his face pointed away from the intense heat, which bathed him in a yellow glow. He threw in a handful more sticks. “Full for now,” he shouted over the roar. He left the furnace door open and came over to help shove tally sticks into the closer of the two furnaces, using his poker to push the burning mass as far back into the blaze as he could. “The watch! You have to get rid of the watch,” said the Doctor in his ear. Kevin looked around and could see nowhere that he could put the watch without drawing attention to himself. For a few seconds he thought about giving the men a hand, and throwing the timepiece into the furnace. “No, you can’t throw it into the furnace. It needs to be intact.” Kevin turned around and carefully palmed the timepiece, ready to conceal it. A third man, dressed in a black three-piece suit, entered the room and was surprised to see the guard, Kevin and the gentleman. The guard looked snappy and went over to him, explaining that they were visitors in his company. Kevin pocketed the watch again. The suited man came over to them. “Richard Weobley, Clerk of Works, at your service, gentlemen. You are seeing a piece of history here today.” He kicked one of the remaining sacks. “The very last of the tally sticks. Good riddance.” “My friend here is from the Colonies,” said the gentleman, “and is most interested in your furnaces.” “Being a modern facility, we normally burn coal,” said Weobley. “But for this day only it is these ancient relics, condemned by no less a man than Mr Charles Dickens himself. It has been most inconvenient. I have had to supervise these two lazy oafs because the flames must be kept within certain tolerances. Coal has a less voracious flame and a slower release of heat. Still, I see the job is all but done.” The last of the tally sticks were shoved into the second furnace. “That is the end of that,” said Weobley. “These men will be leaving now, and so let us all return upstairs.”



“You’re going to have to plant the watch somewhere else,” said the Doctor. “See if you can get back to the Lords’ Chamber again.” “I rather fancy a second look at the tapestry,” said Kevin. “I say, what a capital idea,” said the gentleman. “Perhaps things will have cleared?” Weobley and the guard accompanied them back upstairs, with the two Irish labourers bringing up the rear. They emerged into the dull interior of the House of Lords and moved aside in the cramped corridor to allow the other members of the party to exit from the cellars. “If you want the chamber, then it’s this way, gentlemen,” said the guard. He led them quickly through the maze of wood-panelling and opened the door for them. “I should warn you to be quick, gentlemen. The public must be out soon. I doubt you’ll see much in this light anyway.” “Confound it!” said the gentleman. “The smoke is worse, sir! I would suggest we beat a hasty retreat and alert the authorities.” “Um... No. Um... I think we need to see whether there’s a fire or not.” “I say, you are a brave and wise fellow. But… perhaps if you were to lead the way? I fear my eyes are not so good in this light.” “Cool. No worries.” Kevin set off across the floor of the chamber. “I beg your pardon?” Kevin called back. “Um... I think it’s actually a little cooler now. I think our worries are unfounded, sir.” The Doctor’s voice came to him. “Just get on with it, laddie. Put your watch in Black Rod’s box and have done with it.” The floor around Black Rod’s box was still hot under his feet so he trod lightly and quickly . “What are you doing over there?” “Just checking to see if I can see a fire, sir. I see no flames, so perhaps this is merely a leak of smoke from the flues.” “Good show,” said the gentleman, still only halfway across the floor. In the absence of anything else, Kevin decided to place the watch under a cushion on what he assumed was Black Rod’s chair. “Good,” said the Doctor. “Now get you and your new pal out of there before you die of smoke inhalation.” Kevin gave a theatrical cough. “The smoke is terribly fierce on my young lungs, sir.”



“And I am faring no better, young man. We shall have to come back another day, for shame.” Kevin’s ears pricked up at the use of the first person plural. “Alas, sir. I shall be leaving London tomorrow, so shall not be able to accompany you for another look.” “The loss is mine. Please, will you take my hand and lead me from the chamber? The smoke has rather got to my head.” “Um, okay.” “I have to say, Kevin, you really are doing remarkably well. You’ve made a new pal. I can see you being quite a hit in this era,” said the Doctor. Kevin took the man’s left hand. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man of his age and fitness. As he took a couple of steps forward he found himself pulled back. “Oh, not so fast, young ’un. Let us take our time and enjoy these last few moments of privacy together. Unless, of course, you would do me the honour of dining with me at my club tonight?” Kevin realised that there had been a misunderstanding. The man’s willingness to spend a shilling on a sight-seeing tour of the cellars was not quite the one-sided act of generosity it had appeared to be. “Really, sir. I have to be going. Back to my master .” Kevin pulled the man forward towards the exit. “Oh. Oh! That lucky man. Well, if ever he be fool enough to let you go, then let me be the first that you would call upon.” They reached the door, and the man handed him his card. “Of course I shall, sir,” said Kevin, pocketing the card in his waistcoat. “Now, let me get us safely outside.” “Oh, Kevin,” said the Doctor. “And you were getting on so well . You know what I think it is? I think it’s your vastly improved English. You must be using a colossal amount of brainpower to speak so well for so long.” “Give it a rest,” muttered Kevin. “I beg your pardon?” asked the gentleman. “We shall be able to rest when we are outside,” said Kevin. His glasses continued to guide him. “Nearly there.” “Ah, gentlemen.” It was their guard. “Allow me to escort you these last few steps.” He led them around a corner and to the door they’d first entered. “I bid you a good evening.” “Cheers,” said Kevin.



“What?” “It is an expression of happiness in the Colonies, sir,” said Kevin. “It is an expression of gratitude.” “Back in the mother country we use it when drinking a toast. Now, are you sure you will not accompany me for a quick ale or two in the Red Lion? I, for one, am thirsty after all that heat and walking.” “No, you’re not going to drink on duty, Kevin. You’re not done yet.” “I’m so sorry to disappoint you again, sir. I have other errands to run.” “There is no corrupting you, so there is little point in me wishing that the devil may take you, for he would find you too pure. However, I would wish that you would tire of your master. Remember my offer, young man.” “Thank you for your generosity, sir,” said Kevin. “Adieu ,” said the gentleman, taking out his handkerchief and blowing on it dramatically. Kevin gave an awkward little wave, turned on his heel and was gone. “Quite the little heartbreaker, aren’t you?” said the Doctor. “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in public on your own. You’re rather a good operative.” Kevin turned up the collar of his jacket so that he could converse with his employer. “Really,” he muttered. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or not.” “Be flattered. Now, you need to make your way to Chelsea.” “I thought that was mission accomplished?” “That part of the mission, yes.”



“Another mission?” said Kevin. “As if I haven’t done enough today. What is it?” “You’ll find out soon enough,” said the Doctor. “How do I get to Chelsea from here?” “You wanted a riverside walk; now’s your chance. The address is a riverside house in Chelsea. You need only walk along the river, keeping it to your left.” “How far?” “Two and a half miles.” “What ?” “People thought nothing of it in those days. Dear Vincent would walk from Brixton to the Strand and back every day.” “Vincent who?” “Van Gough. I’ve told you this already.” “Yeah, but people back in this time smell, Doctor. I mean really smell. Plus I’m hungry. An army marches on its stomach and you sent me out with no money.” “You’ll be catered for, laddie. You don’t know how lucky you are.” “Yeah, yeah.” Kevin was now approaching the end of the gardens that lay at the southern end of the Palace of Westminster, and he was now close to the river as he came along Millbank. Outside the door of each house a candle burned behind a glass cover, providing a modicum of light. Yellow candles and oil lamps burnt faintly in some of the windows whose curtains were not yet drawn. The darkness was utterly unlike modern London, and the stars were beginning to come out between the gaps in the clouds. On the opposite bank he could see a few large houses, and the squat, turreted shadow of Lambeth Palace, standing as if in challenge to the Palace of Westminster, but other than that the south bank of the river was very dark – no candles burned outside front doors there. He could see the dark shapes of boats moving carefully in the gathering gloom. Red and green lights flickered on their port and starboard sides. Above the trundling of carriages along the road to his right he could hear occasional splashes of oars and



shouted warnings echoing across the water. “There’s, like, nothing on the other side of the Thames, Doc!” “Still mostly farmland at this stage, lad.” “Stinks.” “Low tide. Which is rather unfortunate.” “Eh?” “You’ll see.” As he reached the bottom of the wide road that intersected with the one he was on, he was surprised to find that it wasn’t at all busy. He looked to his left to check for traffic coming from Lambeth and saw only a wooden jetty down by the water’s edge. “Where the hell’s the bridge, Doc?” “Did you never wonder why it was called Horseferry Road? The clue’s in the name.” Kevin kept his wits about him as he walked briskly along the footpath by the road. Even though his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he found it hard going because the surface was unpaved. From time to time he stepped in soft and squishy things that turned his twenty-first century nose. For a short distance the houses to his right became less densely packed, then they thickened up again. “So I’m guessing this is now Chelsea, yeah?” “You’re starting to get the hang of things. London was still pretty much separate villages back then. Just beginning to join up before the railways arrived and finished the job in double-quick time.” Kevin walked on for a couple of hundred yards. “Over there,” said the Doctor. “Cheyne Walk. Number one hundred and nineteen.” Kevin crossed the road, through the gardens and to Cheyne Walk itself and hurried on, looking at the numbers. “Gotcha. Right, who are we seeing?” “You’re here to see Mr J.M.W. Turner.” “What, the painter?” “The very same. But don’t ask for him by that name. Ask for Mr Booth.” “Eh?” “He’s living here, shall we say, ‘unofficially’ most of the time with a wealthy widow.” “I don’t get what he’s got to do with this.” “He’s going to paint one of his greatest works –”



“The Burning of the Houses of Parliament .” “He completed two paintings on the subject. They were actually called The Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons , but yes, you’re right. In fact, you’ll find he did a series of studies on the night. You must get him out of his house and down to the opposite bank of the Thames.” “Aw, come on, Doc. This is what you’d call frivolous .” “Not at all. The man has to create some of his greatest works of art. It’s in the timeline and must be done.” “Oh, yeah. And I remember now. One of them lands up in your ownership.” “Well, that’s a small matter of Joseph showing his gratitude towards an old friend.” “And enriching you.” “You’ve seen that it’s still in my possession over one hundred and eighty years hence. I shall never part with it. The value is sentimental only.” “You criticise your cousins for taking liberties over these things.” “I let such things move only one way in time, and at their natural pace. There is a world of difference. Now, ring the bell.” Kevin stepped up and pulled the bell. He heard a faint tinkling inside the dimly-lit house. A few seconds later the door opened to reveal a male servant. The man looked at him neutrally, almost as if he wasn’t there. “Good evening, sir,” said Kevin. “I have an urgent message from my master for Mr Booth.” The man looked down at Kevin’s shoes, and seemed impressed by the fact that they were shiny and clean, as were the bottoms of his trousers. Kevin silently thanked whatever technology lay behind it. “You had better come in. Do you have your master’s card?” “No. I came in a great hurry. My master is the Doctor.” “Is he indeed, sir? For your master’s name I am able to interrupt Mr Booth during his supper. Would you please follow me?” Kevin marvelled at the opulence of the house. A candelabra had been lit and the mirrored hallway glittered in a warm and welcoming way. He was led off the main hall down a smaller corridor to a closed door. The servant indicated that Kevin was to stay back. He knocked gently, opened the door and entered. “Sir, I have a fellow who brings an urgent message from your friend the Doctor.”



“What? The Doctor? Don’t dawdle, Jenkins. Bring him here. He shall join us for supper.” “Very good, sir.” The servant stepped back and motioned Kevin into the room, which was plainer than he’d been expecting. An elderly man sat at a plain table with a slightly younger woman. Both were dressed down. “Had I known we’d have such distinguished company, I’d have laid out the dining room. Pull up a seat, lad, you look famished.” “Mr Booth, sir. I am not sure we have time.” “The Doctor, of all people, not having time ? Nonsense! I command you to be seated.” A female servant put a plate and some cutlery at a place opposite the couple. Jenkins, who was still present, drew out the chair for Kevin and motioned for him to sit. “I can have a little, but we ought to go in just a few minutes,” said Kevin. The instant he had sat down, Jenkins pushed in his chair for him, which he found unsettling. Jenkins then tried to take his hat. “Please, I must keep my hat on,” said Kevin. Mrs Booth gave Turner a look. “The Doctor’s people are eccentric. Let him wear it at the table if it puts him at ease.” Kevin had a sudden realisation. “Do you have a carriage, sir?” Turner laughed. “You are so obviously one of the Doctor’s more far-flung assistants. Of course I do.” “Then you must order it to be readied.” “Oh, do you hear that, Sophia? The Doctor would have me take a trip this evening. Jenkins, my carriage is to be made ready immediately.” “Very good, sir.” Jenkins left the room. “I do wish you were not to have to leave, Joseph,” said Mrs Booth, her hand on Turner’s forearm. “If it’s the Doctor, then it’s important, Sophia. Where, young man, are we to go?” “The Houses of Parliament, sir.” “And what, pray, will be happening there? It must be some matter of state, because I am known as the painter of light – and of that I see very little this evening. Certainly not enough to draw by, let alone paint.” He chuckled. A plate of steaming stew and some potatoes were put in front of Kevin. “Oh, I think you shall have plenty of light, sir.” Kevin listened to the Doctor through his hat. “The Doctor has advised that you are to bring with you two



whole sketchpads, pencils and your watercolour paints.” Kevin took a mouthful of stew, marvelling that he was eating something from a time before his great grandparents were born. It was delicious, and he realised that everything here could most probably be described as organic and free range. Then the thought struck him that it was probably also ridden with disease. He hoped it had been cooked properly . “My watercolours? By Heavens, then he is serious about me painting some ephemeral event.” He leaned back and tugged at a silk rope nearby. There was the faint tinkling of a bell elsewhere in the house. Jenkins rushed back into the room a few seconds later. “Gather my sketching materials together. Two pads, my pencils, and my watercolour paints. And a jug of fresh Streatham Wells water.” “Very good, sir. Your carriage is almost ready now, sir. I shall bring these items out to it.” “Well, get a move on, Jenkins. I wish no further delay. Young man, we must leave at once.” He turned to Mrs Booth. “Please excuse me,” he said, and got up. “I may be back late.” Kevin was glad he’d taken the opportunity to wolf down a few mouthfuls of food. “Doesn’t the Doctor feed you?” asked Turner, grabbing Kevin under the armpit as he made for the door. “He sent me out without any money today. And the schedule has been hectic. Cheerio, Mrs Booth.” He tipped his hat at the lady and she smiled back graciously, but was clearly unhappy to be losing her lover for the evening. “We are quite new together and she has the appetite of a newly-wed,” muttered Turner in Kevin’s ear as he bundled him towards the front of the house. “I would marry her but husbands one and two died within short order, and I fear for my mortality should I be number three, what? But what a sweet death.” He chortled. Turner sat down in a chair by the door. Kevin was flummoxed that a man in a hurry would suddenly choose to sit. Another servant shot out of nowhere, carrying a pair of men’s boots. He knelt down and took off Turner’s house shoes, then wedged his master’s feet into the boots and laced them up. Turner stretched out his legs, grunted his approval and then was on his feet and heading for the front door. It was opened for him by Jenkins, who bowed slightly at Kevin as he left.



A two-horse closed carriage was waiting on Cheyne Walk. The horses looked agitated, and Kevin couldn’t blame them, given the rudeness of their awakening, and the hour. Or maybe they sensed something in the air? “To Parliament,” Turner ordered the driver, who held the door open for them. “We’ll want to be on the other side of the river, sir,” said Kevin. “You heard the lad. To the other side of the Thames and then to Parliament.” “Very good, sir.” “Do you know what the time is, Mr T—Mr Booth?” Turner ignored Kevin for the moment and clambered up through the open door of the carriage, which lurched on its suspension at his sudden weight. Kevin joined him inside and the door was slammed behind them by the driver, who disappeared from view. Turner had taken the seat nearest the kerb, and Kevin’s legroom was restricted by an easel folded up in the opposite corner to where he sat on the offside of the vehicle. The carriage rocked as the driver jumped up on top, and then they were off with a jolt that threw Kevin back against his seat. Turner took out his timepiece. “It has passed six o’clock by one quarter of an hour.” He checked the contents of a couple of wooden cases, which Kevin saw contained drawing and painting equipment. The carriage had reached the end of Cheyne Walk and seemed to be about to veer to the right towards Battersea Bridge, which would be the long way around. “How do I speak to the driver?” asked Kevin. “The hatch up there. My word, you have travelled far! Here, allow me.” Turner thumped the roof of the carriage with his walking stick to get the driver’s attention. Kevin reached over to the opposite side of the carriage and slid back a small cover. “Please go via Vauxhall Bridge.” “But Mr Booth likes always to go by Battersea Bridge. It is his express wish. And as for Vauxhall Bridge, I don’t – ” “Do as the lad says,” said Turner. “By Vauxhall Bridge he means the bridge over to Vauxhall – Regent Bridge, damn you. It’s obvious.” “Very good, Mr Booth, sir.” The carriage set off at a cracking pace down the embankment. Kevin slid the hatch back into place to find Turner looking at him. He



smiled back and leaned into the offside corner. “Your directions betray you,” said Turner. “I’m sorry?” “Your directions. You ordered us over Vauxhall Bridge. It is the Regent Bridge. In your… time and place it is known by what you called it. The Doctor has often told me not to enquire of what the future holds, but here he is so obviously guiding me to witness some grand event. There are times when I cannot fathom the man.” “Indeed, sir,” was all that Kevin could think of in reply. That seemed to be enough to satisfy a man of Turner’s era. After a surprisingly short time, the coach swung to the right and stopped at the toll at the end of Regent Bridge. They heard the driver paying the collector, then they set off up a steep incline, pushing Kevin back into his seat. The thud of the horses’ hooves was duller now because the bridge was wooden. They continued across slowly, at around the same speed as the pedestrians they shared the road with. So far as he could understand, they were following a heavy cart, but he guessed it would have been slow anyway. Turner seemed to accept that there was no use getting agitated. When they levelled out at the top of the bridge he strained to see downriver. He could see plumes of smoke from all the buildings, as he’d seen earlier that day. It was normal for the era and for the time of the evening. “You are expecting some scene from this distance, eh?” asked Turner. “Excuse me,” he said, as he pushed Kevin out of the way and sat on the left side of the carriage. He twisted in his seat and blocked Kevin’s view as he lowered the window and looked back and to his left. He turned and looked over at Kevin. “ I can see nothing worthy of remark. I do hope this isn’t some fool’s errand, young man.” “You have my word, sir, that it is not.” He listened for the Doctor’s voice, then said, “When we get opposite to the Palace of Westminster you would be advised to ask your driver to hire a boat for the evening.” “A boat ? I’m intrigued.” They were now passing Lambeth Palace, leaving it to their right, and Kevin wished he’d been able to see it in daylight hours, because he’d visited it once on a school trip. Turner was looking intently out of the window, when suddenly he gasped, “What’s that?” There was a whump! noise and a flash of yellow light outlined Turner’s features. The carriage jerked to a stop as one of the horses panicked. The driver brought it under control with a jangling of



reins and a barrage of foul language – at least half of which was an expression of wonderment at what he could see across the other side of the Thames. There was a great roar from the pedestrians. Apparently, Kevin was the only living being who didn’t have a good view, and he was damned if he’d travelled this far to be deprived of it. He pushed down his window, unlocked his door and jumped out, causing the horses of a carriage going the other way to rear. “Watch out!” shouted the driver of the other vehicle. “Sorry!” Kevin slammed the door and jumped up onto the seat beside his own driver, who was staring across the Thames. He knew the fire must have been smouldering for a good few hours by now, and that there must have been a sudden flashover because the roof was suddenly ablaze. There was the sound of breaking glass as the roaring fire blew in the ancient windows. The fresh supply of oxygen caused a great plume of flame and sparks to pour out of the southernmost corner of the House of Lords. A great cheer went up from the crowd, and the driver laughed and clapped his approval. “Job done,” said the Doctor. “That was the bolt of energy going in. I managed to pan it out over a matter of a few minutes to avoid an outright explosion. I rather fancy myself in a new career as a pyrotechnician. All events catered for. No job too large. Solar systems destroyed. Price on application.” “Don’t joke about it,” said Kevin. “What’s that?” said the driver. “Don’t you hate the politicians, sir?” “Oh. Of course. But… But people seem very happy.” “There are few good men in those houses, sir,” spat the driver. “This must surely be an act of God for their passing of the Poor Law last year.” The man crossed himself before leaning over to address Turner. “Is this far enough sir? We have a good vantage from here.” “Past St Thomas’, to the end of Westminster Bridge. And when we get there, hail me a waterman.” “Very good, sir.” The driver gee-d the horses and slapped the reins. Within a couple of minutes they’d passed St Thomas’ hospital and had pulled in at the end of the bridge. The driver jumped down and opened the door for Turner. Kevin was slower in getting down. “By Jove, I thank you a thousand times… I’m sorry, I don’t know your



name.” “Thomson, sir. Kevin Thomson.” “Young Master Thomson, I am most grateful. Any later and we would not have had quite the vantage point that we now enjoy.” He turned to the driver. “I shall not be needing the easel, but here are the funds to outbid any man for the services of a waterman for the evening.” “Very good, sir.” The driver took a handful of money from Turner and hurried off to the waterside. Turner immediately set himself to sketching from one of the large pads. A few minutes later the driver pushed back through the thronging crowd, which continued to gasp at every new sheet of flame which leapt from the House of Lords. “I have your transport, sir!” he called. “Grab my things, Kevin. Let us be away. ” “Um... I don’t think…” “If you’re worried about your confounded Doctor’s orders, tell him he shall answer to me. It was he who sent me to document this scene. You shall be my assistant for the evening.” “Yes, sir.” The three of them pushed through the crowd, leaving the carriage in the care of an urchin for a small fee. Turner carried his sketch pads and Kevin two of the wooden cases, with the driver taking the third and the earthenware jug of water. There were stone steps down the side of the embankment, worn with age in the middle. The tide was out, and it seemed like quite a long way down. A wooden rowing boat with a bearded man at the stern was waiting for them at the bottom. “Go on,” said Turner, ushering Kevin down first. He wouldn’t have fancied the stairs in the dark, but fortunately the light from the burning buildings was now bright enough that Kevin thought he could have read a newspaper by it. The waterman let go of the oar and took one of the wooden cases from him and laid it down, leaving Kevin to step gingerly onto the bobbing boat. He put the second case down next to the first and took the sketch pads from Turner. He put them down carefully on a dry seat. He and the waterman reached across to take Turner’s hands as he stepped on. The boat rocked dangerously under his ungainly weight. “Sit down, gentlemen, before you sink us,” said the waterman. He took the



third case from the driver, and then the jug of water. He untied the rope from a large iron mooring ring embedded in the stone. “Now, where to, sir?” “Where to?” spluttered Turner. “Right here. This stretch of water. I wish you to row out and get me closer.” “I’ll go no closer than a hundred feet, sir,” said the Waterman. “And even then only for a limited time. You can feel the heat from here.” “Very well.” The waterman sculled the boat skilfully up and away from the bridge so that they were in the middle of the river, and upstream of the bridge. The tide was still ebbing, so he had to scull gently to keep the boat in position. On the mud flats near the Palace of Westminster he could see firemen and soldiers struggling to get hoses into the water, pulling them over the mudflats to the shallows. Now he understood the Doctor’s earlier comment about the tide. When they eventually managed the task he saw two pairs of men bobbing up and down on either side of a chunky machine sitting on wheels. It reminded him of a hand-cranked railway car from a comedy film, except that this was obviously their static water pump. From mid-river the roar of the fire was overwhelming, and Kevin felt hypnotised by the flames, which advanced rapidly. Since getting on the boat it had engulfed what Turner had told him was St Stephen’s chapel – a steepled building in the middle of the parliamentary complex. Only a few minutes after that the fire caught the House of Commons; there was a huge gasp from the crowd on the south bank and the bridge. It prompted Kevin to glance back and he saw that the crowd was huge. People were leaning over the balustrades of the bridge for a better look, and the entire embankment was a mass of yellow-lit faces as far as the eye could see. The ones that were close enough for him to see showed no sign of fear at the sight before them. Most were passive, as mesmerised as he was. Some were clearly entertained. He had a vague memory of a history lesson about suffrage, and realised that most of the people on the bridge would never have had a chance to vote, and that this Mother of Parliaments whose destruction he was witnessing did not represent the people. And yet they were not cheering its destruction. He wondered whether the reaction in his own time would have been any different. He suspected the Londoners of the twenty-first century would have cheered, despite their enhanced freedoms. There was an almighty thundering crash and he turned around to see a ball of fire and burning ash bellow up from the House of Lords, and flames shoot



out of its windows. The ancient roof had caved in. Another tremendous gasp went up from the crowd. Above the noise of the crowd and the fire, he heard the cries of street sellers and wondered if his two acquaintances were somewhere in the crowd charging inflated prices. Apart from the occasional snort of snuff to keep him going, Turner worked furiously. He accepted the waterman’s request to alternate positions due to the great radiant heat. At first he’d sketched, but now he mixed colours on his palette to capture the extraordinary colours, which Kevin supposed must be due to the various metals used in the construction and decoration of the buildings. When Turner finished each watercolour he would hand it to Kevin, who would lay it flat to dry – which they did quickly. He didn’t bother to look at the great artist’s paintings because he could see those in his own time on the internet. Instead, he chose to drink in as much of the unique spectacle as he could. Other boats of various sizes joined them in the river. The pilots and oarsmen seemed to know enough to keep away from their waterman, who knew all of them by name. They were coining it in, taking passengers for short excursions nearer the flames. The only trouble came later with a boat of tourists from Richmond, who had seen the glow in the sky and hired a cutter to take them downriver. The skipper was drunk and left his turn too late, hitting one of the buttresses of the bridge, nearly losing one of his equally drunk passengers in the crunching jolt. Luckily for him, the tide had just turned and his vessel was swept clear again, rather than being trapped and overturned. As the tide had turned, their own waterman had expertly parked their boat in an eddy current close to one the bridge’s supports, but as the hours passed, he began to struggle against the incoming tide and Turner could see the man’s fatigue. The fire was burning itself out and the firemen were having some success with their primitive equipment, so he ordered the waterman back to the embankment, where the crowd was beginning to drift away. Kevin was amazed to see the driver still there waiting for them, but then he put it down to the times the man lived in – his only source of income was the Booth household and he had no choice but to obey the last command from his employer. He came down the steps and tied off the rope that was thrown to him. They took a couple of minutes to unload the wooden cases. The dry watercolours were placed carefully between the covers of the sketch pads and handled only by Turner.



“I’m exhausted but grateful, Master Thomson,” said Turner as they reached the carriage. “I would like to extend my hospitality to you.” “You can’t,” said the Doctor. “You have to get back to Streatham Hill.” “What?” asked Kevin, to the Doctor. Turner looked surprised. “I offered you accommodation for the night. You must be exhausted.” “I’m sorry, Mr Turner. Booth. I have orders to return to the Doctor’s.” Turner looked around at the dispersing crowd. “On any other night I would have said you were risking your life on such a journey, sir. But I think you shall be perfectly safe in this crowd. He really is a terribly particular fellow, isn’t he?” “That’s a good way of putting it, sir.” Turner leaned into the carriage and placed a sketchpad on the floor. Kevin heard him open it and riffle through the watercolours. Then he heard the sound of paper moving on paper. The painter turned around and handed him a tube of rolled-up paper. “This is for the Doctor, by way of gratitude. Careful how you –” Kevin thoughtlessly took the open end of the paper tube, then realised he’d just put his finger prints on the painting. He took the tube gently around its middle and saw how dirty his hands were. “He’ll not thank you for that,” said Turner, chuckling. “Do you know, I think he was expecting it. Indeed, I’d go so far as to say he’d be disappointed if I’d not.” “I must bid you goodnight. Much later and Mrs Booth will skin me alive. With any luck she’ll have heard about the fire and the neighbours will have taken her for the view.” He clambered up into the carriage and the driver slammed the door shut. “Are we to meet again, Master Thomson?” “I honestly don’t know,” said Kevin. “But you knew we’d meet this evening?” “If I had given it some thought a few weeks ago, it would have been obvious.” He held up the tube of paper. “I have seen this painting before. It’s beautiful, sir. I thank you on behalf of the Doctor.” “Then I take it my work has not become unfashionable. That is reward enough for me. I bid you…” Turner checked his timepiece. “I bid you good morning.” “Cheerio, Mr Booth. Thanks again.” “Thank you , Master Thomson! My regards to the Doctor.” The carriage



set off at a good lick. Kevin turned back for a final look at the dying embers of the Palace of Westminster on the opposite bank and tried to take in the magnitude of what he’d experienced that day, and his contribution to it. He was tired, hungry and thirsty. “Surely you know your way home from here, laddie,” said the Doctor. “Yeah, but I’ve never walked it.” “You’re a man of a different era now, so you’ve not much choice. The sooner you get going…” “Thanks.” He took off his glasses and tucked them into his pocket, fearing they might just make him look vulnerable. Turner had been right. There was a great throng of excited people of all ages out at that hour, all making their way back to the communities they’d left earlier the previous evening as the news had spread. This had been an evening of spectacular free entertainment for them on an otherwise unremarkable evening – something they would tell their grandchildren about. And he was clutching one of the few contemporaneous images of it, handpainted by one of the greatest artists who ever lived. He felt a surge of excitement, picked up his pace, and felt a grin across his face. “Took you long enough to realise your good fortune,” said the Doctor. “What news have you, sir?” asked an excited man about his age, who approached him from behind. “Eh? Oh. I was lucky enough to be in a boat. I saw firemen struggling to get their hoses to the water. It was low tide.” “Did you indeed? I had the good fortune to be midway on the bridge. I heard that they concentrated all their efforts on saving Westminster Hall, realising that the other buildings were lost.” “Speaker’s House is gone too,” said another man. Kevin and the first man slowed to let him join them. “Only his just desserts,” said the first. “Was anyone killed?” asked Kevin. The second man piped up. “Not one! All are accounted for. But I heard those fools knew of the fire some while before they sought help. There is even a rumour that there was smoke too thick to see in the chamber two hours before. A pair of tourists complained about it.” The Doctor interjected. “Word travels quickly because people talk. That’s why I want you home.”



Kevin listened intently as his fellow travellers exchanged news and views as they strode quickly through the darkness. Occasionally another person would join or leave the company, and at one time there were five of them in total. The few women who were still out were all accompanied by men, and they tended not to offer their opinions unless asked. It was a pleasant way to pass the journey, but as they passed through Brixton the last of them turned off to their accommodation and bade Kevin goodnight. “Nearly there,” chirped the Doctor as Kevin looked up the long and dark expanse of what would become known as the A23 up Brixton Hill, wishing he could catch a bus to the stop at Telford Avenue. The Doctor’s earlier description of the area as rural had not been a joke. The road itself was a rutted and pitted track, on which stones and gravel had been cast over the years to provide a more solid bed. Whilst there were some large mansion houses on either side, they were spaced out. Being outside the city, there wasn’t a single outside light on and it was pitch black. But it wasn’t entirely silent – dogs barked and occasionally there were sounds of domestic birds – geese and chickens, he guessed. He stopped a couple of times to look back at the expanding view of the city, a few miles away. A vast plume of smoke and burning embers pointed down at the glow of the Palace of Westminster, but other than that he could only see the ghostly outline of buildings in the soft glow of the lamps placed outside them. When he reached the top of the hill, the busy junction with what would become the South Circular was empty. There wasn’t even the familiar landmark of Christ Church. The only thing familiar to him was a building on the opposite side with a pub sign outside it. It was identical to the one he’d known in his own lifetime: The Crown and Sceptre. It looked newly built, and there were stables at the rear. The road to his right stretched down to the empty farmland around Balham and Clapham. On the road ahead of him into Streatham Hill there were great mansion houses. “Home, I guess,” said Kevin. “Correct. Keep walking a couple of hundred yards.” Kevin did as he was told until the Doctor spoke again. “Here we are, on your right." “Wow! This is yours? I can’t believe you swapped it for what you have now.” “I bought this whole area as the Romans marched up from the south coast,” said the Doctor. “I slowly sold bits of it off over the years.” “You’ll have done alright out of it, then.”



“South London’s done alright out of me,” said the Doctor. “Ever wondered why it has all the green space and not much in the way of high-rise like north London?” “It’s just a shame all these lovely old buildings were demolished.” “That’s what you humans call progress.” The drive was an enormous semicircle of gravel, which Kevin realised was to allow carriages to turn, and the garden it cut through was neatly manicured. The crunch of his footsteps seemed very loud in the darkness of the small hours. The front door had an ornate window above it, and as he climbed the steps he could see by the flickering shadows that a yellow light was moving somewhere within. He reached tentatively for the bell, but before he touched it the door opened a crack and a young woman’s face peered at him. She held an oil lamp above her head – whether it was to see him more clearly or literally to lamp him with, Kevin wasn’t quite sure. “Good… morning, Miss,” said Kevin. “I’m the Doctor’s assistant.” “Are you, indeed?” said the young woman, tetchily. “Well that makes two of us. You had better come in.” She lowered the lamp and opened the door wider, checking Kevin’s feet for mud. “Well, there’s proof positive of your credentials,” she said when she saw they were clean despite his journey. She stuck her head out for a quick look around the neighbourhood and then closed the door. “You saw the burning of the Houses of Parliament, then?” she asked. “Yes. It was quite spectacular.” “Hmph . I saw some of it from the Surrey bank. So that was you in the boat with the great Turner.” It wasn’t a question, and not even a statement – it was more of an accusation. “Uh, yes. How did you know?” She rolled her eyes at him. “Because the Doctor pointed him out. It really should have been me in that boat. This is my time, after all.” “Social mores, Cassandra,” said the Doctor, entering the oak-panelled hallway. It was exactly the same Doctor How that Kevin had known in his own time – the clothing, his age, his demeanour. He was still in a male body, as he would have been then, and without any idea about his forthcoming regeneration as a woman. The Doctor’s voice came into his head through his hat again. “This is where I sign off. Protocol. My former self will ask you nothing and you will



tell him nothing. You will also tell Cassandra nothing . Understood? Nod your head.” Kevin nodded his head. Cassandra gave him an odd look. “Doctor,” said Kevin, extending his right hand. “How good to see you.” The Doctor regarded Kevin’s filthy hand. “There’s soap in the wash and water closet room. Please wash your hands thoroughly right up to past the wrist at least three times before you enter the rest of the house. This is the age of cholera. I see you have made Cassandra’s acquaintance.” “Uh, yes. Hello Cassandra.” For the first time he looked at her properly. She was slightly shorter than him at around five feet six, had red hair tucked up under her night cap, a freckled complexion, lively emerald eyes and a nose that he couldn’t help thinking of as ‘cute’. She caught him looking at her and scowled. “Easy, Tiger,” said the Doctor to Cassandra. “I see you have the painting from Joseph,” said the Doctor, nodding at the tube of paper in Kevin’s left hand. “Yeah, well if you’ll excuse the fact that it’s obviously smothered in cholera and scabies and God alone knows what else,” said Kevin . “I do think someone needs refreshment,” said the Doctor. “Let me take that off you so that you can ablute. I take it you have seen it?” “I saw it in my own time. The first time I met you.” “Enough information!” said the Doctor. He unfurled the paper and Cassandra held up her lamp for him. “Oh, it’s remarkable. Such a beautif– Your fingerprint!” he exclaimed. “You nincompoop! Your sooty fingerprint is on the back of my Turner watercolour!” “But –” “Yes, yes. I’m sure I will have learnt to live with it one-hundred-andeighty years hence. But it doesn’t lessen the initial shock for me. You had to do what you were destined to do, even if it were an act of incompetence . I’m surprised I took you on in the knowledge that you would besmirch this great and precious work of art.” There was a triumphant gleam in Cassandra’s green eyes. “I did make a suggestion, Doctor,” she said. “Enough of your prophecies ,” muttered the Doctor darkly, casting her a glance that caused her to tighten her lips. “I can’t help who I am,” said Kevin, hotly. “And it’s only the back of the picture – could have been worse.”



“What’s this?” said the Doctor. “A second painting?” He pulled out a second sheet from behind the first and looked at it. How’s eyes almost popped out in amazement. “Do you know anything about this?” he spluttered. “About what?” asked Kevin. “This!” The Doctor held up a sketch of a young man sitting in the prow of a boat watching the Houses of Parliament burning. The clothing looked familiar, and he glanced across at himself in a mirror to check his clothes. “Is that –” “Yes. It’s you . Joseph Mallord William flaming Turner has painted a watercolour of you . And what’s this? He’s written something on it. It’s a title! Master Thomson Watches the Burning of the Houses of Parliament .” “Oh, la-di-da!” said Cassandra caustically. “I can’t help if the guy liked me,” protested Kevin. “I’m a decent fellow, as you would say in these apparently cruel times.” “I can see in your clumsy haste you’ve managed to put your paw-print on the front of your portrait. There, at least, is justice.” “You should be grateful that my picture protected yours, then.” “Go and get washed so that I can get you fed and watered,” said the Doctor. “Oi! I’m not livestock, you know.” “I’m surprised you’re not dead stock with this kind of behaviour,” said the Doctor. “Clearly standards of assistants are slipping.” “Don’t say I didn’t tell you,” said Cassandra. The Doctor fixed her with a glare. “They’ve been slipping for quite some time , young lady,” he growled. Kevin smiled at Cassandra, who stuck her tongue out at him. “Children, children,” scolded the Doctor, and walked off towards the back of the house. “The washroom and water closet are in there,” said Cassandra. “Three times, remember. Past the wrist. I shall wait here for you.” Kevin went into the downstairs toilet room and washed his hands thoroughly. The soap smelled of animal fat mixed with cheap perfume. There was a bottle of medicinal alcohol with an atomiser next to the sink, so he sprayed his hands. He guessed that the Doctor had to use whatever there was in the era he found himself. His guests must think him eccentric, but such behaviour from a scientist might have been much more acceptable at that time. Given the social circles the Doctor moved in, perhaps he was even the



basis for the stereotype of the eccentric and reclusive scientist? Cassandra didn’t say a word to him as she took him down the passage to the pantry, where a selection of bread, cold meat, cheese and heavy fruit cake had been laid out, together with a jug of watery ale. He needed no invitation to tuck in. Neither, he noticed, did Cassandra – she’d clearly been waiting for his arrival. The Doctor did not eat, and Kevin wondered what period it would be before the Doctor trusted human hygiene standards enough to be less reliant on his Spectrel. Probably never, he thought. “I fear neither of us can make light conversation with you, Kevin,” said the Doctor. “My concern is that you will give away too much information about our future. I go out of my way never to meet myself in any other time.” “Fair dos,” said Kevin between mouthfuls. “So what’s next?” “I understand your mission is now over. My guess is that you will return to your own time.” “Yes, but I have now –” The pantry door opened and Walter When popped his head around the door. He was wearing his twenty-first century postman’s uniform, and doffed his cap at Cassandra. She looked slightly surprised at his clothing. “S-s-sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I think you’d better be going now, Kevin. There’s been a development. My Spectrel is in the basement.” “Oh my,” said Cassandra. “Leaving so soon, Kevin. What a terrible shame.” “As I said, Miss Cassandra. There’s been a development. You’re coming too. Doctor’s orders.” “But –” “You must say goodbye to this time.” “Forever?” “Yes. Forever.” Cassandra looked at the Doctor. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “It's a future me giving you the orders. I have no idea what’s behind the decision.” “So it’s goodbye then? I’m no longer in your service? ” “You’re still in my service in the future, you ninny. Now be gone with you.” “But you will be without an assistant.” “There’ll be another along soon enough.” Cassandra’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Come, then!” she said, and grabbed



When’s elbow. “I know where I’m not wanted.” The Doctor’s tone was nonchalant as he called after her. “You are wanted by me in the future, Tiger. Until we meet again.” She did not reply, but her mood was transmitted by way of her heels stamping on the wooden floor. They disappeared down some stone steps. Kevin took a last morsel from the table and got up to follow the other two. “Well, nice to meet you in this time, Doctor.” “Thank you for looking after Turner and delivering my painting. I shall keep yours safe, and it shall age naturally with mine. Now that you know of its existence you can claim it in your own time. I imagine it will be worth a pretty penny.” “Thanks,” said Kevin. “But I can’t see me ever selling it.” “I’d wager you wouldn’t have said that before I employed you.” “Yeah, I –” The Doctor held up his hand. “I cannot hear it, but it is enough to know you have learnt that value is different from price. Goodbye for now.” “Cheerio, Doctor,” said Kevin, wondering whether this was the last time he’d see his employer as a man. “It was nice meeting you.” He held out his hand. The Doctor eyed him a little suspiciously and then shook it. “Get going, lad. You’ll be late. You know I’m a stickler for time.” Kevin trotted down to the cellar, where When’s red post office box was standing next to Doctor How’s red telephone box. He swung open the door of the box and climbed in.



Entering When’s Spectrel from the oil-lamp gloom of the nineteenth century meant that Kevin’s eyes didn’t need to adjust. He could see clearly the drab interior of display cases and standalone pieces. The glow of the 3D projection of the alien ship added enough light to see things more clearly than usual. Kevin’s nineteenth century clothes morphed back into his combat suit. The glasses in his pocket changed into goggles and his hat back into a balaclava. He took the headgear off and ruffled his hair. Cassandra was standing in front of the control panel, having a heated argument with Doctor How, who was only present as a disembodied voice. When looked over at him and put his fingers to his lips and shook his head vigorously. “What do you mean ‘It’s not much of a choice’? I rather like living in my own era. I was born there.” “You have no family there.” “But I have status . More status than most women. I can’t and shan’t give that up!” “Please, Tiger. There is more status for you in other times.” “But you could decide I’m a risk and just dump me in any time you choose. Or befuddle my mind and drop me back into obscurity in my own time.” “Wouldn’t it be better to have lived in the now, for at least a time in your life? I can promise you adventure.” “Well I’m not sharing a bunk or a hammock with him. ” She pointed an angry finger at Kevin. “No one’s asking you to share anything other than the role of assistant.” “I rather enjoyed my exclusivity.” “And I’m sure Kevin enjoyed his. ” “I was here first. I demand seniority.” “Tiger, please.” “Hey!” exclaimed Kevin, walking over towards the control panel. “How come she gets a nickname and I don’t, Doc?” “We’ve had this discussion before, Kevin. You don’t need a nickname.”



“Apparently Cassandra does, though.” He could sense Cassandra bristling with pride a few feet away, her anger gone. “Look, I can’t go around thinking of nicknames for assistants all the time. I have important things to do. For one thing, I’ve got this alien space ship to deal with. It’s got another charge going off and it’s taking an inordinate amount of energy for me to hold it.” “I’m not going to let this one go,” said Kevin. “It’s an issue we’ll have to discuss later. Right?” The Doctor spluttered. “Alright. Now, T– Cassandra –” “Tiger ,” insisted Cassandra, smiling triumphantly at Kevin. “Tiger. Are you in or out?” “Oh, I think you can count me in,” she said. “If nothing else, it will be amusing to watch this one floundering.” She jabbed a thumb in Kevin’s direction. “You’re to work as a team ,” growled the Doctor. Cassandra sighed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, very well. If you insist .” “Thank you so much for your commitment.” “My absolute pleasure.” “Go and get kitted out. I’ve transported your clothing and your combat suit to some temporary quarters that Walter has kindly created for you. One of his house-bots will show you there.” “Jolly good,” said Cassandra, and followed a house-bot out of the control room. It looked distinctly steampunk in its construction – made of polished wood and brass. It was a classic When design. “She doesn’t know, does she?” asked Kevin . “About what?” asked the Doctor’s voice. “You being a woman now.” “No. She doesn’t. And she doesn’t need to know, so don’t tell her." “I thought –” “We haven’t got time.” “And the split – you know, with your cousins?” “No need for her to know just yet. She’ll get all confused and angry.” “I thought it was pretty straightforward.” “You’re forgetting that she lived in an era before we split up. We were working as a team back then.” “Gotcha.” “If you take a seat, one of my med-bots will fit you with a chip.”



“A chip?” “Languages. You need more languages, lad. At the moment all you’ve got is bad English and London early twenty-first century street.” “I got a C in my French GCSE!” “French ? If only your people knew about the French.” “What about her?” “Already fitted.” “Nice to know I’m a priority.” “She’s been in my employ a long time. You’ve not needed one until now.” The med-bot arrived and swabbed the base of Kevin’s skull, just above the neck. It reached out with a couple of padded claws to hold his head steady. “What’s it doing?” “Sharp scratch,” said the Doctor. Kevin felt a needle go in. Anaesthetic, he guessed. “Don’t move a muscle,” warned the Doctor. A couple of seconds later he felt some pressure, then the ghastly sensation of something breaking his skin and going deeper, then deeper still. There was a dreadful moment when he felt whatever it was break through bone into his brain cavity. “Is this the language chip?” “Bravo. Done.” The med-bot let go of his head. He reached around to rub the spot where he’d felt the needle go in but felt nothing. “Wow, that healed quick.” “Healed?” “You just gave me, like, keyhole brain surgery, Doc. This is amazing. There’s no puncture wound. You installed an entire chip in my brain and the hole is healed already!” “Oh, that. That was just an illusion.” “What? ” “The chip was, to use a term you’d understand, teleported into your brain. Similar to what the Spectrel does, but permanent.” “But… the injection. The keyhole surgery.” “There wasn’t any.” “Eh?” “It was just an illusion. I just told you. I wish you’d pay attention.” “What? ” The Doctor let out an impatient sigh. “The Spectrel’s analysis was that



your fidgety personality type would be inclined to move, so we decided to scare the you-know-what out of you to keep still.” “But that’s totally uneth–” “Spare me the lecture on ethics, Kevin. No offence, but you’d not take etiquette lessons from a monkey.” Kevin opened his mouth to protest, but the Doctor continued. “Now, a quick test. Do you see the text in that projection over there?” “Yeah, it’s Russian. Cyrillic script, isn’t that what they call it? Whatever, I can’t read no Russian, you know that.” “Think again. Look at it.” “You. Are. Flippin’. Kidding me. ‘Workers of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains.’ ” “Excellent, Kevin. Congratulations on your new language skills.” “That’s exactly the kind of sentence you would take umbrage to. Communism, innit?” “Oh, yes. But that’s the sort of thing you’ll be encountering.” “What ?” “Now, try speaking the sentence.” Kevin’s mind was completely boggled when he heard himself speaking Russian, and not just speaking Russian, but being aware that he was hearing himself talking Russian and understanding what he was saying – and even being able to identify his own accent. His reality felt like it had gone through a wringer as he tried to comprehend the enormity of this gift. “Is it just, like, Russian you’ve installed?” “Nope. It’s the whole shebang, including Squill. Quite honestly, you’ve been falling behind in your lessons.” “Wow! Uh. Hang on. You’re gonna take this out when I get back home, ain’t you? Like not being able to use the Con-Bat and my suit. Forbidden technology, innit?” “It’s an organic biochip. It’s grown into your brain. It’s undetectable to your culture. I might choose to disable it.” “No, no. It’s alright. Really. I don’t mind.” “It can be terribly annoying, being able to understand everyone and everything around you.” “Oh, I’m sure I can learn to live with it. Really.” “Good. By the way, thanks for distracting Cassandra earlier.” “What?”



“That thing you did. Deliberately distracting her with the thing about the nickname in order to stop her from arguing. Very clever.” “Erm…” “You obviously learnt a lot from the woman who does talking therapy.” “Uh. Yeah. Um, I thought it would be a powerful tactic. You know, appeal to her status-driven personality. ” “Smart, Kevin. You’re really moving up a gear. Well done.” “Yeah, thanks. No problem. I would like one, though.” “What?” “A nickname.” “Oh, don’t let’s get into this.” “I really want a nickname, Doc. Especially if she’s got one.” “What on earth am I going to call you? You’re most famous for your love of Jamaican jerk chicken and patties. So would ‘Jerk’ or ‘Patty’ be okay with you? Actually, one of those suits you pretty well.” The door from the living quarters of When’s Spectrel opened and in strode Cassandra, with Trinity brushing around her legs. Kevin’s eyes practically popped out of his head. She was wearing the same kind of skin-tight combat suit that he wore. Her figure was athletic, with just the right amount of curves to arouse his interest. Her flaming red hair was in a ponytail. She looked stunning. “What?” she asked, shooting him a withering look. She gave her Con-Bat a test swing. “Nothing,” he said a little too quickly. She turned her attention to the 3D projection. “I saw the briefing whilst I was getting changed, so I understand why Kevin was sent to my time,” she said. “Now what’s next? What are we going to destroy?” There was a real gleam in her eye. “You’re going to the USSR,” said the Doctor. “Oh? What’s that?” “It stands for United Socialist Soviet Republic,” said Kevin. “Near enough,” said the Doctor. “Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” “I know what a republic is,” said Cassandra. “It’s one of those awful antimonarchist things those dreadful Frenchies have. But what’s a soviet?” “Um. It’s like a committee,” said Kevin. “So it’s a republic of committees?” laughed Cassandra. “What kind of buffoon would ever think to form a republic of committees and ever hope for



it to work?” “The Russians,” said Kevin. “The Russians ? I would have thought it was invented by the Dolts.” “Yes, yes. The Dolts’ hands were all over it. But let us get back to the matter in hand,” said Doctor How. “The problem is that this damned alien ship has now reset its parameters in response to the last energy discharge. It’s in the process of firing a very highly concentrated blast and I won’t be able to spread it like I did with that last one.” “And so?” asked Kevin. “You’re off to Semipalatinsk.” “That’s easy for you to say,” said Kevin. “Which is where?” asked Cassandra. “Kazakhstan.” “Same question,” said Cassandra. “Better answer, please.” “North-west of China and south of Russia,” said the Doctor. “Good enough. What are we going to do?” “You’re going to attend Perviya Molniya .” “First Lightning,” translated Kevin. “What’s that?” “The Soviet Union’s first nuclear weapon test. Now, Walter. Do you have the necessary item?” When had been sitting quietly since warning Kevin to keep quiet. He looked terribly down. “Yes. I do.” “Cool,” said Kevin. “What have you got? I bet you’ve got one of their timers or detonators, haven’t you? We’re gonna have to infiltrate the factory and swap one of the components. Or maybe even dismantle the bomb at the testing site and substitute it. Yeah?” “Walter does have such a priceless timer in his collection of the correct era.” When looked up to protest but thought better of it. “But until now he didn’t know that I knew. Anyway, he’s going to give you a watch.” “I’m sure it would achieve a better effect if we were to use a timer, wouldn’t it?” “I’m not having you two playing around with the assembly of nuclear weapons. It’s a highly skilled job and requires the use of precision instruments." “We could take a bot to help us,” protested Kevin.



“For the last time, no . I know you like fiddling around with electronics but there’s a time and a place and this most definitely isn’t it.” When took a watch with a leather strap out of his pocket and Cassandra immediately snatched it from his hands. “Hey!” said Kevin. “Wrist watches are exclusively for women in my era. Besides, you got to carry the last one.” Cassandra examined the watch. “What on earth is wrong with this one, Walter?” “I-i-it’s a 24-hour dial,” said When. “Midnight at the top as zero, and noon at the bottom is twelve. Do you see?” “How utterly stupid,” said Cassandra. “This is taking modernity too far. I heard that the dreadful Frenchies were going to have all of Europe marching to the tick of a ten-hour clock before Wellington managed to stop Napoleon’s little game at Waterloo. As for their dreadful metric system, it will most assuredly be confined to the annals of history.” Kevin allowed himself a smirk, then realised that the rest of the Pleasant universe was indeed operating on the Imperial system of feet and inches, pounds and ounces, pints and gallons. “The c-c-curved lines connecting the numbers across the top half indicate when you might expect sunset and sunrise. Depending on your latitude and the season, of course.” When moved over to his brass and polished oak control panel and began twiddling dials. “And I might suggest that if you’re inside the Arctic Circle then a twenty-four hour watch face makes more sense because there are times when the sun doesn’t rise or set for weeks or months. It is very disorienting.” Cassandra strapped the watch to her wrist. “So what’s the deal, Doc?” asked Kevin . “We can’t get you any closer than two miles and one hour away.” “So we’ve got an hour to travel two miles and get back out? Could you not give us longer? Or let us fly?” “You can’t fly because I want you to have your camouflage on and there seems to be a malfunction. Yes, I could give you longer. As previously explained, but for the benefit of Cassandra, I will state again that there is a risk that you might be sucked into the time warp being generated. The bigger the gap I leave, the higher the risk.” “Gotcha.” “What’s he talking about?” asked Cassandra. “That spiralling thing behind the alien ship. Like a whirlpool in time and



space. You don’t want to be sucked into it. You could end up absolutely anywhere.” “I see.” “We are here,” said When, looking up from the control panel. “Semipalatinsk test site, August 29th , 1949. Six o’clock in the morning local time.” “Well,” said Doctor How’s disembodied voice. “If there were two assistants I never envisaged working together, it would be you two. Please do remember to work as a team.” “Honestly, Doc. I don’t have a pro –” “Stop dilly-dallying,” said Cassandra. “Let’s get a move on.” She gave him a shove towards the exit. He clambered out of the red post office box into the dry grassy scrub of the Kazakhstan steppe. His suit and gloves blended in with the background and he had difficulty in picking them out against the background until he thought about changing the settings on his goggles. “Budge!” Cassandra shoved his back. “Haven’t you learnt the etiquette for entering and exiting Spectrels?” “I gave you loads of room.” “No you didn’t.” “I did. I moved two or three f – ” “Cut it out! The pair of you.” The Doctor’s voice came through into Kevin’s head and he could tell by Cassandra’s body language that she’d heard it too. “She’s not even camouflaged, Doc!” “Yes she is. Your goggles are smart enough to pick each other out. Now, can you both just get going? Follow the instructions on your goggles. Hurry up!” They started walking along a dirt track on a bearing highlighted by the navigation display on their goggles. “Doc?” asked Kevin. “Is it a mission critical question?” “Yeah. Kinda.” “Go on then.” “When you said we have an hour. That’s an hour until… what? Until we get picked up, whether we got the watch there or not?" “No. It’s an hour until the Russians detonate their thermonuclear device. In



fact, you only have fifty-eight minutes now.” “Oh, gawd.” “Exactly. Buck your ideas up. I can have no further communication with you.” “But what if –” “Every transdimensional communication increases the risk. It’s an easy enough task. Just get on with it.” Kevin broke into a light jog, finding that his suit made it considerably easier than he would otherwise have found it. “What does the Doctor mean by ‘thermonuclear’?” “Nuclear weapons, innit? Heat given off by the nucleus of the atom when it’s split.” “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” “Creates a big explosion, basically. So big that they measure it in kilotons of TNT.” “What of what?” “Thousands of tons of TNT. Like, this one is gonna be about twenty kilotons of TNT.” “What’s TNT?” “Like dynamite, yeah?” “Dynamite?” He turned to look at her, but her face was masked by her balaclava. But he could tell she wasn’t kidding. “Gunpowder?” he asked. “Yes. Of course I know what that is.” “TNT is, like, so much more powerful than gunpowder.” “I see. And the Russians have a big pile of this stuff that they’re going to blow up?” “No. It’s a small lump of metal. They’ll put enough of it together to make a critical mass. When you get that critical mass you get what’s called a chain reaction. It happens in an instant. Then boom .” “Oh.” There was the sound of a vehicle approaching them at high speed from up ahead, pinpointed by the cloud of dust behind it on the dirt track as it came over the brow of a small undulation. “What’s –” “Let’s get off the track.” Kevin jumped over to the left and Cassandra followed. They kept running forward. Ten seconds later a jeep raced down



the track. It was driven by a young soldier, and there were two older men in the back. “What on earth was that ?” “I bet those were the last of the technicians leaving the area.” “No. The thing they were in.” “Um. A jeep. I think you would call it a ‘horseless carriage’ in your day.” “I’ve never heard of such a thing. It was more like a steam locomotive without a railway track. Or steam. Unless there are some invisible railway tracks on this road? And those wheels looked so fat! Is that something to do with it?” “What are you on about?” “The wheels on that… jeep . They were so chubby. Wheels should be thin and large in diameter for minimum friction and maximum comfort.” There was a note of superiority in her voice – this was evidently cutting-edge knowledge in her era. “You’ve never been into the future?” “No. Have you?” “Well, no . But this is the past for me. That was a museum piece. Probably World War Two.” “What ? But we destroyed the French army less than twenty years ago in my time!” “The Germans invaded France and we –” “Are you trying to tell me we go to war with our own Royal Family? Don’t be absurd .” “Well –” “Oh. I get it. The Doctor warned me you were an inveterate teller of tall tales.” “Did he? Nice to know. Thanks.” “You’re just pulling my leg to help pass this tedious journey. Nice try.” “Whatevs.” “Pardon?” “Whatever you say, Cassandra.” “I wish you’d learn to sp –” She stopped and Kevin instinctively stopped. They’d come to the top of a slight rise in the ground. Before them was a valley, and laid out in the centre was what looked like a small town with a river running through it. Military hardware was also in evidence – tanks, jeeps, and armoured cars. Dozens of aircraft – fighters, bombers and civilian,



all propeller-driven, had been flown on one-way journeys onto rough landing strips and parked up in a variety of positions and distances – facing into, away, sideways or halfway into or away from the tower which rose two hundred feet above the centre of the town. And then they saw the animals. Hundreds of sheep, cows and pigs were tethered to stakes. They had just enough elevation in their position to see that the livestock were arranged in concentric circles. It must have been a mammoth task to transport and arrange them. Many had clearly been out for at least a day and were looking distressed. “We have to get a move on,” said Kevin. “We have about half an hour to get in and out.” “The animals?” “Barbecue time. Oh, a barb –” “I’m quite familiar with the term, thank you. I find your humour inappropriate.” “Look, there’s nothing we can do about the animals. I bet this place was built with slave labour under horrific conditions. The Soviets killed millions of their own people.” They jogged on down the dirt track towards the town. Presently Cassandra said, “If this is what the future’s like, I can’t say I’m keen on it. These metal locomotives with cannons on top must chew soldiers up. It is butchery. And as for those flying machines, I can’t imagine what angry wasps they must make and the stings they must inflict.” “Honestly, it’s not all bad. Child mortality is low.” “It would need to be to provide all the bodies for this military meatgrinding machine.” “Um. We don’t have capital punishment.” “What ? How monstrous!” “No. I said we don’t have capital punishment.” “Yes. How utterly monstrous. What do you do? Let murderers live out their natural lives in jail?” “No. Most of them are released aft–” She shot him a look. “Oh, forget it.” They had now entered the outskirts of the town, which even had freshly tarmacked roads. There was a mix of brick and wooden houses, and they had been built at a variety of angles to the tower. He trotted over to one of the houses and looked around before opening the door. It opened straight onto a mock living-room. A large pig squealed at him. It had been trussed up and



left on a sofa facing a large window, through which the tower was visible. It had soiled itself and, although his balaclava masked the stench, it let enough through to let him know it was overpowering. Cassandra squinted in after him. “How utterly barbaric. And there’s you letting murderers get away scot-free!” “It’s not me ,” said Kevin. “And these are the bad guys. They keep killing by the millions. They have punishment camps and everything. Gulags.” “Wha –” He grabbed her shoulders and looked into her goggles. “We really don’t have time. The Doc says it’s something about moral relativism.” “Moral relativism? What’s that?” “I really have no idea at all. But he always brings it up. We just need to get that watch to the top of the tower and then get the hell out of here. All of this,” he swept his hand before him, “is going to be completely obliterated by the explosion from the bomb on the top of that tower. In,” he glanced at his display, “less than thirty minutes. Come on.” She pushed him out of the way and entered the living room. She took her Con-Bat out of its sheath and tapped the pig gently on the forehead. It went limp, but its rib cage still rose and fell peacefully. “Any comments?” she said coldly as she brushed past. “No,” he mumbled. “Nice touch.” As they ran towards the base of the tower, the sun briefly went behind the shadow of the bomb platform on top. They got to the end of the street they were on and turned right, onto the street that led to the base of the tower. He heard a distant hum and looked up. A four-engine Soviet bomber was cruising overhead at high altitude. Its polished anti-flash skin glistened in the sunlight. He scanned the sky and saw that there were other aircraft: all part of the test. Cassandra followed his gaze. “There are men in those?” “Yep. And maybe women. ” They reached the rectangular base of the tower. It narrowed towards the top, where an enormous metal bomb had been winched into place. Around it there was an inspection platform three feet wide, which jutted out from the tower. It was surrounded with barbed wire for good measure. “There’s a ladder in that corner,” said Cassandra. They jogged over to it. “You first,” she said. “No thanks. Ladies first,” he said.



“I don’t want you leering lasciviously up my petticoats.” “You’re not wearing petticoats – you’re in a combat suit.” “Oh. Yes. Sorry.” “Look, you can stay here and I’ll go up. It doesn’t need two people to put a watch on a bomb.” “I’m not letting you grab all the glory! Especially not after you went for a boat ride with JMW Turner last night.” Cassandra set off up the tower. He waited a couple of seconds to give her space, then followed her. The powered suit and the extra grip provided by the gloves and boots made it much easier, but it still felt like hard going. He heard her footsteps stop, so he stopped and looked up. “Are you ogling my derriere ?” “I only looked up because you stopped.” “A likely story.” He shook his head in despair and she continued on up until she reached the base of the steel inspection platform. She stopped again. “Now what?” he asked. “The trapdoor. It’s locked.” “You’re kidding.” He looked past her and saw that there was a heavy padlock on the bottom of the trapdoor. “They take their security seriously. So what are we going to do?” “Con-bat?” he suggested. “No telling what it might do.” A siren echoed around the town. He’d noticed a few metal megaphonetype speakers planted on buildings . “What’s that?” she asked. “Fifteen-minute warning, I think.” A harsh military voice confirmed in Russian that it was, indeed, the fifteen-minute warning. She drew out her Con-Bat from its sheath and then bashed upwards against the trapdoor. It was knocked clean off its hinges and banged and clanged loudly back down onto the base of the platform. There was a loud squawking. A couple of buzzards took off from the top of the tower and wheeled away level with them. “Drat!” she said. “Someone might have seen that.” “On the plus side,” said Kevin. “The buzzards’ take-off might have confused any observer at this distance.” She climbed up onto the platform and he followed her.



“Quite a view,” she said. “Such an extraordinary sight, all these machines and this town waiting to be blown to smithereens.” “Speaking of which, can we just put the watch down and go?” “Of course.” She turned around to examine the fat grey metal object which dominated the platform. It was several feet long and the height of a man. There were fins at one end and a glass-covered lens system at the front. “Where shall I put it, do you think?” “Right on top of the middle.” He put a hand on the bomb. It was warm to the touch, unlike any of the structure of the tower. He had to trust that his suit was protecting him from the radiation generating the heat. She took out the watch and placed it on top of the bomb. “Easy,” she said. “Just like the Doctor said it would be.” “Suspiciously so,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” “I’m sure our suits will protect us.” “I really don’t think you understand the power of one of these things.” “Stuff and nonsense. Let’s stay and watch.” “What ? ” “You heard me. I’d like to stay and watch.” “Are you out of your mind?” “I don’t mean from up here, you silly boy. I’m not daft enough to sit next to a barrel of gunpowder, for heaven’s sake.” “It would be more like putting your head into a cannon,” he said, and began climbing down the ladder as fast as he could. To his relief, she began after him. “We’ve got just over twelve minutes,” he said. “When we get to the bottom we’re going to have to run like hell.” “Yes, yes.” They got to the bottom of the tower and began running. “It’s just that you got to see the Houses of Parliament go up in flames from the river. I only saw it from the bank.” “Eh?” “That’s why I want to see this thing.” “When will have it as a projection in his Spectrel.” “If I had wanted to watch a magic lantern show I’d have stayed in my own time.” “You really don’t understand, do you? Things get vaporised. The first time they set one of these things off, all that was left of some people was their shadows.”



“How could it possibly leave their shadows if the light has gone? Your science sounds like a fairy tale.” “Suit yourself.” They left the outskirts of the town and raced back up the dirt track they’d come in on, spooking some of the animals, who could hear and smell their progress, and see the little puffs of dust they were kicking up. Kevin did some mental calculations. Somehow, he was managing a fiveminute mile over the rough terrain. He suspected that it wasn’t the suit holding him back so much as the terrain and the design of the human body – and his in particular. They could just about make it to the two-mile perimeter, where he assumed When would be able to pick them up. It would be a close thing, but he felt relaxed about it because that always seemed to be the way with the Doctor’s adventures. The dirt track curved away and the navigation system kept them on a straight bearing, so they were now running over the grass and scrub, which made progress more difficult. He saw Cassandra nearly stumble after misjudging the density of a small bush. His right foot hit air and then it felt like something had grabbed it. He hit the ground hard, face first. Despite his suit’s protection, he was still jarred and it took him a couple of seconds to register what had happened as he saw Cassandra running off without him. His right ankle felt really sore, and he could feel his foot was at the lip of a rabbit hole. He pulled his foot out and rolled onto his back. He winced in pain as he rotated his right ankle. At least it wasn’t broken – he’d learnt enough from his mother to know that. The suit had probably saved him. He heard quick footsteps behind him draw to a stop. “Can you walk?” asked Cassandra. “We don’t need to walk, we need to run.” He glanced at his display. “Oh, no. We have about ninety seconds.” “I can carry you.” “At about half the speed, if that. We’re not going to make it.” He looked back at the tower and thought about the distance. The reading came back as just over three thousand yards. At the back of his head there were memories of documentaries he’d seen about American soldiers being deliberately exposed to nuclear blasts during exercises. “Shall I just leave you then? I know the Doctor’s lost assistants before.” “Thanks for both of your offers. I don’t think you have a hope in hell of



making it now either. Let’s start digging. There’s a slight natural dip in the ground here already. It should provide some protection. If we can dig a trench too, we might just be okay.” They got out their Con-Bats. She grabbed hers with both hands and plunged it into the rabbit hole, tearing back a large furrow of earth and scrub. He got on his knees and began doing the same thing. The Con-Bats understood what they were trying to do and projected spade-like force fields at their tips. The subsoil was stony and crossed with woody roots. In the distance they heard the one-minute warning over the loudspeakers. They slogged on in silence. “Thirty seconds,” he said, grateful for the massive amount of power being delivered by their suits. They continued frantically for another twenty seconds. They had a trench two feet wide, eighteen inches deep and six feet long. He stood up, wincing with pain. “Okay, get in. Lie face down with the arms tucked under your body and feet together.” “Talk about a shallow grave,” she said. “I’ll lie on top and cover you.” “Oh, no you don’t.” “What?” “Side-by-side.” “We have three sec–” He threw his Con-Bat into the trench, grabbed her around the arms and toppled them both into the hole. “Close your eyes!” There was a flash. He knew his goggles must have taken care of the worst of it, but still he could see bright light through his eyelids. “Was that it?” she said. “Stop squeezing me so tightly. So much for all your hogwash about –” The supersonic blast wave hit them like a slap from a giant’s hand. Then came a terrible screaming wind, beyond gale force, throwing detritus against the parts of their bodies that were nearest the top of the hole, their suits protecting them. After a few seconds the wind subsided and he could smell burning grass and scrub. “Blimey,” she said. “Brace!” shouted Kevin. The backdraft came rolling back over them, covering them in dust and detritus, and fanning the flames of the lighted scrubland all around them. Debris began to rain down, thumping into the earth around them.



“Erm... Is that the last bit, or is there more?” “Apart from the fire and the lethal radioactive fallout? Yes.” “Then you can jolly well let go of me now.” “With pleasure,” he said. “But at least I know the earth moved for you.” He let her go from his embrace, pulled himself out of the pit and kneeled on the scorched earth by the side of it. Although the suit was protecting him, he could tell it was still extremely hot. She got to her feet and handed him his Con-Bat, which she’d been lying on, and sheathed her own. “Thanks,” he said. He kicked himself mentally for not having used the newly-discovered shield function to provide a cover for their trench, but they’d got away with it. The grass and bushes were burning around them, and tons of dust still hung in the air, restricting visibility to no more than ten yards. They could hear the anguished cries of animals that had been unlucky enough to have survived. Overhead they could hear a dozen observation aircraft coming back into the area. A large piece of debris hit the ground nearby. He mentally ordered the Con-Bat to produce a shield like an umbrella and kneeled on one knee. “Get beside me.” She knelt down beside him, using her Con-Bat the same way. “I thought you said that was the last of it?” She looked up and pointed. “Golly! What’s that ?” A breeze from behind had opened up a gap in the dust and smoke. They could see the giant mushroom cloud slowly pushing its head tens of thousands of feet up into the stratosphere, the heated air roiling in its head. None of the photographs and films he’d seen had prepared him for the immensity of the cloud which towered over them just over a mile away. “Would you believe we call that a mushroom cloud?” “Do you know, for once, I would. It’s terrifying.” “Finally we agree on something.” A large piece of aircraft wing fluttered its way down through the air towards them like a leaf. It looked beautiful as it fell, but when it hit the ground it sliced into it like a meat cleaver. The pieces of debris got smaller as the minutes wore on. They got up and continued to use their Con-Bats as umbrellas. “Gosh,” she said. “I do see what you mean now. Is it always as bad as that?” “Eh?”



“When those things go off. Is it always as bad?” “Well, yes. Worse, in fact. The newer ones are ten or a hundred times as powerful.” “Well, how come your world is still there? In the future? Or do you have to live underground now?” “Oh. Only the Americans ever used them. Twice. To end that war I was talking about.” “Right. So there’s no more war?” “Uh... No. There’s war. Plenty of wars. Conventional wars.” “Conventional ? You make it sound so gentlemanly, or boring.” “I mean… Look, it’s a deterrent. No one wants to use these things.” “You’re mad.” “Now, it’s funny you should use the word mad. It stands for mutual assured dest–” “Really, Kevin. I don’t want to hear it.” “Come on, let’s get back to base. Wherever that is.” “Let’s take our time.” “Eh?” “I want to see what it’s like. Aren’t you curious?” “Sure, why not? We’ve already missed our rendezvous and the Doctor won’t be hopping mad at all.” “He’s always hopping mad about something, surely you must know that by now.” “I guess you’re right.” “How’s the ankle?” “Not so bad, thanks. I think the suit is compressing it to keep the swelling down.” “That’s our excuse – injury slowed us up.” The breeze picked up and when they reached the lip of the valley they could see the destruction wrought by the bomb. Not a building in the town was left standing, and all the animals caught out of cover were dead. The planes were either gone or in pieces. The armoured vehicles were on fire, flipped over, or both. Aircraft were now swarming over the site and into the radioactive plume at various levels. A goat ran around blindly on its tether nearby, half of its fur burnt off. Cassandra ran over and killed it with a single swing of her Con-Bat. “Makes me glad I’ve got one of these,” she said, clutching the hilt of her



Con-Bat. “They’re not from your time, I take it?” “No. Tsk Army issue, aren’t they?” “Yes. Wherever Tsk is.” Presently they turned around and walked back towards their rendezvous. “You know Trinity’s named after the first one of these?” “Really?” “Yeah, the Americans codenamed their first test Trinity. You can see why the Doc called her that.” “Yes,” said Cassandra triumphantly. “It’s great to have a nickname.” “You pair of gibbering idiots!” shouted the Doctor. “You nearly got yourselves killed.” Kevin and Cassandra were sitting in bathrobes in When’s control room, having been through extensive and uncomfortable decontamination. Although their suits would have protected them, When was taking no chances. “We got the job done, Doc,” protested Kevin. “I tripped and fell.” He pointed to a med-bot, which was giving physiotherapy to his right ankle. “I’ve looked over your recordings – you had plenty of time for that mission. You were already badly behind schedule by then.” “It was my fault,” said Cassandra. “I dillied and dallied. I’d never seen the future before.” “You have a collective responsibility on these missions. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, Doctor,” chorused Kevin and Cassandra. “Right. Anyway,” continued the Doctor, her male disembodied voice calmer. “Mission accomplished. Well done on that count. Of course, it’s left the Russians scratching their heads as to why the yield was so much higher than expected.” She chuckled. “Takes some of the sting out of their weapons programme, at least for a short time.” The alien ship was still projected in 3D in When’s control room. Kevin pointed at it. “Looks like it’s gearing up for another pop.” “Yes, its third and final attempt. I want to get rid of it once and for all.” “Great,” said Kevin. “Where are we going this time?” “Colchester.” “What ? Not bleedin’ Essex again ! This is deliberate isn’t it? You know I hate Essex.”



“Pipe down, lad. It’s not called Colchester and it’s not called Essex where you’re going.” “Well, if it isn’t,” said Cassandra, “then what on earth is it? Are we going to the far-flung future?” “No. I am not adjusting any future time lines for this bellicose bozo with his blaster. I’m sending him into the dim and distant past. You’re going to Roman Colchester. Camulodunon , as it’s called in that era. It was the capital city, and not London.” “You can call it what you like, Doc – it’s still bleedin’ Essex. I imagine the people then were even less broad-minded than they are now.” “Blast it, Kevin. I keep telling you to judge people by their own time and society, and not your own.” “Excuse me,” said Cassandra. “Don’t you know your history, Kevin?" “Obviously not,” he said. “Wasn’t Roman Colchester sacked by Queen Boudica, Doctor?” “There you are, Kevin,” said the Doctor. “See the benefits of a classical education?” “Right. Big deal.” Cassandra rolled her eyes at him. “What I’m trying to tell you, if you’ll listen, is that we’re probably going to be responsible for destroying Roman Colchester. Am I right, Doctor?” “Bang on, Tiger. It was so thoroughly razed to the ground that the Romans moved the capital to London.” “Aw, sweet ,” said Kevin. “When do we start?” “AD61,” said Cassandra.



“Obviously I’m in charge of this one,” said Cassandra as she joined Kevin outside When’s Spectrel. It vanished, leaving them alone in a leafy glade. She hefted her small bag onto her shoulder and gave him an impatient look. He had an identical bag, but he kept it at his side. They each had emergency rations and a medical kit. The water clock they carried was split into a number of components, with Kevin carrying the heavier pieces. “What? How’d you work that one out?” “It’s nearer my time.” “Cobblers. You work it out and it’s hardly any nearer your time than mine in the grand scheme of things.” “Still nearer. And you’ve never been into the past.” “Yes I have.” “When?” “I went to your time.” “Oh, for God’s sake, Kevin.” She stomped off out of the clearing and into the woods along a narrow path. He jogged to catch up with her. They were both near to invisible to the human or animal observer, but the movement of the branches with spring growth on them would have given them away, even if their bickering hadn’t. “You can’t go storming off on your own,” he said. “You saw the briefing. Bears, wolves, Roman soldiers, British guerrilla fighters, rival warlords, brigands – you name it, it’s out there.” “Take it from me Kevin. I have been into the past and people are so superstitious they’d run a mile from us. Or bow down and worship us as gods or something.” “Or hack us to bits.” They walked on in silence for a minute. “The countryside doesn’t look that different, does it?” “How would you know? ” “What do you mean?” “I’ve been reading up on your era. You’re urbanised . A city boy. In fact,” she laughed, “the Doctor said you thought milk came from a machine on Old McDonald’s Farm. Well, I suppose you got at least one bit of that right.”



“I did not say that!” said Kevin. “I know milk comes from cows. It’s just that to all intents and purposes it doesn’t matter to me. If I want a milkshake, I go to McDonald’s. Which is a restaurant, and not a farm. And you’re a city girl too.” “Am not. My London is hardly as urbanised as your London. Asides from which, I’ve lived in the country for some of my life.” “In which case you’re a country bumpkin.” “Shut up.” “No, you shut up.” The wood cleared to a view of managed farmland, which looked utterly different from Kevin’s mental image of the countryside. There were small habitations dotted around the landscape – wattle and daub houses with thatched roofs. He’d been expecting them to look more like something out of the Tudor era: black timbers and whitewashed walls, but the walls were brown, making no attempt to disguise exactly what they were made of. The wind was slight, and faint plumes of white smoke issued from the tops of the houses and, in one or two that he could see – from the windows and doors too. Close in to the houses were livestock. Chickens were running around free but pigs were penned. Cattle, sheep and goats seemed to wander freely near the houses. All of the mammals were smaller than Kevin had seen on television or on school trips to a city farm, but the sheep were particularly small; their shoulders not much higher than the heads of the chickens. Fences that looked like they were woven from thin branches or saplings kept the animals away from the long strips of cultivated land, in which young green plants in their first stages of growth were pushing through the rich soil. There were copses of trees, some of which he realised must be orchards because of their geometric nature. Figures in the landscape worked singly and in pairs and threes. Many of the figures were so small that they must have been children under five. “Not changed that much,” said Cassandra, walking out onto a broader pathway, which he realised must be a road. It was a dirt track, with much less stone ballast than the ones he’d seen in nineteenth century London. “Yeah, right. So much for the great Roman roads, eh?” He skirted around a large puddle infested with insect larvae. “This is just a bridle path leading to the main road into Camulodunum, or Colchester. They haven’t been here much more than a decade or two – give them a chance. I think it’s jolly exciting.”



“Splendid , Cassandra. ” “Innit ?” she retorted. “You have no poetry in your soul, Kevin. Don’t you stop and wonder what your ancestors are up to in this landscape? Where are they and what are they doing?” “Not really. Half my ancestors are hundreds of miles away in Scotland, or Caledonia as it’s probably called, away from the jackboot or – jack-sandal – of the Roman Empire, trying to mind their own business in the barren and inhospitable Highland landscape. Either that or – since the Romans haven’t built Hadrian’s Wall yet – shooting arrows at them. The other half are in West Africa somewhere chillaxing under a mango tree or something, blissfully unaware that the White Man is going to subjugate them over a thousand years from now, then, after a mutual exchange of hideous and crippling diseases, kidnap them and then dump them in the West Indies as slave labour to make cheap sugar for the sweet-toothed Scottish half of my family.” They stopped talking and trod more quietly as the bridle path took them close to one of the habitations – three houses made of mud and horse manure slapped against a latticework of wood, with larger structural beams still visible. They were able to see through the front door of one. It consisted of a single room with an earth floor, in the middle of which burned a fire in a primitive stone hearth with no chimney. The smoke would probably have mostly gone up through the small hole in the roof, had not the shutters been taken off the windows and the door opened to allow the fresh spring air through. Slices of meat had been threaded with twine and hung from a wooden beam to dry and smoke. A dog lying outside the door in the sunshine pricked up its ears and looked right at them. It was big, and looked unlike any other breed Kevin had seen – and far too close to its wolf ancestors. They stopped but it kept its attention in their direction and got up onto its feet. It was distracted by a goose and a hen squabbling over something a few feet away, so they walked a few more steps. The dog snapped its attention back to them, bared its teeth and growled, advancing slowly. The dog’s name was shouted from behind the house by a woman – it was too fast and obscure for Kevin to make out what it was. The dog stopped growling and glanced back. It began advancing again with its teeth bared and ears back. Then suddenly it pounced at him, hitting him in the belly and knocking him over. He pushed it away, and his power-assisted suit threw the



dog back to where it had been lying. It was a red rag to a bull, and it charged at him again, slavering jaws open. He put his hands out to protect himself but saw Cassandra reach expertly over with her Con-Bat and strike it firmly but not harshly on the head. It seemed to collapse in mid-air, and its limp body crashed into him and came to a halt by the side of the road, deep asleep. He got up and brushed himself off. The woman of the house came round, saw the sleeping dog and went over to it, trying to work out what had happened. When she realised that it was comatose rather than dead, she looked around, panic-stricken, dashed inside the house and came out armed with a steel spike. Her eyes were wild with terror and she began calling for help . Kevin felt Cassandra tug his upper arm, and they began to tiptoe away. As soon as they dared, they broke into a jog, which they kept up for a few minutes. The woman had called in workers from the fields, and they could see quite a commotion was building. “Faeries,” said Cassandra. “No need to go insulting them just because they lost to the Romans.” “No, you idiot. She thought we were faeries. That’s why she chose the steel spike, rather than one of her husband’s spears, or the bronze knife she uses for butchering meat. Faeries can’t do anything with iron or steel because they don’t understand the new metal. That’s the family’s prize possession. It came from a Roman pilum – the javelins, or pila, they would throw at the enemy.” “So the Britons didn’t have iron and steel.” Cassandra let out a loud sigh. “They had iron, but not steel. Their short swords were superior to our bronze ones.” “So why didn’t we use iron?” She stared at him in disbelief. “Iron would shatter against steel. Do you know nothing of science or engineering?” He shrugged. “Not on my list of things I need to know. Stuff just works, dunnit. I know about computer code and all that.” “You’re talking gobbledegook.” “Well, to some people I suppose software is, yes.” “Soft wear ? So you’re a tailor, or a milliner or something?” He shook his head in exasperation. A couple of miles further on, their bridle path joined up with a wide road that was engineered to a good specification. The sides were dressed with



large, cut stones which separated the road’s surface from drainage ditches, and the surface of the centre was made of cobbles, and – true to form – it was quite straight in both directions. There was a significant amount of traffic, on foot and horseback, which they found themselves constantly having to keep out of the way of . “Have you seen how short the Romans are compared to the British?” said Kevin, during a break in traffic. “And everyone’s well below average height. I feel quite tall.” “You idiot. People were shorter in this era because of malnutrition, so the average height is lower. You’re the anomaly. At five ten you’re several inches taller than the average Roman soldier. Only the sons and daughters of the wealthy achieve our sort of height and health.” “Oh. I read something about that. Even in the early twentieth century there was –” “And you’ll have noticed that, even with their greater height, most of our ancestors are bow-legged. It’s interesting to see that the British diet was always poor, despite the abundance of food. The Greek philosopher Strabo said we had plenty of milk but didn’t know how to make cheese. Hence the rickets, I suppose. As a bit of historical research I’d love to see if we can find cheese being made.” “I thought that was from riding horses?” said Kevin. “What? Cheese ? From riding horses? Are you stupid?” “No, I –” “Or is cheese something else you get from a machine on Old McDonald’s farm again, I suppose?” “No, I mean rickets , you melon.” Cassandra gave him an astonished and appalled look. “From riding horses?” “They walk like cowboys. You don’t see many horses in my era, and you don’t see anyone with bow-legs either. ” “I think in your era that’s called ‘false inference’. Or perhaps it’s just plain old stupidity.” “But –” “This is frustrating,” said Cassandra, cutting him off. “I say we change into period costume for the last few miles.” “Oh, really?” said Kevin. “And what about our goggles? When I was in your time it was easy – they became glasses. We’ll be crippled. ”



“They become wafer-thin force-fields and change colour like the suits do – it’s almost impossible to tell you’re wearing them. They could even reduce to contact lenses if we wanted. But I think it’s always sensible to keep one’s eyes protected.” “I’m not convinced. I say we stay invisible.” “Well I’m tired of faffing around. Besides, when we get there we’re going to have to get the water clock into the temple somehow, aren’t we? I don’t think we can just leave it on an altar or something and then run off. We can take advantage of this road junction here. And with the slight rise in the ground and the trees we can’t be seen by anyone more than a quarter of a mile in either direction.” “I suppose not.” He followed her off the road and into a copse. “So,” he said. “Do we want to be Roman or British?” “With my red hair I hardly look Roman, do I? But you certainly don’t look native British.” “Look, if we’re going to deliver this thing into the temple then we have to be high status? That would explain our above-average height. Right?” “With you so far.” “So I can be some Roman guy and you can be my British wife.” “Thanks for the proposal, but don’t try any funny stuff.” “Funny stuff?” “You know exactly what I mean.” Their suits morphed into Roman clothes of the era. Kevin wore a shortsleeved woollen top with a toga down to his knees. Cassandra wore a long tunic fastened with bronze clasps at the shoulders. Both had matching grey shawls in case of hard weather. Kevin was pleased to notice that he was wearing leather shoes, rather than sandals. Their bags had transformed themselves into leather shoulder bags, and had a worn look for camouflage. “It’ll look a bit odd us coming in from a long journey dressed like this, won’t it? I mean, people of our status should have a horse and cart or something, and servants.” “We’ll hitch a lift.” “People don’t hitch lifts in Roman Britain.” “Of course they do. Happens everywhere, and in every era. There is no public transport here, so everyone just gets along and helps one another out. People aren’t urbanised here.” “But we’re appearing in the middle of nowhere!”



“Nonsense. We were dropped off at the junction, took a break and now we’re on our way again. We’re pilgrims, relying on the gods for our fortune. We bought the water clock in Aquae Sulis.” “Where?” “Bath. I read up. It’s in the early stages of being built. Famous already on account of the hot springs, and a place of worship for both Romans and Britons. It became a terribly sordid place in the eighteenth century, but started to clean up its act in my era.” “This story is as wafer thin as my goggles,” he said, feeling the invisible force field that covered his eye sockets. “People talk. Word gets around. Where did we stay last night, for example? Why do we have so little baggage?” “We stayed at one of the big villas last night. Our baggage is being sent along.” “Which villa?” “The one owned by Antonius Rabiria. I saw it on the navigation display. Complevit Peregrinatione , it was called.” “Finished Travelling . Or Travels Complete ,” he found himself translating without thought or effort. “Done Roaming , or Dun Roamin . I’ve seen a retirement cottage called that.” She smiled. “Nice to know the name has such a long history.” “Done Roman , more like. He’s going to get the chop when the rebellion happens.” “You always have to spoil it with your dark humour, don’t you?” He shrugged. “Now, do you agree to my plan? ” “Okay, okay. You’ve thought it through. I like it.” “Thanks.” They didn’t have long to wait before there was a large enough gap in the traffic so that no one saw them emerge back onto the road – a well-to-do Romano-British couple on their way back from a pilgrimage. They caught a lift on a waggon pulled by two oxen. The vehicle was primitive – its wheels were carved out of planks and there was nothing in the way of suspension. It was carrying a mixed load – a few amphorae of garum, which was a condiment made from fermented fish offal, a dozen amphorae of wine, several of olive oil and some pewter tableware. They sat more than a little uncomfortably on the retaining planks behind the driver, who was a moderately successful British trader who’d adapted



quickly to the Roman way of doing things. Perhaps for the benefit of Kevin’s ears, he praised the Pax Romanis for enabling him to carry on his business without fear of robbery, and on roads that allowed for faster land-based trade. He’d come from Londinium, where he’d got good prices on the garum from Hespania, the wine from Gallia and the pewter from the kingdom of Dumnonii, far in the south-west of Britain, in what Kevin knew would become Cornwall. He knew he could sell them at decent prices in Camulodunum. Londinium was an easier port to reach from the Continent, he told them, than those on the rest of the east coast near Camulodunum, where there were sandbanks, and storms from the North Sea to contend with. That, plus the demand in the capital, made the prices higher than in Londinium. If a man was prepared to invest time in the two days of travelling each way that the fifty-mile trip took, then he could take advantage of the price differentials and make a tidy profit. On his way to Londinium, depending on the season, he’d pick up agricultural produce and wool from farmers. He’d then sell it on to middle men in Londinium for export to the rest of the empire. He extolled the virtues of this massive European market and its single currency. “His descendants will be singing a different song a couple of thousand years from now,” muttered Kevin. They crossed a river and came up a long hill to a shallow valley. On their right, at the top of a hill was a Roman fort and a settlement of wattle and daub houses beneath its walls. Cassandra explained to Kevin that the Romans called this kind of habitation a vicus , and that it was natural for them to spring up next to a fort to provide local food and labour, and for some inhabitants to make a living from the garbage. Further downhill they could see a massive temple complex, with white plastered walls and red roof tiles. Nearby was the tell-tale curved back of a theatre. It was very obviously a British settlement with Roman elements within it. In the valley itself there were a few large villas, farmland and what Cassandra told Kevin was a chariot racing arena. A road went uphill to connect the settlement to a full-sized town which was very different in character. The buildings were all of whitewashed plaster with red tiles. The theatre building was both taller and larger than the one near the vicus. They could see a magnificent white-pillared temple towering above the rest of the town. “Is this Camulodunum?” asked Cassandra, pointing to the town straight ahead of them.



“Yes. Gosbecks is on our right,” said the trader. “Mostly British folk, watched over by the Romans. But it’s much more relaxed than it was.” “And you live in Gosbecks?” “My family and I are privileged to live in Camulodunum with my Roman customers. Of course, there is some resentment because Camulodunum was the original British settlement.” Kevin could see why the Roman town was where it was – not just for the hill, but the river bending around it offered a defence and resupply route, as well as water. What really surprised him was that the town looked like it had no defensive fortifications at all, apart from some old earth ramparts and a ditch. There was an elaborate white marble gate on a road much narrower than the other access roads that he could see. It looked ridiculous to his eye, but also strangely familiar. “Just like the Marble Arch at the new Buckingham Palace,” Cassandra muttered to Kevin in modern English. “The Frenchies are reported to be so jealous that they’re planning their own. Presumably to celebrate all the defeats they’ve suffered at our hands.” Kevin was about to tell her that Marble Arch was now at the edge of Hyde Park, but he was interrupted by the merchant, who had guessed what she was talking about. “Built to honour Claudius and the surrender of the British kings to him here,” he said. “Now that there is peace between our peoples there is no need for fortifications. These,” he pointed to the three fortified dykes the Romans had driven their road through, “are from ancient times. Some say they were made by Camulus, the ancient god of war after whom the town was named, but I think it was the forebears of Caratacus, who led the fight against the Romans. Claudius spared his life after he was betrayed by Cartimandua and sent to Rome. I hear he rather likes the climate there now that he’s a free man,” he laughed and slapped his thighs. Kevin and Cassandra laughed as heartily as they could. The Roman road took them through the triumphal arch and the cart rolled into town without fuss. The merchant stopped and told them he was going to his home-cum-warehouse, and that they were welcome to join his family for a meal that evening. They thanked him but declined his invitation. Cassandra gave him a handful of copper coins, which he politely waved away and then accepted. He gee-d up the oxen and headed to the north-west of the colony. “Where did you get the coins from?” Kevin asked. “You should ask the Doctor for a per diem ,” she said. “I always insist on a



little pocket money. How else am I going to get around?” “Hmph .” The list of words he was going to have with the Doctor was getting longer. Kevin could see that this was very much a Roman town compared to Gosbecks. Two very substantial wide, paved roads crossed in the centre of the town, and lay on the north-south and east-west axes. To the west was the evidence that the colony had started as a fort: there were long stone buildings that looked like they had been built by the military, and then repurposed for civilian use – massive barracks a couple of hundred feet long that had been split into mixed housing and shops. The east side looked like it had been tacked on after the fort had been turned over to civilian use; buildings were less well ordered, houses and shops were newer, and their size and finish reflected the wealth of the occupier. There was a free mix of what looked like Romans and Britons on the streets, and not as many slaves as Kevin had been expecting. The Britons dressed in smocks and trousers made of wool or hide, the Romans in clean togas, and the slaves in simple smocks. Their friend on the cart had explained that this was the one town where all were considered equal – apart from the slaves – and that many discharged and retired legionaries had decided to make the town their home. It was peaceful, prosperous and business was good. Or so it seemed to them. Kevin nudged her and nodded towards a magnificent pillared building a couple of hundred yards away. “Claudius’s temple,” he said. “Let’s drop these off with the priests and then take the first horse outta Dodge.” “You really do have the most peculiar turn of phrase. I would like to stay for the evening and enjoy some traditional Roman hospitality. This is an extraordinary chance to experience this era, and I’m not going to pass it up on account of your lack of nerve. We can leave with the lark.” “Not after a traditional Roman feast, you won’t.” “It’s going to be dark in a couple of hours. What else do you propose? ” “I would be perfectly happy to walk back to the rendezvous point in camouflage at night if it avoids me getting killed. I assume that in your time the expression ‘curiosity killed the cat’ exists?” “Yes, it does. But I’m staying. If you’re a gentleman, you’ll accompany me.” He fumed silently as they made their way towards the temple. To their left the view opened up on the back of the two-tiered semi-circular theatre building, which rose above the houses.



“My God,” said Kevin. “The entire town must be able to sit in there for a single performance.” “I understand the chariot racing track is even larger,” said Cassandra. “Perhaps we’ll watch a play this evening?” Impressive though the theatre was, it was the temple that was designed to dominate the centre, because no other buildings were allowed to crowd it out. Long before his death, the emperor Claudius had spared no expense in erecting this monument to his own eternal glory. The white marble facing for the temple was the same as for the triumphal gate, and Kevin couldn’t imagine the effort and expense it would have taken to import it all – even factoring in the fact that it was done by slave labour. And it was quite massive, rising well above the other buildings to a height of over sixty feet at the apex of its red-tiled roof. The outer structure consisted of white-plastered pillars supporting the massive roof structure. They formed a huge portico on the south side to protect the only door into the marble-faced temple itself. It had no windows except for one above the doorway. They walked up the stone steps, feeling belittled by the impressive structure. The huge carved oak doors were open and they could hear voices inside. There was a lightly armed ceremonial guard either side of the door, who stared ahead and ignored the couple. A man with grey hair walked out, called back merrily over his shoulder and waved at whoever he’d been in conversation with. He met Kevin and Cassandra’s eyes with curiosity and nodded his head. Kevin nodded back, and Cassandra lowered her eyes in respect. He gave them a long second look before walking away. Kevin entered the cool and calm darkness of the building, leaving Cassandra hovering outside the doorway. His eyes would have been temporarily blinded by the lack of light had the goggles not been able to compensate. A man in a toga with a dark blue trim on the front was standing outside of the light from the open doors. He wore the garment over his head, like a hoodie. He was a little shorter than Kevin. “Hail Claudius,” he said in a dramatic voice. “Hail Claudius!” replied Kevin, and bowed his head towards the far side of the interior, fairly sure that would be where the actual altar would be. The priest bowed slightly. “Welcome, stranger. You may enter.” Kevin took a few more steps into the temple and could see that there were a few middle-aged men – or old men, considering the life-expectancy, he



mused – standing around, looking like they were discussing business. A couple of them were almost Kevin’s height. “Thank you, noble priest. My wife and I are pilgrims,” he gestured back towards Cassandra. “We have a gift for the eternal glory of Claudius and mighty Rome.” Cassandra trod lightly just inside the doorway, remaining in the fall of light. She bowed and muttered, “Hail Claudius.” “Your wife is a Briton. You have taken the dictum about subjugating the population to your heart, citizen.” The priest chuckled at his double entendre. “She is the daughter of a king,” said Kevin. “Oh really? Of which tribe?” “I can’t recall,” said Kevin. “The Britons have so many.” The priest roared with laughter. He interrupted the gaggle of older men and repeated Kevin’s comment, and they practically fell about themselves laughing and turned their attention to the young couple. “Good citizen,” said the priest. “Truly, Bacchus has blessed your tongue and you have made our day a merry one. You are most welcome in our colony. Tell me, is it a fertility blessing that you seek? We could do with quick-witted young blood like you to settle here with us. Frankly, we are a bunch of flatulent old fools waiting for Letus to touch us on the shoulder and take us to the underworld. I am Aquila Julius Severus.” Kevin held out his hand. “I am Aulus Albius Atellus, at your service, sir.” The man put his hand out and gripped Kevin’s forearm just above the wrist. Kevin gave a similar grip, somewhat awkwardly. “Atellus? I’ll say! I do see a touch of north African in you, my friend. And your triple-A name suggests that your sense of humour is inherited. The first governor of these islands was also an Aulus: Aulus Plautius, as I’m sure you know. A great man, and dear friend. And your wife’s name?” “Her British name is practically unpronounceable. We call her Cassandra.” The priest’s face fell slightly and there was a murmur amongst the men. “Oh. Do you indeed?” Cassandra shot him a look. He kicked himself for making such a stupid mistake with these superstitious people. “Yes,” he said. “We called her Cassandra because, like all wives, she claims to know the future so much better than her husband. But only when events have already occurred.” Every man in the temple laughed heartily. “And I wonder,” said Aquila, tears rolling down his face, “whether she or her family even had the wit to know the joke you were playing on her?”



“We knew very well, thank you,” said Cassandra. “My father studied in Rome under Seneca and I am fluent in Greek. Ask me to recite any one of Virgil’s works and I can do so verbatim. Try me. ” Aquila, gave a deep bow. “Dear lady, I meant you no insult. Little wonder your father didn’t object to your husband’s choice of name for you if he knew Seneca,” he chuckled. “I only hope your father didn’t accept one of the great man’s ruinous loans, as so many of the local aristocracy have.” Cassandra shook her head. “Clearly you are of good stock. I pray only that you do not smite your poor husband this evening for his humour.” He sniggered some more then waved his hand. “You are both most welcome. Please, if you would accompany me to the altar.” He took Kevin in his right hand and Cassandra in his left and guided them towards the dark interior of the temple. A young woman – a vestal virgin, Kevin assumed – appeared out of the shadows bearing an oil lamp to supplement the ones which burned on the bronze pedestals. “You do me a great honour, sir,” said Cassandra. “Are you sure the gods will not be offended by an uninitiated barbarian like myself coming so close to the altar?” “I knew Claudius,” said the priest. “And this is not Rome.” The altar was a single piece of exquisitely carved and polished marble, on which sat a couple of small golden bowls with liquid inside. Behind and above the altar towered a life-sized metal statue of a man on a horse. It was covered in gold leaf, and glittered in the flickering light of the naked flames. Claudius himself. “It’s magnificent!” gasped Cassandra. “Stunningly beautiful!” “Your wife speaks well,” said Aquila. “It is a wonder of our age. Such statuary is quite unseen outside Rome. On feast days we let the chiefs of the tribes in to see it – it strikes awe into their hearts. I cannot tell you the skill of the craftsmen who wrought this. Their hands were blessed by the gods. Now, let me bless you.” He let go of their hands and put his middle and index fingers into the first bowl and anointed Kevin on the forehead with oil. He dipped his fingers in again and then anointed Cassandra. He offered the second golden bowl to Kevin, who drank some wine from it. Cassandra also took a sip when offered. “I pray that your first child is a male one, and that he inherits the wit and wisdom of your forebears,” said the priest. “May Concordia bring harmony to your disagreements. May Carmenta look after you in childbirth. And,” he



said with a wink to Kevin, “may Inuus give you inspiration and stimulation.” “Thank you,” said Kevin, unsure of what to do next. “Thank you,” said Cassandra. “We have brought a water clock as a gift for the glory of the temple of Claudius. It was manufactured from the finest Dumnonii pewter in Aquae Sulis. My husband has one half and I the other.” They untied their bags and took out the components of the clock and, with the priest’s consent, laid them on the altar. “I saw one years ago in Athens,” said the priest, fingering the long notched spine and rolling the cog up and down it appreciatively. “This one is quite exquisite. But will it not require a cistern?” “The artisan suggested that a simple lead tank under the eaves with guttering to catch the bountiful British rain would be the best solution,” said Cassandra. “I can draw the design if you give me a slate.” The priest addressed Kevin, rather than Cassandra. “Young man, you have been most generous and thoughtful. Please, you and your wife must be guests in my home tonight. My wife, Lydia, will be delighted to meet a Briton as educated as she is.” “Well…” said Kevin. “We’d be delighted to accept,” said Cassandra. “Excellent. We can get you home and bathed, then this evening there is a performance of Phaedra by your dear father’s great tutor. It is such a great play that one never tires of it. After that we shall have a few friends around.” “Um... That sounds like a plan,” said Kevin. “What a peculiar turn of phrase you have, Aulus. ” “He hasn’t benefited from a classical education,” said Cassandra. Cassandra had managed to avoid bathing with Kevin by explaining that she’d already had a bath that morning. It satisfied their hosts, Aquila and Lydia. The former told them the old joke about the smelly British chief who asked a Roman friend why he bathed once a day. The Roman sniffed his own odourless armpits, apologised, and replied that he bathed once a day because he didn’t have time to bathe twice. The priest and his wife had their own private bathing house. They had already bathed in the morning, so Kevin decided to avoid conversational gaffes by letting Cassandra do the talking whilst he relaxed – she seemed to have a wealth of knowledge about the era, and he wondered if this was her first time in it.



He vaguely remembered something about Roman bathing habits from his school days and wished he’d been paying attention enough to know that he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be covered in oil first, because it then had to be scraped off by means of a metal strigil – a process that seemed unnecessarily long and painful. Having a white British female slave attending to him was uncomfortable. Although she looked reasonably well fed and healthy enough for her time, he knew that her life must be harsh. His thoughts were in turmoil, knowing that he had slave blood in his own ancestry, and that it had been a white Scottish owner who had broken his female ancestor’s slavery by having a child with her. He couldn’t let this woman minister to his bathing needs without feeling conflict and shame. “Permission to speak, master?” asked the slave. “Of course. Please. Feel free. I mean, please speak your mind.” “Have I done something to upset or offend you, honoured guest?” she asked. “No. No, of course not.” “You seem unhappy. ” “It’s not you. It’s me. I have always felt uncomfortable with slavery. You know, with me having a British wife, particularly. It doesn’t feel right.” The slave continued her ministrations. “Tell me, are the Britons in Camulodunum happy?” “It is not my business to speak to anyone other than members of the household.” “I’ll take that as a no.” “But it is true that the Romans have taken away much of the land in the surrounding countryside. Those who still farm it must give a tithe to the owners of the big villas. They regard themselves as having become little better than slaves.” “Just a word of advice,” he said quietly. “When the rebellion comes, do not go with your household. And do not take refuge in the temple of Claudius. Even if they threaten to kill you for insubordination.” “Master!” she looked utterly bewildered and afraid, and she flushed red. “What are you talking of?” “My wife,” he said flatly, looking her in the eyes for the first time, “is the daughter of a British king. Just assume that I know more than any other Roman, and that my sympathies lie with the Britons.” The endless scraping done, he got up and went to sit in the steam room for



a few minutes. Just in case Cassandra later accused him of cowardice, he plunged into the cold pool afterwards. The slave rubbed him with herbal essences. Neither spoke another word, but the awkward silence said it all. “They’re getting on like a house on fire,” said Aquila, gesturing at Cassandra and Lydia, who were lying on chaises longues by the wood fire. They were being attended by a male slave who kept their goblets topped up and offered them hors d’oeuvres. “I only hope they’ll be able to keep quiet during the play.” Kevin let Aquila talk about his life as they waited on their wives. He had been a chaplain in the great Legio vigesima Valeria victrix – Valerius’ Victorious Twentieth Legion with the coveted Roman numerals XX. They were one of the four which had been in the original invasion. From the way the old man talked about their long and glorious history, and their leading role in the subjugation of the British, Kevin could only assume they were an elite unit – the equivalent of Marines or Paratroopers. Although Aquila was now several years into his retirement, he spoke with pride at his old regiment having swum across the Menai Strait to Anglesey to destroy the last groves of the Welsh druids three years previously. The regiment was still based up there, just in case there was more trouble in Wales. There were a few other pensioners from the Twentieth in Camulodunum, but the nearest garrison was one of the Ninth. They were, in his view, Johnny-come-latelys to the service of the Empire and, having been raised in Hispana, not of such good stock as the Twentieth. They were good in support roles, but there was a reason they were garrisoned in the pacified southern half of the country. If there was fighting to be done, then XX were your boys. “And you were a chaplain?” asked Kevin. “Oh, yes. To Claudius himself during the invasion.” “So you did what, then? You comforted scared young soldiers and buried the dead?” He curled his toes when he realised what he’d just said. “Young man, a chaplain in the Valeria victrix comforts young soldiers by showing them how to send the enemy to the afterlife. It is an honorary position. I worked my way up from humble legionnaire to Praefectus castrorum. I was mentioned in dispatches at the Battle of Caer Caradoc and the capture of Caratacus.” “My sincere apologies.”



“You were not to know. The sons of gentry these days do not know the art of war or how the Empire was won. I would bring in compulsory military service if I had my way.” He turned to the fireplace. “Now, ladies, I hear the warning gong. We must be off to the theatre.” Cassandra sat rapt throughout the performance, and she and Lydia enjoyed occasional whispered asides. Aquila was sympathetic with Kevin’s boredom, and introduced him around his friends during the interval. He watched with a mixture of horror and nausea as Cassandra accepted a couple of whole roasted starlings on a stick as a snack. “Husband, do you not feel well?” she said, offering him a charred dormouse. When he silently refused she popped it into her mouth and kept eye contact with him as she chewed slowly, the bones crunching loudly before she finally swallowed. The rain blew in from the south-west in the second half. Their party was sheltered under the roof but the actors had to play on through the downpour. There were titters amongst the audience as the actors’ clothes became heavily saturated and two of their number started to shiver. They gave the performers generous applause at the end. “I had often wondered whether it’s the weather that prevents the spread of Roman culture amongst the unruly tribes of the north,” said Aquila, looking up at the slanting rain. “The gods themselves must wish us not to share it with them because they do not make it welcome here. I wonder often if we should be here at all.” “It is the breadbasket of the north, and then there are the metals – gold, tin, lead,” said Kevin, trying to sound patriotic. “We are too isolated from Rome,” muttered Aquila quietly. “These people,” he swept his hand. “Most of them have never been to Rome. It is something they have learned, rather than lived. They lack discipline and culture, and bring with them the bad habits of their own vassal countries. They are ravaging the countryside, rather than working with the populus. It is a recipe for disaster.” Slaves from their household were waiting for them outside the theatre. They held aloft a sheet of canvas on sticks to prevent the party from getting wet on the short walk back to the house. The slaves themselves were soaked through in the cold spring rain, and clearly in great discomfort. “Good to see a Briton bathing occasionally,” quipped Lydia. “Present company excepted.” The post-play party was thinned by the rain. It was a relief to Kevin, who was finding conversation difficult and having to be more evasive than he



found comfortable. It was fortunate that the old men were more interested in telling him stories of their soldiering exploits. After the second guest left, Cassandra gave him a look, and he was able to excuse them both from the festivities. “We’ve had a long journey.” “And you must set about the business of ensuring the continuation of the Atellus line, eh?” said Aquila, clearly very much the worse for drink. “We shall see you in the morning – but later, rather than sooner.” He laughed lewdly. A slave showed them to their room. There was a mattress on a wooden bedframe, and a couple of woollen blankets. The bed was what would have counted for single width in modern times. “I’ll have the bed,” said Cassandra. “The floor is all yours.” “And how’s that going to look if someone checks in on us? We’re supposed to be a young married couple.” “You omitted the word ‘happily’ from ‘young married’. I’ve set the alarm for six o’clock.” “Six o’clock? That’s like less than six hours away.” “It isn’t like less than six hours away. It is about five and a half hours away. Goodnight.” She threw him a blanket, blew out the oil lamp and fell silent. “Goodnight, dear,” he said. He lay on a rug and pulled the blanket over himself.



Kevin felt himself being shaken awake. He was sure he’d only just got to sleep. “Hmm. What?” He felt a hand over his mouth. The face above it wasn’t Cassandra’s. It was the slave who’d bathed him. She held her finger to her lips. She saw his eyes flick over her shoulder but didn’t have time to do anything before Cassandra had her in a choke-hold, with a hand over her mouth. “What is it?” whispered Cassandra. “We will not hurt you. We can take you to freedom if you wish.” She loosened her grip but kept her hand close to the girl’s mouth. “I came to warn you. You must leave now. The British rebellion will begin one hour before dawn.” Kevin looked at the figures in his display, but Cassandra got there first. “Half an hour from now.” She let go of the girl and spun her around to address her. “You must go. Take the other household slaves.” “You don’t understand. I have my role to play.” “You’re going to kill your master and mistress?” The girl looked at them. “No,” said Kevin. “He’s just an old retired man. A priest.” “His legion massacred my people, enslaved us.” “Oh, Kevin,” said Cassandra, speaking in English so that the slave couldn’t understand. “Some moral relativism for you. And so early in the morning. How delightful. Tell me, O Great Sage of Tulse Hill, what is the most appropriate course of action?” He gave her a withering look. After a few seconds, he spoke. “We have this term in my time, a ‘win-win situation’.” “What a horrible-sounding expression.” “Isn’t it just? Every time you hear it, you know someone’s getting a raw deal. In this instance, it’s the Romans. We have to break into the temple and get the water clock out of there.” “Are you out of your mind? Why?” “No. If you remember the briefing, the last of the inhabitants survived in



the temple for two days. These guys are finished. But if the water clock is in there then that’s where the energy is going to strike. We have to let the Britons do what they have to do, but I don’t want the blood of innocent people sheltering in a temple on my hands. In my time that would count as the worst kind of war crime. Do you want that?” She looked at him and shook her head. “Welcome to moral relativism. Or at least what I understand by it.” “But what are you going to do with the components of the water clock?” “Camulodunum was burnt to the ground. And I mean utterly reduced to ashes.” She nodded her understanding. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I think it’s best that you keep our British friend safe here.” “You have twenty-five minutes before the balloon goes up.” “I don’t think they have balloons yet.” “You know very well what I mean. Good luck.” Kevin grabbed his knapsack and Con-Bat, then stole his way quietly out of the house. The rain had cleared and there were only a few scattered clouds. A three-quarter moon provided decent light. A dog barked, but he knew that would be normal. He gave one last look around, checked the infrared spectrum, then thought his suit and Con-Bat into super camouflage mode. As he walked the couple of dozen yards to the temple entrance, he silently thanked the Roman engineers for paving the area. He strode up the steps to the oak doors and looked back. He could make out the faint outline of a couple of wet footprints on the stone. So much for the total stealth capabilities of the Doctor’s technology, he thought. He’d have to suggest a modification. The doors were closed. He pushed but they were sturdy and didn’t budge. There was a large keyhole, so he inserted the end of the Con-Bat and thought about solving the problem as he jiggled it around. After about ten seconds he felt able to rotate the mechanism. There was a heavy clunk as the mechanism opened. He could hear it echoing in the expanse of the stone temple beyond. He withdrew his Con-Bat and pushed open the right-hand door. It creaked, and spread a faint path of moonlight across the floor. He saw his own shadow in it, and checked to see that he was still camouflaged. “Who goes there?” asked a voice from the darkness speaking Latin with a non-Roman accent. He ducked back behind the left door so that his shadow disappeared, kicking himself for his lack of attention to detail. He heard a short sword



being unsheathed and another man being rudely awoken from his slumber. “It is Aulus Albius Atellus, honoured guest of Aquila Julius Severus. Which is why I had the key.” There were mutterings in a non-Latin language, which he translated as a mix of curses. “I am sorry to wake you so early. Being a pilgrim, I am keen to start my day early. I have heard that the statue of the great Emperor Claudius is best viewed in the dawn light.” “Yes, yes,” said a tired and irritated voice. “But normally that’s only done on feast days. If the honourable Severus has given you access, you’d better come in. We are but the night watchmen, so don’t expect any guidance from us if you want to carry out any rituals. The vestal virgins will be here soon enough to prepare for the dawn ritual if you want to join them then.” “Thank you,” said Kevin. The right door swung open to reveal a sleepy-looking legionnaire with Hispanic features. He was in light armour, but wasn’t wearing his helmet. He held a steel short sword loosely by his side. “I bid you come in,” said the legionnaire. Seeing no one, he clutched the sword more tightly. Kevin stepped out from behind the left door and into the gap. He was aware of what the effect would be – the shadow of a man on the floor, but at best only a shimmer of himself against the background visible to the human eye. “What the –” The man crumpled as Kevin touched his forehead with his Con-Bat. His short sword clattered loudly to the stone floor and his armour made quite a noise as he crumpled. Kevin heard another sword unsheathe quickly in the darkness and a couple of determined footsteps taken towards his position. He struck up at the arm which thrust the blade at him and kicked the man between the legs. The sword flew through the air then clanged and clattered along the floor. He struck the man lightly on the head and he collapsed a few feet from his colleague. One dog after another was now barking. He closed the door behind him and found a large key attached to a leather loop around the neck of one of the men. He took it off and locked the door behind him. He lay the key back on the man’s chest. The temple was still lit by half a dozen oil lamps, and at the back he could see the gilded statue of Claudius flickering in the yellow light. He ran to the altar. The components of the water clock were nowhere to be seen. There were a couple of cubicles against the back wall of the temple, made of wood and silk curtains. He ducked into one and looked around. It



contained ceremonial clothes on hangers, mostly for women. He looked in the other one, and it was much the same. He looked around again and saw that the north east corner of the building housed what looked like a pair of sarcophagi of finely carved limestone. Each was about three feet long, two feet wide and eighteen inches deep. He hurried over and slid open the heavy lid of the one closest into the corner, putting it on the top of the other sarcophagus. It would have been quite a struggle had he not been wearing his suit. In it were the gold goblets and other items used in rituals. He slid the lid back into place and then opened the other one. There were the pieces of the water clock. He grabbed them and stuffed them into his knapsack. He didn’t bother replacing the lid. He was halfway down the aisle when he heard a loud coded knock on the door. He listened intently and could hear male and female voices. A key rattled in the lock and the mechanism turned. The right door opened and he could see two more guards and a couple of vestal virgins. The moonlight fell onto the bodies of the night guards. The three women screamed. One of the guards cried a general alarm and the other entered the building, his sword drawn. The guard who’d sounded the alarm ordered the vestal virgins to go to Severus’s house and rouse him. He then joined the other guard inside the doorway. They kept close together, tightly guarding the exit. “The key is still in here, so they must still be in here,” said the first guard. “They must have tricked their way in.” “Let’s wait for reinforcements. We have them like rats in a trap. Maybe we should take the key and lock the door?” “We cannot leave them in here alone.” Kevin tiptoed towards the men, cursing his stupidity. It was one thing to have allowed himself to be cornered in the temple, and quite another to have botched the British uprising by alarming the Romans. Above all else, it was now his responsibility to preserve the timeline and make sure events unfolded in the prescribed manner. There could be no hesitation. He took a couple of steps forward and knocked out the guard who was furthest into the temple. The other guard spun around with his sword and swiped and thrust at the air in front of Kevin. “It’s a spirit!” yelled the guard over his shoulder to anyone who might hear. “A spirit is loose in the temple.” That, thought Kevin, wasn’t a bad thing for the Romans to believe. He skirted around the man, who was now slashing wildly, and ducked for the



door. Unfortunately, the guard retreated to the doorway at the same time and saw Kevin’s shadow move behind his own. He spun around and thrust his sword into Kevin’s stomach. The suit did its job in stopping the blade, but it winded him slightly and pushed him back against the edge of the left door. The man grabbed with his left hand and caught Kevin’s right upper arm. Kevin kicked out with his right foot, the suit’s power toppling him enough to prevent the next slash of the sword from hitting Kevin. He dealt him a blow to the rib cage with the Con-Bat, and left the man gasping in pain as he exited the temple and ran for the priest’s house. A troupe of ten legionnaires ran past him to the temple. They were armed to the teeth – helmets on, shields over their arms and swords glinting in the moonlight. A second troupe of five got to Aquila’s house a few seconds before he did. The door was open and two men had entered. The other three stood guard at the door. There was no way past them. Lydia – every inch the military wife – was calming the vestal virgin by the fire. Aquila had the British slave girl in a lock and held his short sword to her neck. Cassandra was standing in the bedroom doorway a few feet away, waving her Con-Bat, which had done the sensible thing and disguised itself as a rather vicious-looking sword. She had her knapsack over her shoulder, ready to go. “I knew there was something not quite right about them,” said Aquila to one of the soldiers, who was clearly a senior officer from the Ninth. “They knew nothing of the rituals. I was prepared to put it down to the ignorance of youth brought up outside Rome, but now I see that it was a ruse. I think we’ll find this woman’s husband broke into the temple. This slave seems to mean something to her.” “Put down your weapon,” said the officer to Cassandra. “You are outnumbered. We will have your husband soon and we will get to the bottom of this. You cannot escape.” He moved forward confidently a couple of steps. Kevin ran to the back of the house and put himself in position behind the bedroom wall. There was a big wooden X of supporting timbers for the plasterwork. He thought a quick command to his Con-Bat, swung it back behind his shoulder and then slammed it into the wall. It burst inwards in a shower of plaster, creating a hole about three feet in diameter. He stepped through quickly into the bedroom, which was filled with dust. The senior officer and the other soldier had moved in on Cassandra and she’d traded a couple of blows with them. She retreated back into the bedroom.



“She’s going to escape,” shouted Aquila. “Guards! To the back of the house!” The officer was first into the bedroom, followed by the other soldier. Cassandra continued to trade blows with them, and Kevin couldn’t help but admire her expert swordsmanship. He tapped the officer on his helmet, and he crumpled. The other soldier was momentarily confused, and it was enough for Cassandra to bring down her sword in a mighty blow with the flat of her blade. The man’s shoulder collapsed, his collarbone shattered, and he screamed in agony. Kevin turned around and went into the main living area. Aquila still had the slave in his grasp, and the sword at her throat. He looked scared and confused. Kevin heard the sound of Cassandra fighting the troops at the back, preventing them from entering the hole. He grabbed Aquila’s wrist, using the power of his gloves to force the blade away from the slave’s throat and drop it. Cassandra exited the bedroom, glanced at Kevin, whom only she could see, and ran out through the front door into the night. “The gods are angry,” he said. “Your only hope is the temple.” Kevin pushed him into his wife and the dumbstruck vestal virgins. “Who are you?” gasped Aquila. “What are you?” “You must free the girl. If anything happens to her I will have you in this life, and then in the next.” Kevin made his way to the front door and stopped just outside the fall of light to check. “Flee, Judoc!” shouted Aquila at the slave girl. “Go with my blessing. Run from this house. Out!” The girl hesitated for a second and then ran out of the front door, past Kevin, her bare feet slapping on the flagstones. The first of the three soldiers reached the bedroom door, bewildered. Their officer was moaning in agony behind them. “You fools!” said Aquila. “Leave the slave alone. Touch her and I will see you crucified. She is cursed! To the temple, all of you. Guards, your orders are to defend the temple with your lives.” There were Roman soldiers and civilians in the streets now. All were armed. A grey-haired civilian Kevin recognised as one of Aquila’s friends grabbed Judoc. “You are a slave of Aquila Severus!” Kevin hit him and he collapsed. The girl looked around her and saw Cassandra, still visible in her Roman outfit, at the end of one of the disused barracks in the west of the



town. She ran to her. “Thank you!” she said. “But you must get away. The rebellion is starting – look!” She pointed down the street, where a couple of unarmed slaves were wrestling a veteran to the ground. They took his sword off him and cut his throat. Kevin winced. Doubtless aided by slaves on the inside, an advanced party of Britons had secured the beacon on the fort’s ramparts. One of them had shimmied up it and was emptying the kindling and tarred wood from it to prevent an alarm signal being raised. His comrades held off legionnaires whilst he dodged a couple of pila. The Romans were at a huge disadvantage because pila were designed to be thrown en masse at an enemy formation, rather than an agile individual thirty feet directly above whilst being pelted by rocks. The Britons were taking no chances, and two of them were hard at work with axes further down the beacon. There was a loud groaning and splitting of wood and the beacon began to fall onto the ramparts. A Roman fire arrow whooshed through the air and hit the remaining kindling too late. The Briton at the top of the beacon threw himself back off and onto the ramparts to a cheer from his fellows – there would be no reinforcements for a while yet. Kevin chose to make himself visible again and then came into Judoc’s field of vision. She jumped back. “I can vouch for you,” she said. “Let me take you to safety.” Kevin untied his knapsack and reached in for a couple of pieces of the water clock. “We can look after ourselves,” he said. “Take these.” He handed her a couple of pieces of pewter. “I want you to throw one into the fort, and the other into the theatre.” “I don’t understand.” “Um... The gods will send down lightning bolts.” “Who are you? Are you gods? You…” The girl looked at Cassandra. “You look like one of the daughters of Boudica.” She dropped to her knees and bowed her head. Cassandra smiled. “We have to go. You must do as my husband says. Now.” “Will I see you again, princess?” The girl looked up, but both Kevin and Cassandra had camouflaged themselves again and were invisible to her. The girl was motionless with amazement for a few seconds. Then the weight of the pewter pieces in her hand seemed to snap her back to reality. She ran towards the fort. Kevin



handed Cassandra two pieces of the water clock, leaving two for himself. “Yours to do with as you wish,” he said. “Pick a couple of targets.” “What are you doing with yours?” “The main body of the Ninth at Gosbecks will still be asleep. I’ll give our ancestors a little hand.” “You’ll have to run. Where shall we meet?” “You mean you want to stay? Again ?” “This isn’t a thermonuclear explosion , Kevin. It’s an ancient battle. What’s the worst that can happen?” Kevin had a few visions from previous adventures but decided to stay silent. “We can watch from the low hills to the west. It’ll be dawn in…” he checked his display, “about half an hour. I bet that’s when the real mayhem will start. What are you going to do? ” “I’ve enjoyed this excursion so much, Kevin. I want to soak up the atmosphere whilst I still can.” Kevin saw another Roman veteran cut down by a slave. “Lovely,” he said. “But just get the hell out of here before it all goes up.” He ran off at full pelt to the gate they’d entered through. A couple of slaves had slain a fleeing Roman, and they were grabbing money spilled from the man’s purse. He slowed down and saw a gold coin glistening in the moonlight a few feet away, where it had rolled. He stopped, looked around and picked it up. He pulled up the leg of his combat suit and put it into his right sock, between his Achilles’ tendon and the nub of his ankle joint. He knew from his thieving days that it was the least conspicuous place for small objects. If Cassandra was getting a per diem , then he was entitled to just a bit of booty. He exited the town through the triumphal gate, and ran along the straight road towards Gosbecks and the main fort, his suit powering him up. He thought he had plenty of time until he saw a legionnaire running full pelt up the road ahead of him. The only surprise to him was that the Britons hadn’t thought to guard against this standard means of communication. There was a whistling noise in the gloomy dawn air and three thwack sounds in quick succession as the man was taken down by arrows. He passed the body seconds later, hearing the man’s last, rasping breaths as a trio of Britons moved in to finish him off and take his weapons. They heard Kevin’s faint footsteps and breath as he ran past. “His ghost,” said one of the Britons. “It has departed him prematurely. We



have scared the life out of him.” “It will have plenty of company soon!” said another, and they all laughed. Kevin heard the sickening crunch of bone under metal from behind him. Kevin slowed down as he reached the fort, seeing the pre-dawn glow in the east over the North Sea. There was enough light in the sky to see the surrounding landscape, and the town of Camulodunum as it would never be seen again. The only sign of anything abnormal was that there was a touch more smoke hanging over it on that still morning than perhaps there should have been. Over in the fields to the west of the town he saw the ground suddenly begin to move. Thousands of Britons, in camouflage, had crept up under cover of darkness. It was an extraordinary sight that made his heart quicken. These oppressed people who had been invaded and defeated just eighteen years before were about to risk their lives in their attempt to throw off the yoke of Rome. He turned his attention to the fort a couple of hundred yards up ahead. How clever the Romans had been, he now noticed. They’d removed all the trees, shrubs and hedgerows within a quarter of a mile, and filled in all the drainage ditches except the one they used to send their waste to a septic pond. To the south of it, the British settlement was relatively quiet, with a handful of people going about their early morning business. Being in the middle of a majority British settlement, the fort was much stronger and more modern than its counterpart. The gates were firmly closed. Then he heard a call go up from one of the patrols on the ramparts. A legionnaire had seen the mass of British infantry moving in on Camulodunum. A gong started sounding in the still air and there were barked orders. Kevin did a quick scan in infrared and saw that the town was alive with hot bodies hiding behind the thin walls of the houses. He moved nearer to the entrance of the fort, and stood in the open road between it and the settlement, feeling completely exposed, despite his invisibility. Within a minute of the alarm there was a single barked order and the coordinated sound of hundreds of men acting as one echoed out from inside. There was the sound of heavy pieces of timber moving against timber, and then the gates of the fort groaned open. A further order was barked and a massive column of legionnaires eight abreast began jogging out in doubletime. It was a fantastic sight, at the same time both terrifying and inspiring:



men and metal moving as a single killing machine. Their path took them south east through the settlement to join the main road to Camulodunum. As soon as the last of the column was within the settlement another order was barked. This was not in Latin, but a local dialect. Suddenly the air was thick with spears and arrows raining in from every direction, all aimed at the ranks of the legionnaires. The town had sprung to life with hundreds of Britons armed with shields and swords. Every home seemed to burst open, unleashing a flood of bloodthirsty fury. Their faces were covered in war paint – each face an angry artwork. There were screams from the Roman ranks as the spears and flights of arrows took their toll. Within five seconds, and without an order even being issued, the soldiers adopted the famous tortoise formation – a shell of shields locked at the sides and the top. Spears and arrows thudded into its roof. From within the shell the second row of soldiers began levelling spears out of the side and roof. The Britons had clearly thought hard about how to counter this tactic. A tight throng of about twenty Britons charged at the centre of the formation screaming a blood-curdling war cry. A second before impact he saw that they had a sharpened tree trunk slung between them, with blades jutting sideways from the tip. There was an explosion of noise as it slammed into the Romans. A tree trunk had hit the other side almost simultaneously, and its bloody tip and blades emerged through the shield wall closest to him, a couple of soldiers sent sprawling out, to be butchered by the Britons. The enormous momentum of the tree trunks had split the formation in two, with a small group of soldiers trapped in the middle. The isolated soldiers were quickly killed, and desperate hand-to-hand fighting began. A party of Britons had already run past him and were fighting in the gateway with reserve troops. The ambushed soldiers knew they had only one hope of survival, and that was to fight their way back to the gates, but the Britons had anticipated this and formed a huge mass of bodies that pushed, shield on shield, against the Romans. The Romans in the fort managed to close one of the gates, and Kevin heard the mighty thud of the massive pieces of timber locking it into place. The other gate was half-open, waiting for the retreating troops. Kevin was mesmerised by the sight of these hundreds of men in mortal combat. He was horrified but at the same time excited to see this terrible lifeor-death carnage at first hand. Nothing in his wildest nightmares could ever



have prepared him for the sound and smell of that desperate struggle of men fighting to live from blow to blow. The stench of sweat, blood, faeces and fear was overpowering. Above all else, he had to resist an overpowering desire to make himself visible and join in the fight for freedom. It was compelling at a terrifying level; an urge that he had to struggle against with all his will. No video game had ever captivated his senses like this, and yet his own life would be in danger if he joined the melee. The Romans were winning their battle to close the gates. His display told him he had less than ten minutes before the discharge of energy from the alien ship would hit the pieces of the water clock. He had to move. He sheathed his Con-Bat and thought about his super grip gloves and boots, then started scaling the stone wall. It was twenty feet high, and the engineers had done a good job of giving it a smooth finish to minimise handholds. His gloves and boots did their job well, and he was soon up on the ramparts. The wall was three or four feet thick, with a wooden platform running around the inside. Soldiers were swarming all over it. In a couple of places, Britons were trying to get onto the wall using ladders, but these attempts were being foiled easily by the defenders. He glanced over at the battle and saw that the Romans were exacting a heavy toll on the Britons. The two groups had managed to rejoin and were managing to edge their way towards the safety of the gates, leaving a carpet of dead and injured Britons and Romans behind them, two deep in places. The injured Romans were being put to death, and robbed of their weapons and armour. The defenders at the gate were throwing down a withering fire of pila, arrows, crossbow bolts and burning oil on the Britons who occupied the intervening ground, making it easier for their troops to get back to safety. A few more minutes and he was sure they would succeed. He couldn’t risk engaging them himself, but he knew what he had to do. He ran towards the gate area, elbowing one or two Roman defenders out of the way as he did so. He clambered underneath the platform near the gates and then jumped onto the strengthening wooden beams on one of the gates. Just a few feet below him was a troupe of soldiers ready to push the gate shut. They had a massive piece of timber resting up against it with one end in a reinforced receptacle, and the other wedged into a hole against a stone which had been buried in the ground. There was no way the gate could be opened more than thirty degrees. If the gate had to be closed, the weight of the timber would help enormously.



He edged over to the massive hinges and jammed a piece of pewter water clock in place then clambered back onto the platform, wondering where he could put the next one. There was a noise to his right – a loud creaking unlike anything he’d ever heard. He looked into the courtyard and saw what looked like three giant crossbows, and tension was being applied by means of levers. He knew from his gaming background that this weapon was a ballista. The projectiles could cut swathes through crowds. If – when , he reminded himself – the Britons managed to break through the gates, the Romans would part ranks to allow these to slaughter and maim scores of them, and possibly turn the tide of the battle. He threw the remaining piece of pewter at the middle one of the three and it clattered to the cobbles beneath. One artilleryman glanced at it but in a battle like this pieces of metal were bound to fly. It wasn’t a vital part that had fallen off his machine, so it didn’t concern him. Kevin’s display said he had just a couple of minutes before the energy would hit, so he swung back up onto the platform. A British spear missed his head by inches, lodging itself into an oak plank. A legionnaire pulled it out to throw back at the Britons, but Kevin grabbed the bottom of the shaft and hoisted the Roman off the platform and onto his colleagues below. He sprinted along the platform to the other side of the fort, again elbowing or punching Romans along the way. When he reached the north-west corner he stopped, looking for a suitable exit. He jumped down onto the grass and rolled, his suit absorbing the impact. He got up and sprinted for the hilltop rendezvous half a mile away. Over to the east the sun was just coming up over the horizon, bathing the landscape in a red light. The fort at Camulodunum was now ablaze, the black smoke of defensive oil billowing up into the still morning air. In the town itself buildings were on fire. Roman civilians were fleeing over the agricultural land, and Kevin saw a small group being chased down and mauled by vicious wolf-like fighting dogs like the one he’d seen the day before. A couple of the large villas were burning and their horses being led away by Britons. Outbuildings remained undamaged – at least for now. He presumed that these would contain food and other supplies. He could see Cassandra in her camouflage suit at the top of the hill, taking in the terrible but amazing sight. “Where have you been?” she asked. “I was in the thick of it in Gosbecks. It’s just…” He shook his head, unable



to find the words. “I know. It’s overwhelming. It grabs something in your gut, doesn’t it? You want to join in and do your bit for the Brits, no matter how much you appreciate Roman culture.” “What happened back in Aquila’s house? How did you end up trapped?” “He may be retired, but he’s still brilliant in hand-to-hand combat. This is a man who survived a quarter of a century of fighting to reach retirement. I was talking with Judoc and then suddenly he had her with a knife at her throat. You could have been quicker at the temple.” He shot her a look but chose to let her comment go. “So where did you plant your little surprises?” “Curiosity got the better of me. I headed down to the docks,” she pointed off into the distance. “There’s a small fort there, and there was a ship just setting sail. I thought it would be able to raise the alarm down the coast or possibly over on the continent.” She pointed to a ship a mile offshore, its square sail set out in hope of a morning breeze. Thanks to his goggles he could make out the splash of oars at its sides. “Ten seconds,” he said. They fell silent and he watched the numbers on his display count down to zero, knowing she was doing the same. There were six ferocious flashes of fire in their field of view. The ship exploded into a ball of flame and burned fiercely from prow to stern, pieces of its burning sail flying through the air. No one on board would have had a chance, but would have had the good fortune of an instant death. The fort it had sailed from was also ablaze. From their vantage point they could see into the fort at Gosbecks. There was a large fire in the parade ground, and soldiers with buckets were trying in vain to save their artillery pieces. The right gate and the superstructure above it was a fireball, fuelled by the hot oil the Romans had prepared in their defence. Kevin shuddered as he saw a couple of human torches running away from it, and was glad he couldn’t hear their screams at that distance. What he could hear was the distant cheering of the Britons who would soon enter the fort. There would be no hope now for the soldiers trapped outside in the settlement. The Britons would not be in the mood for mercy after two decades of Roman rule. In Camulodunum the main fort had already been set ablaze by British fighters, but now the fire was twice or thrice as big, and had a more violent



tinge to it. The theatre was firmly ablaze and British fighters and slaves were ransacking the houses and setting them alight. He wondered how Judoc was faring. Where was her family from? Would she be able to return there? When the brutal reassertion of Roman rule came, would she simply be taken back into slavery, or would she make her way to Scotland, which the Empire was never fully able to conquer? “I think Trinity would have enjoyed this,” he said. “You know – a good fight. I was half expecting her to come in as a lion, just to scare the living daylights out of a few people.” “She wouldn’t have enjoyed it at all,” said Cassandra. “This is not a hunt; it’s slaughter. No tracking or stealth skills required. Not her style.” “Look there!” he said. In the fields between Gosbecks and Camulodunum several hundred Roman soldiers and irregulars had somehow managed to form up in a defensive position around one of the big villas, where civilians were sheltering. “They’re extraordinary, the way they always organise themselves perfectly in these situations,” said Cassandra. “So well trained and disciplined. They’re like human ants.” “And here comes the main attraction,” said Kevin. Emerging from the valley north of the town were a couple of dozen chariots. “Boudica herself.” He zoomed in on the lead chariot. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I can see why Judoc was a bit confused. She could be your mother.” Blades on the axles of the chariots flashed in the low morning sun. “No,” said Cassandra. “She’s far too mild-mannered. Her husband signed a peace deal in the early days, if you remember. After his death the Romans really had to antagonise her before she lost her temper.” Led by the great warrior queen, the chariots wheeled around towards the Roman formation and circled it three times whilst Britons poured out of the sacked town and formed into a mass of bodies half a mile away, cheering their leader. The defenders had no choice but to stand and watch as the Britons examined their defensive position and taunted them. Having been caught by surprise, they had no cavalry to meet the chariots, and nothing more than their swords and shields to protect them – no pila, no phalanx of spears and no artillery. They were sitting ducks, and they knew it. The lead chariot slowed to a stop in front of the massed ranks of the Britons and there was silence as Queen Boudica addressed them. “Oh, how I’d love to hear that speech!” sighed Cassandra. “I bet it would



compare with Queen Elizabeth’s at Tilbury docks.” “Queen Elizabeth never went to Tilbury docks,” said Kevin. “Queen Elizabeth? Henry the Eighth’s daughter? It’s one of the most famous speeches in history. ‘I know I have the body of a weak, feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too.’ Don’t they teach you anything in your era, Kevin? The Spanish Armada, you dummy.” “Um… Different Queen Elizabeth.” “Oh, a likely story. You’ll be saying there’ll be a Charles the Third next. As if they’d have another!” “Yeah, he doesn’t think so either.” “What are you talking about?” “Well, he’s been waiting f–” “Oh, do please be quiet Kevin. People are dying out there. Besides, I probably shouldn’t be told information from your time. Let me enjoy the spectacle.” The troops formed up in front of the chariots and began marching towards the Romans whilst fifteen of the chariots aligned themselves into an arrowhead formation to their rear and stayed where they were. When the troops were within two hundred yards of the Roman lines the chariots began to trot forwards. When the troops were within a hundred yards the chariots were pushed to a gallop and the soldiers in front began to sprint. Kevin could see the Romans tensing their line of shields in preparation for the onslaught. Just before the British foot soldiers hit the lines, their formation split in two to reveal the fifteen chariots galloping at full tilt. There was a huge crunch as they punched through the Roman lines, throwing some legionnaires into the air. The massed ranks of the Britons hit the defenders, who were now split into two groups, with no defensive flanks as Britons poured through the gap left by their cavalry. “Game over,” said Kevin. “A tactic she learned from the Romans,” said Cassandra. “He who lives by the sword…” “Yeah. What goes around comes around. I think our work is done here. Ain’t no way the Doc can say we didn’t make sure the place was well and truly destroyed.” They began walking back towards the road that would take them to their rendezvous, occasionally looking back at the scene of destruction behind



them, until they were over the hill and it was a pall of smoke on the horizon. “I rather feel like staying,” she said. “What?” “I could have a word with the Doctor and opt to stay here to live out my days.” “Are you out of your mind?” “I’d have status. And you heard Judoc: I look like one of Boudica’s daughters.” “You’re mad. Out of your mind. The Romans will be back in charge in a few months. You know that.” “I’d go up to Caledonia. I bet that’s why the Romans eventually had to build the wall – they may have taken back control down here but a lot of people must have moved north.” “You’d have a few decades of living in appalling conditions.” “But I’d have status. ” “You have status in your own time.” “I’ll always be a woman, Kevin. I’ll always be a second-class citizen in my society.” “Nonsense.” “What do you know, Kevin?” “Me? What do I know about status?” he spluttered. “I know about being discriminated against by white people and black people.” “Oh. Really?” “Yes, ‘Oh really?’ Women have equal rights in my time, so you’re lucky.” “Oh. Well maybe the future’s the right place for me then?” “For you, yeah. Maybe it’s me who should be staying behind, eh? The Roman army looks like an equal opportunities employer to me – Aquila was a nobody, but he rose up to the top, right? I could join the Roman army and slaughter some of the ancestors of the people who went to Africa and enslaved my people. Yeah, that’s right. I could even have me a couple of white slaves at my beck and call. I could get them to tend my little patch of Essex and live like a lord.” “Oh, grow up, Kevin.” “Yeah? Well, my point is that it’s all bleedin’ circles, innit?” He waved his Con-Bat at the lush landscape. “What is? Talk sense.” “History. One minute some people are slaves, the next they’re masters. Or



vice versa. You’re born when you’re born and it’s tough luck if you’re on the bottom of the pile.” “What’s your point?” “You got to escape yours.” “So did you. Here we are in Roman Britain. You’ve been treated as an honoured guest.” “No. The Doc took you out of your time completely. He ain’t done no such thing for me.” “Maybe it’s my long years of loyal service?” she said snootily, and stomped off ahead of him . “Or maybe I know something you don’t,” muttered Kevin. “You two took your time,” said the Doctor, talking as a disembodied voice from his own Spectrel. The alien ship was still in stasis as a 3D projection in When’s Spectrel. “You’re always talking about the educational value of these trips,” said Kevin, taking off his balaclava and rubbing his hair. “I learnt loads. If I was to go back to school now I bet I’d get… oh, seventy percent on the bits of stuff covered by Rotten Romans . Just don’t ask me the plot of Phaedra . I thought I was going to die of boredom.” “It’s wasted on you, lad.” “Oh, and for your information I didn’t say that milk actually came from Old McDonald’s Farm.” “I… Sorry.” “Don’t worry about it. Comes with your new personality.” Cassandra shot Kevin a puzzled look. “Anyway, Doc. What are you doing still holding onto the alien ship? I thought the plan was to ram it into Colchester, causing a final and calamitous depreciation in the housing market of ancient Essex?” “I’m not done with it yet. I have to run a trace on it and it still has this blasted time warp spinning off behind it. But at least it’s not got any more energy left.” “Who the hell designs weapons that can fire just three times before they have to be reloaded?” said Kevin. “Makes no sense in the real world.” “I thought we did a perfectly good job, Doctor,” said Cassandra. “Here’s the spare change.” She held out a purse of money. “Oh, thanks, Tiger. Walter will keep it safe. Never know when we might



want to go back.” Kevin remembered the gold coin tucked away in his sock and smiled at having got one up on his rival. Walter piped up. “I have to say that you did do a very comprehensive job,” he said. He brought up a 3D projection of Camulodunum, which was burning fiercely. The temple remained intact, and was surrounded by jeering Britons. “How long before they break into the temple?” asked Cassandra. “Records say two days,” said Walter. “And that’s when we’ll bring down the ship,” said the Doctor. “Can I be the one to press the button?” asked Kevin. “I’m itching to have a blast at Essex.” “What is it with you and your obsession about Essex, lad?” “You know very well. We’ve discussed it before. Anyway, I realised that there’s only one real winner from today’s events. It isn’t the British, obviously, because in six months or a year the Romans are back in charge after a brutal crackdown. And it’s not the Romans, because eventually they bug out of Britain.” “So who is it, O Sage of Tulse Hill?” asked Cassandra. “Him,” said Kevin, indicating the air. “The Doc.” “Poppycock,” spluttered the Doctor’s disembodied voice. “Yes it is,” said Kevin. “By destroying Colchester, we just guaranteed that London became the capital. Guess who bought a huge parcel of land just south of the Thames as the legions marched up the A23 through Streatham Hill when they invaded? We just pulled off the biggest real estate caper in history.” “Nonsense,” said the Doctor. “Complete and utter nonsense. It was going to happen anyway.” “Says you. And you’ve just trashed the futures of every generation ever brought up in Essex.” “But you always go on about how much you hate Essex and its denizens!” “Well maybe I wouldn’t if you hadn’t aided and abetted in its destruction. It could have been an alright place.” “London was always going to end up as the capital. It was already the commercial centre. Look at a map and figure it out for yourself. ” “Yeah, but you made certain!” “Shush. My Spectrel tells me she’s getting very close to the bottom of who’s behind these attacks. Both of you, keep your combat gear on.”



Kevin and Cassandra watched the projection of Camulodunum and Gosbecks as they took a long overdue meal prepared by When’s house-bots. The battle was over now. The victorious Britons were now using the chariot racing track for their own grisly entertainment. Kevin was transfixed and nauseated by the brutality of it but, he reminded himself, this was no worse than that which the Romans had meted out to the Britons. Cassandra had told him that the reigning emperor was now Nero, who at the time was throwing Christians to the lions for the entertainment of crowds in Rome. The fire engulfing Camulodunum was now so fierce that no one could enter the town. The only building still intact was the temple which, thanks to its marble walls and the expanse of flagstones around it, had not caught fire. The people who’d sought shelter there were trapped. When the fire subsided they would be the only people of their kind for miles around who hadn’t been killed. They would have no chance. He wondered what Aquila and Lydia were thinking as they sheltered there. Probably they were praying for a miraculous intervention by the Twentieth – but they were hundreds of miles away and would take days to get there when the news eventually reached them. “My Spectrel’s got the answer,” said the Doctor faintly. “I didn’t believe it at first, so I asked her to check again. But there is no doubt. The person behind this is… my cousin, Frangan Why.” “Francis? A traitor?” said Cassandra. “Never!” “P-P-Peter, that’s one h-h-heck of an al-l-l-legation to make.” “Actually, there is one other actor in all of this,” said Doctor How. “Well, we’re ready to go after them,” said Kevin, picking up his Con-Bat. “Just give us the word.” “It’s you , Kevin.”



The robot was confused. The command feed from Atruk’s ship had vanished. There was no blaster bombardment of the Palace of Westminster for it to contribute to. It had been looking forward to observing how much of a fuss the emergency services would make over an event that size, and having permission to shoot at them and carry out assassinations whilst the main ship’s blaster did its job. Atruk’s last command had clearly stated that it was now in charge. He had left it a new set of encrypted orders, to be de-encrypted only if he had been compromised. The robot had one last scan and could only conclude that this was such an eventuality. It de-encrypted the orders and processed them. It scanned the airwaves for data in its language and picked up something in a warehouse south of the river. It dived down and flew through one of the loading bays into the expanse of racks. It homed in on several pallets of cardboard boxes, scanning the contents of each. All of them were identical. If it was possible for a robot to be flattered and surprised, then that was what it was. It prised open the corner of one of the boxes and squeezed itself in before closing the box behind it. It had a new sense of purpose. A few hours later a forklift truck scooted around to the area of racks housing the pallets. It picked them all off the rack and into the back of a small truck. The robot could tell from its navigation system that the truck drove into central London. It was after dusk as the pallets were unloaded by another forklift truck. “Is all good,” said a voice. If the robot had had a human language pack installed it would have heard something that sounded like an Eastern European accent. “Very good. Maybe more if sell good, yes? You let me know, I talk supplier. Ciao, ciao.”



“No way!” said Kevin, as Cassandra unsheathed her Con-Bat and fixed him with a steely glare. “I ain’t done nothing.” “Which,” said Cassandra, “if you could understand the basics of grammar or logic, would mean you’ve done something . I won’t let him get away, Doctor. Just give me the word.” “Easy, Tiger,” said the Doctor. “Put away your Con-Bat. Kevin’s an unwitting party in this.” “You’re bleedin’ right I am!” said Kevin, pointing at the ceiling, where How’s voice was coming from. “I haven’t done anything, and you know it. I haven’t even been out of your supervision for weeks.” “It’s my fault. I’ve not supervised you enough.” “That ain’t true. You’re a micromanager and you know it.” “Listen, you clot. That game you’ve been playing –” “What, Rorrim ? The one I’ve been beta testing?” “Yes. It’s effectively a giant Trojan.” “Rubbish.” “No. Listen. Every time you opened that game up you were actually opening up a wormhole into another part of the Pleasant universe.” “What? On my crappy little early twenty-first century tablet? Do me a favour, Doc – that thing’s an antique compared to the technology you actually need to do that, and you know it.” “Every time you started that program it triggered what you would loosely understand as a proxy server. An intermediary, if you will. It then streamed real data to your machine via the wormhole, and vice versa. Everything you did was happening for real at the other end.” “Um… Like, what do you mean in practical terms?” “It means, you bungling idiot, that every time you’ve played Rorrim you’ve been opening up a wormhole to another civilisation and destroying it for real.” “For real?” “Yes, for real.” “Oh, my giddy aunt.”



“And you and your stupid gaming pals have been killing these people in droves and wrecking their civilisation for no apparent reason other than the sheer enjoyment of it. And the last thing they see when you’re done bombarding them to blazes with your blasters is you typing your names in bright red over the ruins of their capital city.” “Oh, jeepers…” “And you wonder why they sent a killer robot after you? You wonder why they fried your friends to atoms?” “Oh.” “It killed your mates because it couldn’t get to you. It was lying in wait for you, but your neighbour Jabba the Hutt stole it and became an unwitting victim. And there must have been another player in the US embassy, which is why they targeted it. But fortunately you were able to stop that one.” “Gotcha.” “And then they obviously thought that, since you were given free rein to bomb them back to the Stone Age, they were perfectly entitled to come to your home planet and do the same. Well? What have you got to say for yourself, young man?” “Erm... Sorry?” The Doctor let out a huge existential sigh. Cassandra folded her arms and looked at him with a mix of pity and satisfaction. “Can I say something in, um, mitigation ?” “Go on.” “I was set up. Obviously. None of the other players could participate unless I started the game. True?” “Yes, true. You were set up.” “But why me?” “Your proximity to me, I suspect. They were trying to get at me. You were an unknowing stooge in all of this. I’m sorry I lost my rag with you. The main culprit isn’t here to answer for himself, so I was wrong to take it out on you. Sorry.” Cassandra sat down again, but kept her eyes on Kevin. “No worries, Doc. So, like, what really happened?” “It hasn’t stopped. In fact, it’s about to get worse. A lot worse. That big product launch Francis is working on… it’s the full version of Rorrim .” “That’s why the robot targeted his place! He was doing the beta tests too. That’s why I’d seen his gaming name before.”



“Exactly. And it will be available to the public on pre-release tomorrow. The wormhole it will create will be enormous. All those unsuspecting users will unleash a huge wave of destruction on the home planet of these warriors. In turn, they will be able to retaliate with everything they’ve got. And they’ve got blasters , Kevin.” “Yeah, like only ones that can fire just three rounds before having to reload.” “Kevin, so far as handheld weapons are concerned, your civilisation thinks that using explosions to throw bits of metal at each other is the height of sophistication.” “We have explosive rounds too!” “Oh, excuse me. You can lob firecrackers at each other. How terribly quaint – perhaps you would care to put on a glorified fireworks display for these guys? I hope you’ve got some good music to accompany it, because these people will wipe your civilisation off the face of the Pleasant universe.” “So what are we going to do?” “I don’t see why any of the rest of us should do anything, Kevin,” said Cassandra. “This is your mess and you should clear it up.” “Hush, Tiger. There’s more than one skeleton in your cupboard,” said the Doctor. Kevin looked over at Cassandra. She didn’t meet his eyes. “We have to stop Why,” said How . “B-b-but he’s shut down all c-c-communications!” said When. “He’s not answering.” “He may not be answering, but he’s always curious because that’s in his very nature. And he’s always driven by desire. I know exactly how we’re going to get his attention. Don’t I, Tiger?” “What ?” asked Cassandra. Kevin glanced over at her. She had gone beetroot. “If you want to catch a busy bee then you set a honey trap,” said the Doctor. “I am not leaving this Spectrel dressed like that ,” said Cassandra, hotly. “Why not?” asked Kevin. “You’ve got the figure for it. And, believe me, this is modest compared to some gear.” “How dare you! Not even the ladies of the night dressed like that in my era!” Cassandra stamped her foot for good measure.



“Kevin, you’re really not helping things,” said the Doctor’s disembodied voice. In the projection area there was a model of a long-sleeved blouse and a skirt that finished slightly below the knee. “Tiger, Kevin is right for once. This is a fairly modest outfit for the time. Look at the following selection of images.” When’s Spectrel flipped through a set of pictures taken from London streets showing women of Cassandra’s age. Kevin thought she might go into shock. “Well I can’t speak the language,” she said. “In fact, I refuse to debase myself to Kevin’s level.” “I wouldn’t worry,” said Kevin. “In that outfit you should get away with it. Particularly if you’re going to Mayfair – though you might fit even better wearing Laura Ashley because you’re going to come across as a right frump.” “A frump?! What’s a frump?” Kevin just gave her a tilt of the head to indicate that she was the archetype of a frump. Her eyes widened in rage and she stormed out of the room . “Thanks, Kevin,” said the Doctor. “That was really unhelpful.” “Aw, Doc. It’s alright for her to chip away at me, innit?” “It’s that awkward time of the month for her. Please do your best to help her. And she’s never been to the future. It’s very stressful for her. Until I became a woman I didn’t appreciate just how bad it can be. But I do feel much better now, thanks for asking. Uncommonly good, in fact.” The Doctor lowered her voice, “I hibernated and time-travelled through to a better time of the month.” “And you ain’t even told her about that yet, Doc. You can’t hide it forever, you know.” “All in good time, Kevin. Now shush.” They could hear angry footsteps coming back along the corridors to When’s control room. Cassandra stomped in and Kevin’s heart missed a beat. She was wearing a black skirt that finished a touch above the knee, black knee-length leather boots and a red short-sleeved blouse with the first three buttons undone. “Wow! You look stunning!” “I see,” said Cassandra icily. “Now that I’m dressed like a cheap harlot, you find me attractive. I think that says more about you and your tastes than it does about me, young man.” “Aw, hold on. I thought you looked terrific before.” “Well you didn’t say so, did you?”



“You weren’t… Oh, I give in. You’re gonna knock him dead, Tiger.” “The way I feel, I’m very inclined to.” The Doctor intervened. “You are there to talk him round, that’s all.” “That really had better be all,” said Cassandra.



It was a rare couple of hours off for Joe Schlutz, though it was no consolation for the loss of yet another weekend spent with his son, Joe Junior. Nothing the previous week had made sense to him. In fact, nothing about his job had made sense to him since taking up his post in London. He’d expected a fairly quiet time of it, working closely with the Brits on terrorist activity in the Middle East, or maybe stuff involving Russia that was reminiscent of the Cold War era. He had been planning on being a deskjockey for the three years of his tour, and getting to spend quality time with Joe Junior – his wife was always reminding him that parenting was a twoperson gig, and what a neglectful father he was turning into. Instead, he’d been dragged into a series of bizarre events involving overgrown jellyfish attacking his country’s new state-of-the-art embassy building. And then there was the business with the terrorist attack on an American airliner on its final approach to Heathrow. The culmination of this craziness was some guy flying like Superman and apparently using some kind of baseball bat to whack balls of energy away from the US embassy. Astonishingly, the British tabloid press was hailing this person, or alien, or whatever it was, as the South London Superman. And that stuck-up Limey Sir Adrian Brown had simply told him not to worry, and that everything was under control – despite the fact that Sir Adrian hadn’t a damned clue who it was that was supposed to have it under control. All he could talk about was ‘parties unknown’, and how grateful he was for their help. As far as Schlutz was concerned, London was like Disneyworld on acid. He was halfway convinced that he was in some kind of crazy CIA-sponsored experiment or simulation after being drugged, and that he was actually lying flat on his back in the basement of a building at CIA HQ in Langley with a drip in his arm and a bedpan under his butt. His reality made the Matrix look like a cakewalk. Joe Junior’s birthday was a couple of days away and he’d heard Hamlod’s was the place to go for exclusive children’s toys. There’d been an exuberant review of an over-priced new semi-autonomous robot toy and, well… he felt he’d been a lousy father recently and why the hell not indulge the kid? These



things were apparently going to be the must-have elite play item. He made his way up to the third floor via the stairs – staying fit was important. He silently cursed the Brits: the third floor was really the fourth floor because their first floor was what they called the ground floor. And what kind of an idiot put children’s toys on such a high floor anyway? He had half a mind to try to get some kind of martial law declared in Britain so that he could sort the whole damned place out. As he climbed the stairs he made a mental list: they would have to drive on the right, they would call it gas and not petrol, the letter ‘u’ would be deleted wholesale from words. Just think of the number of saved keystrokes! And there would be no beating around the bush – people would talk straight and say what they meant instead of saying they liked something that they secretly hated. He reached the toy department feeling more out of breath than he dared admit to himself. He glanced at his watch. He would have to hurry up because he had a meeting with Sir Adrian in an hour. “Robots,” he panted at the first assistant he saw; a pasty-faced pimpled teenaged British boy with a ring through his nose. Schlutz had to stifle an urge to pull the ring to see whether it came out on a string and made the boy talk as it retracted, like his GI Joe had when he was a kid. “Proving very popular,” said the assistant, and started walking through the maze of gondolas stacked with toys. “We only had the one shipment, and we’ve got no idea when we can get another. Good job you turned up when you did. Here you are, sir.” The assistant indicated a couple of half-empty shelves stacked with metallic robots sitting in matt black presentation boxes. A couple of other wealthy-looking parents were examining them. The robots were about ten inches tall and had arms that could telescope out, with little claws on the end. Their evil, alien look was completed by a recessed set of vicious-looking red eyes. They looked strangely familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe he was just tired from his job and the walk upstairs? “Yeah, thanks.” He scanned the rows quickly – it wasn’t like the Bear Factory, where he’d once spent an agonising two hours with some chippy assistant building a bear for Joe Junior when he was two years old. These were all identical. He picked one off the shelf and was just about to take it to the till when he spotted a model that was a full fifteen inches tall, rather than just the ten inches of the others. This one looked super-evil, and he was strangely taken with it.



“Excuse me?” he called over to the assistant. “Sir?” the boy came back. “What’s up with this one?” Schlutz gestured at the larger robot. “Display model only. Shop soiled. A big dent and a few scratches here and there, as you can see.” “I’ll take it.” “I’m afraid it’s a display model only, sir.” Damned Brits, Shultz thought. That was another thing he’d change. The youth had said he was afraid it’s only a display model. What was there ever to be afraid about? How had these people ever had an empire spanning the globe? “I said,” Schlutz growled, putting back the original robot and picking up the larger one, “that I will take it.” He turned it over in his hands. It was surprisingly heavy – disproportionately heavier than the standard model he’d just put back. He liked that – a good solid build. “Where do the batteries go?” “I’m not sure.” “But you’ve seen it work?” The youth was getting agitated. “Yes, of course I’ve seen it work. That’s because it’s a display model. It lights up every now and then and asks questions. Maybe the fact that you can’t change the batteries is the reason that it’s not for sale. Apart from the fact that it’s a display model and therefore not for sale.” “The hell it ain’t,” said Schlutz. “I work with some of the best damned electronic engineers in the business. One of my backroom boys can solve a problem like that in a jiffy. Good ol’ American know-how.” “But sir –” “And I’ll take the packaging off your hands too.” He picked up the slick black box next to it. “I’m doing you Limeys a favour if you can’t even figure out how to change the damned batteries on this thing.” He looked at the top of the black box and smiled. “This one even has my initials on it. What are the odds, huh?”



Cassandra had demanded to be dropped as close as possible to Why’s Mayfair home. She concentrated on keeping her knees together to preserve her modesty as she squeezed out of the red Post Office box and onto the pavement. As she brushed herself down, she caught the attention of a young man in jeans, who smiled at her. She stuck her tongue out at him and walked off with a look of grim determination on her face. The Post Office box disappeared behind her, to the consternation of a tourist with a postcard. “Remember to smile and look coy,” said Doctor How. She was using an earring as a communication device. “Not until I’m at his front door,” she said. “I feel utterly naked in this outfit.” She saw a couple of women her age with midriffs bared to enjoy the June warmth, their belly button jewellery glinting in the sun. “It’s outrageous. These people should be arrested at once. You said women had more status in this era. It looks to me like most of them have been reduced to the status of harlots.” “They are free to dress how they choose.” “I can’t believe any self-respecting woman would want to dress like that .” “Have you considered that they might get some status from it? Either their own self-esteem or by making a statement about themselves?” “Don’t be ridiculous . How would you know what a woman feels about her clothes, Doctor?” There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. “Do you remember the way to Francis’s house?” asked the Doctor. “How could I forget? The streets have changed, though. Much cleaner, and not as smelly. But there seems to be this awful invisible gas in the air and it’s disgusting .” “Oh, it was worse than that before. The conventional internal combustion engine is in its last couple of decades now.” “And why on Earth have they all painted their railings black? And most of the front doors too.” “Queen Victoria – the monarch after your William IV – went into a deep and prolonged mourning for her husband, Albert. People felt almost obliged



to remove the gaiety from their lives. So they painted their doors and railings black.” “Oh, good grief.” “You might say that.” “The fact that we ended up fighting with the Frenchies and against the Germans makes even less sense. Not that it made any sense even then. What a nonsense you’ve allowed history to become, Doctor.” “Human history is always nonsense,” said How. Cassandra skipped over a one-way street, flustered by a cyclist going the wrong way, who had the temerity to shout a warning to her. “Oh, for my Con-Bat! Cheeky devil. And his figure-hugging underwear is nothing short of obscene. I could see everything in outline.” “It’s as well you’re only there in daytime.” “I shudder to think. And Mayfair used to be such a respectable place – despite its proximity to Marylebone. Are you sure the denizens of that benighted area haven’t moved their business south?” “It’s immoral earnings of another sort now,” sighed the Doctor. “Hedge funds.” “Do try to make sense, Doctor. I know what Tulip Mania is and I’m well acquainted with the South Sea Bubble. But hedge funds ? Are there also drainage ditch accounts? I knew I should have married a wealthy landowner.” She gave a cold look to a young man who smiled at her. “I’ll say that for Francis,” said Cassandra looking at the four- storey townhouse from the other side of the street. “He's kept it in jolly good condition. You must be distraught at having lost your mansion to that little place in the Telford Estate.” “Wealth can be too conspicuous, Tiger. Especially south of the river. The mansion and orchard had to go. My current home is very spacious by modern standards, and the status it confers is ample for the dealings I have in this era. As for cousin Why’s place, you would probably faint if I told you its current value. But that’s him to a T – all pomp and swagger. He turned his part of north London into an over-valued and built-up den of commercial misery. He makes the Duke of Westminster look like a second-rate buy-to-let landlord.” Cassandra waited for a gap in the traffic and ran across the street, in fear for her life from the cars, which were passing by at up to fifteen miles per hour. The lack of a horse and an external driver was something she found completely unnerving. The quiet rubber tyres and the lack of the clip-



clopping of a horse’s hooves to tell you their speed and proximity made them lethal, whatever the Doctor said about their ability to brake quickly. She skipped up the familiar steps to Why’s front door and pushed the bell. A buzzer sounded, and she waited patiently. “You have to push the door when the buzzer sounds,” said the Doctor. “Well, I didn’t know that, did I? I’m not some trained sheepdog, you know. I was expecting a footman. You could be a bit more understanding, Doctor. I’ve never been to the future before.” “Sorry, Tiger. Now, after you get in there you we won’t be able to communicate because he’s got a firewall over the whole place.” “Firewall ?” said Cassandra. “Like a safety curtain,” said the Doctor. “You should have said what you meant in the first place. Honestly .” She tutted. Cassandra rang the doorbell again, pushed the door open when she heard the buzzer, went into the porch and closed the door behind her. There was a wood and glass door into the rest of the house. She opened it, thankful that Why didn’t have his cousin’s pathological fear of germs, though she did wonder whether Why’s tobacco smoke had a similar effect to How’s UV bath. The interior was much as she remembered. In the same way that Doctor How’s taste in interior design was minimalist and somehow timelessly fashionable, Why’s was extravagant, luxurious and always in the worst taste. Except, in Cassandra’s opinion, if one was the sort of person acquainted with the interiors of bordellos. Silk tapestries from the Orient hung from the walls and there was a thick woollen crimson carpet underfoot. The chandelier was overwhelming for the space, and yet the hall was still somehow under-lit and dingy. Not under-lit or dingy, she thought, just seedy . It was an extension of his Spectrel’s interior, which she was sure wouldn’t have changed either. She heard soft footsteps coming downstairs and looked up to see Why himself. He was dressed impeccably in his tweed trousers and a purple silk kimono with his crimson shirt on underneath. He paused for effect on the last landing and took a puff of his pipe. Her heart fluttered. Damn him, she thought; he was a rake but he was such a handsome rake. “Hello, Mr Why.” “Well,” purred Why. “Who do we have here? Welcome to the twenty-first



century, Tiger. What an unexpected pleasure – I certainly never thought I’d see you here.” He took the last few steps downstairs and closed the distance between them. He took a few seconds to look her up and down. She felt herself being mentally undressed and drunk in; something she found simultaneously uncomfortable and thrilling in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. She’d had this from him before, but it had never been quite so blatant, and her reaction never so visceral . She was mesmerised as he took her right hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. “May I say that you’re looking absolutely ravishing , my dear?” “Oh,” she said. “Gosh.” Her heart fluttered. “I… I don’t know whether that’s a real question, Mr Why. Francis. Or a rhetorical one designed to flatter me.” He put the pipe in his mouth so that he could hold her right hand in both of his and stare deep into her eyes. “I’d say it’s a statement of fact. I’d say it is so fundamentally true as to qualify as a new law of the universe. You look exquisite .” “Oh. Goodness .” “Now, what brings you chez moi ?” “Blimey. My mind’s gone a little blank. Silly me.” She laughed awkwardly. “Your journey’s not wasted. Not on me, at least. Why don’t we have a glass of wine together and talk about the old times? I’ve got such a lot of catching up to do with you.” He put his right index finger gently under her chin and smiled. “But alas, I can’t tarry too long because I have this product launch on the go. This one’s going to make me an absolute mint .” “Oh!” said Cassandra, snapping out of her reverie. “That was it. We need you to not launch your new product. Please.” “What? I’ve invested millions in this one. Months of development. Set to go live in a matter of hours. This is a blockbuster , baby, and there’s no turning back.” “But it’s going to destroy the Earth!” “Stuff and nonsense. Who told you that? Oh, don’t tell me. It was Peter, wasn’t it? And Walter too, I shouldn’t wonder. I know how resistant to change Walter is. Ch-ch-ch-change ?” mimicked Why. “Oh, F-F-Francis. I cc-c-can’t ch-ch-change. Peter is far too tolerant of him.” “Oh, please don’t be horrid about Walter. He does his best, you know. And



he’s been a total godsend in helping the Doctor out in our latest mission.” “Phooey. What’s the story this time? ” “Well, there’s this killer robot. So far as I understand, it attacked a lot of people who had been beta testers of your new game.” Cassandra brightened as she remembered the details. “Olga was one of them. Your freelance assistant person. And it’s all linked in to this alien spaceship which has a ‘wormhole’ behind it, and it’s got some kind of ‘proxy server’ attached to it, and if the game’s played then they all get blown to smithereens on their home planet. That makes them angry, so whilst the wormhole’s open they can retaliate and attack Earth. It’s already taken Doctor How and Walter When a huge effort to get the situation under control and stop that first ship from wreaking devastation. So when you launch that game tomorrow, all the human players will unwittingly attack their home planet. That means that this whole race of people with blasters is going to come through the wormhole and it’ll be way too much for all of the Time Keepers – even if you were all reunited – and they will destroy the Earth.” “It’s a bug.” “What?” “A bug. That’s what you have beta testers for, darling. It’s all taken care of. No need for you and Peter to worry your pretty little heads.” “But the Doctor said –” “What Doctor How said has got nothing to do with anything. It’s hysteria. The usual stick-in-the-mud lack of adaptability. I often wonder, between How and When, which one really has autism. Now,” he said, his voice becoming a purr again. “How about that glass of wine, Tiger? You can take those boots off and relax on a chaise longue with me. You must be worn out after your recent adventure. I’ll give you what they call in this century ‘a little TLC’. That means tender, loving care.” He put his palm on her cheek. “You’re the most gorgeous of Peter’s assistants,” he said. “A fresh rose in the dew of a sunny spring morning. The only flower in Doctor How’s garden unplucked by yours truly. ” Cassandra felt drawn to Why’s puckered lips. She took a step back. “But what if you’re wrong, Francis?” “I’m not wrong. I’m never wrong, Tiger. I am Why. It’s my job to get to the nub of the problem, root it out and get it solved.” He stepped back into her personal space. She took a step back. “Yes, but that’s Doctor How’s specialism too.”



“Pfft ! He’s very much the junior Time Keeper in this relationship. I remember when he was still a baby. He’s incapable even of looking after his brother. I took on that responsibility after the split. Did he tell you that?” He stepped forwards again and she shuffled back, maintaining eye contact. “He told me you were responsible for the split,” said Cassandra. “At least in part. Doctor Who wouldn’t have needed that money if you’d not indulged his bipolar behaviour in the first place.” “Doctor Who was always bipolar. That was his destiny. He’d have starved without the royalties from that show. Even during the time the BBC took the series off the air, the residuals from reruns on PBS in the US were enough – not to mention the licensing fees from all the conventions.” He continued to step forwards. “Money’s all you care about, isn’t it?” She felt her back nudge up against the inner door of the porch. “It doesn’t just make the world go round, Tiger. The whole Pleasant universe spins on the axis of wealth. Money is the only true universal constant. The more you accrue, the greater your power and the more respect people have for you. By the end of tomorrow I’m going to have doubled my not-inconsiderable fortune.” “And it won’t be worth anything if the Earth is destroyed!” “For the last time, will you listen to me? Let me spell it out to you. I. Have. Solved. The. Bug.” He clasped her by the shoulders. “This is your chance to join me, Cassandra. I want you by my side in my moment of glory. ” “No!” shouted Cassandra. She pushed him back and opened the porch door. “Never. Money isn’t everything. And I, for one, am not for sale!” “Then damn you and Peter to hell!” said Why. “Don’t any of you ever expect any help from me again. Do you hear me?” “Good riddance!” Cassandra stepped into the porch and slammed the door behind her, rattling the glass. She fiddled with the front door lock, whose mechanism was unfamiliar to her. She could feel Why’s eyes boring into her back. “See that little button?” said Why, regarding her coolly from the other side of the glass. “Yes, that’s the one. You have to press that first. Then you have to pull that lever towards you… No, not like that. If you put your thumb… Yes. That’s it. Now just pu– There you go. Easy when you know how, isn’t it?” Cassandra yanked open the front door and looked back at him, trying to



muster up some more rage, but the moment had passed and he was looking at her with his mesmerising eyes. She hesitated on the razor’s edge between lust and loyalty. He gave her a smouldering look and she gasped. Then before she knew it she had snapped back to reason, slipped out of the front door and slammed it behind her. She stood panting on the doorstep, leaning back against the door. There was a buzz from behind her and she started to fall backwards, back into the gravitational well of Why’s charisma. She caught the door frame and, without daring to turn around, pulled the door shut again behind her. She grasped the railing and took a few doddery steps down to the pavement. “So,” said Doctor How in her ear. “How did that go?” “You’re so lucky you’re not a woman, Doctor. He’s utterly irresistible.” “Oh, isn’t he just?” said the Doctor. “What?” “I mean, that’s what I’ve heard.”



Despite his seniority, Schlutz was delayed by security at the gate – on his orders they were still on a heightened state of alert after the events of recent days. And as he walked to his office he was reassured to see a pair of Special Forces guys on each floor of the building, ready for anything. Sir Adrian Brown and his retinue were waiting for Joe Schlutz when he got back to his office at the embassy. He silently cursed the British disease of punctuality. It wasn’t just the fact that they were punctual that annoyed him; it was that they were always ten or fifteen minutes early . He was convinced it was some kind of one-upmanship to unsettle non-Brits. Either that or it was some kind of mental affliction; an OCD affecting an entire nation. “My apologies,” said Schlutz, without a trace of sincerity. He indicated his Hamlod’s plastic bag. Even though it was strong, it wasn’t enough to hold the robot, so he had tucked it under his arm. “My son’s birthday. Got something real special for him.” “How nice,” enthused Sir Adrian, shaking Schlutz’s free hand. “Great to see you!” said Schlutz, beaming at Dr Peterson. He meant it, mentally kicking himself for going to couples therapy with Mrs Schlutz rather than divorcing her and being single and in a position to date Dr Camilla Peterson of MI16. He shook her hand warmly, his sincerity revived and on full throttle. “Lovely to see you too,” said Peterson with a smile that melted Schlutz’s heart. “How are you?” asked Thickett, offering his hand. Schlutz pretended not to see him. It wasn’t difficult, given that the man was a foot shorter than him . “Why don’t you all come on through?” Schlutz said. He touched his security card on the reader outside his door and opened it. “Take a pew, as you Brits would say. I’ll order us up some coffee. Or tea.” He took the robot out of the plastic bag and put it on his desk, with the black box beside it. Then he took orders for drinks from his guests and relayed them down the phone. Thickett looked around the room. He’d not been in the US embassy before, and saw it as a spectacular boost to his ailing career prospects.



Doctor Peterson looked at the polished metal robot. “This looks interesting,” she said. “May I?” “Sure, be my guest. Display model. Hamlod’s couldn’t tell me where the batteries go. I’m gonna have my technical folks look at it.” To his surprise, it was the black box that she picked up, rather than the robot. “I see it’s slightly shop-soiled,” she said. The box was missing its front, and there was a slight dent in the lip of one of the long sides at the open front. She felt the surface of the box, then tapped it a couple of times. She brought out a bottle of nail varnish and tried painting some liquid onto the surface. It dried and then peeled off, leaving no trace. “Pretty slick packaging, huh?” said Schlutz. “I’ll say,” she said. She stood up, dropped the box to the floor and stamped on it with her heel. “Damn it! That’s my son’s toy!” protested Schlutz. “Doctor Peterson, I will have to issue you with a severe reprimand,” said Thickett. “Any compensation to Mr Scholes –” “Colonel Schlutz!” “Sorry, Colonel Schlutz – will come out of your pay.” Peterson picked up the box and showed it to the others. It hadn’t a scratch on it, and wasn’t even bent out of shape. Only the original dent in the lip remained. “Slick and strong ,” said Schlutz. Peterson looked at the red lettering embossed on its surface. “ Did they make this up for you?” she asked. “Nah. Lucky coincidence. As I said to the assistant in the store: ‘What are the odds, huh?’ They’re also my son’s initials, so it’s kinda neat.” The tea and coffee arrived. Peterson ignored the others and moved her examination to the robot. There was a slight indentation on the front of the robot. It was a long groove. She put the box next to the robot and saw that the groove would match up with the slight dent in the lip of the box if it was inside its packaging. She looked out of the window. The large crater in the lawn had been filled in. A couple of men were unrolling strips of fresh grass onto it. The crater in the concrete of the car park was also being filled in. Luckily, no utilities had been hit, so work was progressing quickly. Scaffolding was being erected to repair the windows damaged by the concrete shrapnel and boulders from that second explosion.



She looked downriver towards the MI6 building. Then she looked skywards, at the volume she’d seen occupied by the lone figure who had been armed with what was apparently some weapon akin to a baseball bat. In a split second, her amazing mathematical mind was able to triangulate it from her own memory of that day, and from the numerous pieces of shaky public video footage she’d seen, as well as from the confidential high-quality imagery taken by the security services. She turned her attention back to the groove in the robot and the dent in its packaging. Her remarkable mathematical mind came up with a good estimate of the diameter of the thing that had caused the damage. She had no data by which to estimate the force required because she didn’t have any data on the unworldly metal or packaging, but knew it must have been considerable. “Can we have your attention, please, Miss Peterson?” said Thickett. “Doctor Peterson,” chorused Sir Adrian and Colonel Schlutz. Schlutz gave Sir Adrian a jealous look that the latter couldn’t fathom. “Whaddaya got, Camilla?” asked Schlutz. Doctor Peterson looked up. “Oh, sorry. I’m afraid –” The robot’s eyes lit up red. “Hey! You got it to work!” said Schlutz. “The guy in the shop said it was a bit random. I ain’t seen it work before.” “I really don’t think we –” Doctor Peterson rose from her chair. The robot’s head and torso spun in opposite directions. “Cool!” said Schlutz. “Um, no,” said Peterson, moving away from the desk. The robot’s arms telescoped out and its claws snapped at the air whilst they rotated at the wrist. “Well, I know one seven-year-old who’s gonna think it’s cool.” The robot’s head spun around so that it was facing Schlutz. “YOU. ARE. JCS? ” it asked in a metallic monotone voice. “Cool! It’s imprinting its ownership on me.” “JCS. CONFIRMED. ” A whining noise started growing and a stubby barrellike protrusion emerged from its belly. “I think we need to get out of your office,” said Peterson. “In fact, we need to leave the building. Now .” She made for the door. Sir Adrian looked at her. “Camilla, what –” “Get out!” shouted Peterson. “Now !” She opened the door. “Now just wait a goddamned minute, Doctor Peterson. Wha –” Sir Adrian was on his feet. Doctor Peterson grabbed him and pushed him



through the open door and into the open office area beyond. Thickett, bewildered, started moving towards the door. “JCS. MUST. DIE. ” “Holy –” Schlutz stood up, but was rooted to the spot. Doctor Peterson ran back to the desk, grabbed the packaging and put it in front of the robot. “Duck!” she screamed, and dived to the floor. Schlutz jumped sideways and rolled towards the door in a move drummed into him at US Marine Corps boot camp. There was an ear-splitting explosion and the windows blew out. A breeze whistled in, blowing papers around the office. The box clattered undamaged to the floor in the far corner, near the window. “Run!” said Peterson. Schlutz picked himself up off the floor and ran out into the open plan area. The ‘all stations’ alarm was sounding: the US embassy was under attack and was moving into lockdown. There was pandemonium. Two Special Forces soldiers in body armour cut a swathe through the fleeing office workers. Peterson ran over to the box and snatched it up. The robot spun its head and glared at her with its evil red glowing eyes. “YOU. ARE. NOT. JCS. ” She didn’t bother to reply. It tracked her as she ran to the door. She glanced back at it, heard the whining building up again, then slammed the door. She glanced around. Schlutz had drawn a pistol and taken cover behind a desk. He was briefing the two soldiers. They had their assault rifles trained on his office door, from behind which a terrible scratching could be heard. “Get outta the way, Peterson!” said Schlutz. “We have to get a clear shot at it.” “I told you to run,” she said. “What the hell are you doing with the box?” “It can’t go far without it. Or I’m pretty sure it can’t.” “Are you outta your mind?” “No. Are you out of yours? I told you to get out of this building. If I were you, I’d get out of London. Maybe even the UK.” “Baloney. It’s just a goddamned toy robot, Peterson.” “Really? If it’s a toy then why aren’t you armed with a pea-shooter or a water-pistol? ” Schlutz’s office door slammed to the floor. The two soldiers opened up



with a volley of shots, peppering his desk with bullets. His slimline computer monitor shattered into dozens of pieces. “Hold your goddamn fire!” The robot appeared in the doorway, its eyes blazing red. There was a whine and the robot seemed to settle down onto the floor. One of the soldiers broke cover and strode towards the robot with his weapon trained on it. “YOU. ARE. NOT. JCS.” The robot twisted its torso. The soldier bent down and grabbed the robot. “Looks like it’s drilled into the floor,” he called back. “Get back!” said Peterson. “Lady, you gotta figure. This thing wants Colonel Schlutz. You knew that. That’s how come you went back in there to get the box. Right?” “Damn it, Camilla. He’s right. You had it figured.” “It will stop at nothing, Joe. Get out now. Come on.” She pulled him away. There was a scream and the sound of a heavy rifle clattering to the floor. They looked back at the soldier, whose hand had been severed. He clasped the stump, stemming the flow of blood, and dropped to the floor. Peterson pushed Schlutz with a surprising amount of force towards the fire exit. There was an ear-splitting explosion as the wall behind where he’d been standing disintegrated. “It’s going to get more and more frustrated the longer it takes to get you,” said Peterson, pushing the reluctant Schlutz down the stairs. “That soldier.” “It’ll leave him alone now he’s not in its way.” There was the rattle of an automatic weapon. Peterson and Schlutz made way for half a dozen more soldiers who were running up the stairwell to the scene . “Will you please get a move on?” She pushed him again. “This stairwell is reinforced concrete. Designed in the wake of 9/11. It’ll practically survive a direct hit by an HE tank shell. Good ol’ American knowhow. Solid engineering.” “That would be great if that thing was firing high explosive or armourpiercing shells. But it’s not.” “Wait. It’s got an energy weapon. Am I right?” “Yes. Technology far beyond ours.” She grabbed one of his bulky quarterback’s shoulders and locked into his eyes. “Colonel Schlutz. Joe. It’s



hell-bent on killing you for some reason. You have to get away.” “Well if it’s an energy weapon, its batteries are going to run out real soon. Right? Then we get it, and the technology!” “Did it never occur to you that it might not need batteries at its level of technology?” “Wow!” said Schlutz. “It’s gotta be something like… like a miniature atomic fusion battery. You’re up on all this stuff, Doctor Peterson. Whaddaya think?” Screams echoed down the stairwell. More automatic weapons spent their rounds. Then there were a couple of grenade explosions. “I’m not sure what I think. But I do know for certain that it’s going to kill you. Didn’t you ever see Terminator ? Unless it’s escaped you, in this particular narrative you’re John Connor.” “Well, John Connor lived. Yeah?” “Okay, let me rephrase that. You’re one of the minor characters the Terminator killed to get to John Connor.” “I have to get back up there and stop our boys from destroying that thing.” He tried to push past her, back up the stairs. “I doubt they’ve even been able to dent it. Now get a move on, will you?” “I have to get that technology, damn it. We have to get it before the Russians or Chinese do.” There was a colossal explosion inside the stairwell itself. They flattened themselves against the walls as debris rained down, followed by a cloud of dust. “We can’t hold it, Colonel Schlutz!” shouted a soldier. “It’s coming for you, sir.” There was the sound of something metallic and heavy tumbling down a flight of stairs. “What was that?” called Schlutz. “It can’t get down the stairs, sir.” “Heh,” said Schlutz to Peterson. “Like them damned Daleks in Doctor Who , huh?” He chuckled. “I believe they did invent a way for Daleks to navigate stairs,” said Peterson. There was the sound of metal tumbling on concrete again. “What the hell was that?” called Schlutz. “The next flight of stairs, sir. It righted itself and went across the landing.”



Metal tumbled on concrete again. It was much closer. “Aw, shoot,” said Schlutz. “Let’s get outta here.” He ran past her and she followed. Behind them there was the sound of metal tumbling on concrete. “It can’t go really far without that box, you say?” He glanced backwards. “I think this is what it travels in. You know, for long distances.” “Well, if it can’t travel without that thing, then we’re okay.” “Not really.” “Huh?” “Well, it’ll just keep destroying everything in its path until it finds you. Or maybe other people who are on its hit list.” They exited the building into the sunny London lunchtime air. Yet again, the busy Vauxhall Cross area was being evacuated. Hundreds of US embassy personnel were being escorted away from their marshalling points and out of the secure compound by soldiers with radios who were listening in disbelief to their colleagues’ lack of progress inside. Out of the building’s main entrance came a paramedic crew with the soldier who’d suffered the traumatic amputation. They rushed him into a waiting ambulance, which screamed its way through the gates towards St Thomas’ hospital. A police helicopter gained altitude to make way for an Apache anti-tank chopper. It hovered at a couple of hundred feet and trained its nose on the fire exit that Peterson and Schlutz had just used. “Aw, crap. This is gonna look real bad on my service record. I hate London.”



“What do you mean, he said he’d never help any of us again?” cried the Doctor, still only on audio to When’s Spectrel. “I would have thought that was self-explanatory,” said Cassandra, pouting. She glared at Kevin, who was still in his combat suit and was eating something that smelled suspiciously foreign and spicy – possibly French in origin. “I wanted his cooperation, woman. I just needed you to persuade him not to go ahead with his product launch. Instead you seem to have sealed our fate – and the fate of the Earth – because he’s just sent me a message saying he’s bringing his launch forward . It’s going to happen only a few hours from now. What the hell happened, Tiger?” “You should never grab a tiger by the tail, Doctor. You know that. He tried it.” “You’re being too cryptic.” “He wanted to take advantage of me.” “You could have at least promised him a kiss or something, just to stall him. It’s a small price to pay.” “My virtue is priceless! Your suggestion makes you nothing better than a pimp .” The Doctor’s spluttering was interrupted by an alarm on her side of the call. “What is it, Doc?” asked Kevin, his mouth full of Jamaican patty. The fact that the Doctor’s voice had not changed with his sex made it difficult for him to think of her as a female when she wasn’t physically present. “I can’t get a moment’s rest,” the Doctor said. “Those idiots are having problems again at the American embassy.” “What is it this time?” “It rather looks like the assassin robot that was coming after you also has our old friend Colonel Joe Schlutz in its sights.” “Wow! He must have been the Rorrim player who was based there.” “Bingo. Walter, I’m going to project the situation into your control room. I’ll display it from the time the incident began.”



“B-b-be my g-g-guest, P-P-Peter.” Kevin, Cassandra and When watched as Peterson alerted her colleagues to the danger. “I was in that office just the other week,” said Kevin quietly to Cassandra. “Got Tim’s remains back.” Peterson put the packaging in the way of the robot’s blaster, deflecting the charge through the window. They watched the rest of the action unfold. “Ouch!” said Cassandra. “That poor man’s hand.” “They can reattach them with surgery in my era,” said Kevin. “St Thomas’ hospital is close enough.” “Just let me stop time here, everyone,” said the Doctor. Peterson and Schlutz had just exited the building and the Apache anti-tank helicopter was lining up to take a shot at the robot if it came out of the fire exit. “That thing’s a beast , man,” said Kevin. “The flying machine or the robot?” asked Cassandra. “Both, now you mention it,” said Kevin. “But I don’t fancy the helicopter’s chances much.” “It’s relentless,” said the Doctor. “Suffice to say that there’s nothing nonnuclear that your era has which can cope with this. It will wreak devastation until it has fulfilled its mission. It doesn’t matter if that takes a day, a week, a month – decades.” “Bummer. So what’s the plan?” The Doctor tried and failed to stifle a small laugh. “You’re going in.” “What ? I barely escaped with my life last time.” “It’s the only solution.” “But haven’t you got –” “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t have photon torpedoes. This isn’t Star Trek . None of my bots are built for combat. What do you want me to do – try opening it with the can-opener facility on my Tsk Army Ultraknife so that I can scoop out its circuits?” “Sounds like a plan, actually. I could hold it down and –” “No. You are going out there and you are going to take the attention away from Colonel Schlutz.” “What?” “You’re apparently the number one target on this thing’s list, so you have to distract it and get it away from all these humans.” “But it won’t recognise me with my combat suit on.” “That’s why you’re going in dressed in contemporary style.”



“But then my cover’s blown!” “Everything’s pointing at you as it is. You were top of their suspect list.” “Yeah, like until I was in two places at once. They couldn’t figure that one out.” “You’re going in, Kevin.” “You ain’t gonna give me one of them flying devices?” “Correct. I ain’t . Walter, I assume you have your Spectrel in position?” “Yes, P-P-Peter. She’s on maximum cover. K-K-Kevin, I’m going to drop you off without appearing. It might be a little disconcerting for you. You’ll exit behind one of those anti-car bomb bollards. “You’ll be quite close to your friends,” said Doctor How. “Friends ?” “Colonel Schlutz, Doctor Peterson, and Sir Adrian Brown. And the short one. Thickett.” “Like, I did it before about a thousand feet above this very spot just the other day.” “Jolly good. Off you go, lad. Best of British.”



“Good afternoon, consul,” said Dolt. “It is –” Dolt searched for the correct words, “– an unexpected pleasure to see you.” He eyed with suspicion the plastic box she was holding. He could make out what looked like a cake inside it. “Thank you, Dolt,” said the Rindan consul. Her biomask made her unrecognisable as a Rindan, but Dolt was wearing some tech provided by Doctor How which enabled other out-of-towners to recognise each other. “I’m here to see Doctor How. Is she in?” Dolt was momentarily confused, but remembered that the Doctor had recently changed sex. He made a mental note to check whether any rules were being broken, and how much paperwork and red tape had to be amended and expanded. He licked his lips in anticipation. “She is on one of her missions. May I be of some assistance?” “Assistance?” The consul couldn’t hide her surprise, given the Dolts’ reputation for getting in the way. “I don’t think so. I baked her a cake, by way of apology for my predecessor’s misjudgement. The Doctor is such a lovely being. Will she be back in time to collect it?” “She is a Time Keeper,” said Dolt. “I’m sure when a gap opens in her busy schedule she can alter her co-ordinates in the space-time continuum and pick it up before it goes stale. If you like, you can leave it with me and I’ll see she gets it.” The consul had seen Dolt licking his lips. “I’d prefer it if I left it in her office. She gave me the number and told me to drop by for a cuppa anytime. Do you have a key?” “Yes. I’m quite busy. Here it is.” Dolt handed the consul the key and then turned his attention back to the pile of paperwork on his desk . The consul walked along the corridor and found Doctor How’s anonymous office. She unlocked the door and entered. It was as Spartan as the rumours had said it was – bare white walls and functional furniture. A view of the back of the Science Museum was probably a huge bonus for a being like her, she thought, given that the Doctor had been a driving force behind its foundation. None of the pedestrians were interested in it – they were glued to



the news on their smartphones – there was yet more trouble at the US embassy. She looked around for a piece of paper and eventually saw a primitive printing device, and worked out how to open a drawer to remove a piece of paper from it. She found a pen and wrote a note in Squill. She took the lid off the cake box to slip the note in. How’s office window was vaporised by a bolt of energy passing through it. A few nanoseconds later the Rindan consul was vaporised, and her body exploded into smoke and ash. The fire alarm system went berserk and humans began to pour out of the building and onto the pedestrianised street outside. Dolt’s heavy footsteps could be heard stomping towards his colleague’s office, which was now partially open to the elements. The door had been blown off its hinges. He surveyed the damage and licked his lips at the prospect of the paperwork involved. The cake – a moist three-layer chocolate cake – had spread itself over the ceiling. The one remaining large chunk of it fell off onto the pile of the Rindan consul’s ashes. “Excuses, please,” said a vaguely Eastern European voice from behind Dolt. Dolt turned around and saw Grk the Cleaner and his brother, who were wearing their human biomasks. Grk touched the peak of his baseball cap at Dolt. “You were here quickly,” said Dolt. “Received messagings from Doctor five minutes ago. Were in Out-ofTown club. Not so far, yes?” “She should have warned the consul. ” “Doctor said she not have mobile number. We not have mobile either. Shame. But more work for Grk. Excuses, please. Must be quick avoid police.” Grk and his brother pushed past Dolt and glanced around the room. They spoke hurriedly to each other, then swept up the pile of ashes into a dustpan and dumped it into a black plastic bag. Grk touched his baseball cap at Dolt again and said, “All’s done. Make invoice Imperial College. Yes?” He started writing out a chit on his pad. “No! Invoice Doctor How. This is his fault again.” “Okay. No worries. Make invoice Doctor How. Meantime, I make chit for you for mortal remains. Yes?” Dolt racked his brain for an objection, but realised protocol dictated that he



should get a receipt. “Yes.” “In fact,” said Grk. “Is chit for death by explosions, yes? So is ChittyChitty Bang-Bang , yes?” he laughed but Dolt just stared at him. “Is maybe joke for Britishes. You should make integrationing, like Grk. Okaaaaaay,” Grk concentrated on his writing. “Iiiiiiss for youuuu.” He finished the receipt, tore it out of the pad and handed it to Dolt. There was the sound of sirens drawing closer. “Okay, Grk must make pop-off now.” He touched his baseball cap again and then he and his brother were off down the hallway. Dolt looked at the receipt, stomped off back to his office and locked the door behind him. He studiously ignored the knocking by the police and fire brigade, who eventually assumed the room was unoccupied. He concentrated on a memorandum to Doctor How about paperwork that would need to be changed in light of his or her change of sex.



Kevin climbed out of When’s Spectrel onto the concrete of the US embassy compound. His suit had changed into jeans, trainers, a grey hoodie, an NYC baseball cap and spectacles. He’d wanted shades but Doctor How had told him that good eye contact was essential. The downdraft from the Apache blew dust all over him, and if his baseball cap had actually been a baseball cap, he suspected it might have been blown off. “Just remember to keep referring to me as male,” said the Doctor in his ear. “But –” “Shut up and get on with it.” Kevin took a couple of seconds to steel himself and then stood up to survey the scene. The streets were now clear. He was only a few yards from the high-ranking security officials. Schlutz and Peterson had just joined them. They were being urged to take refuge by a Special Forces soldier, who seemed to be in command of the situation. Schlutz was arguing hotly with the man. Kevin found himself wondering whether the rank of Colonel always outranked other soldiers, or whether there were certain circumstances in which a more junior soldier could take charge. At first nothing happened, but after a couple of seconds heads began to turn. “YOU THERE!” said a voice from a megaphone on top of a security vehicle. “YES, YOU. CLEAR THE AREA.” The soldier who was arguing with Schlutz turned around and used the barrel of his gun to indicate that Kevin needed to get away. Kevin ignored the command and strode as calmly as he could over to the group. His mother always told him that there was nothing like a good smile and a cheery hello to disarm a difficult situation. “Hi there!” he said. “Who in God’s name are you?” demanded Schlutz. Then he did a doubletake and sized Kevin up. “Wait just a goddamned minute. I know you. You’re –” “Hello Kevin,” said Doctor Peterson. “Do you know, I was rather hoping



you might turn up.” “Oh. Hello.” He couldn’t believe this lovely woman knew his name. He’d only ever admired her from afar, and to her he was surely nothing. “Is this who I think it is?” asked Sir Adrian. “Arrest him!” said Thickett to the officer with the firearm. Schlutz pushed Thickett away absently and shook his head at the soldier. “He stays.” “Just call me Kevin. Can we leave the introductions at that, yeah?” “What do you want, son?” asked Schlutz. “I think I can help.” Schlutz laughed. “Don’t tell me: you got yourself a job in Hamlod’s customer care department now. You’re going to tell me this model’s defective and you’re gonna take it back and give me a refund.” “It has three more flights of stairs,” crackled a soldier’s voice over the radio. “I estimate numbers thirty, three-zero, seconds until it clears the building. Over.” “Did you say you got it in Hamlod’s?” asked Kevin. “Sure. This morning. They had dozens of them. Must’ve sold a hundred already. Limited edition. This here’s the display model.” “Oh, no,” said Kevin. The Doctor’s voice in his ear echoed the sentiment. “Drat, double-drat, drat squared and drat to the power of drat. I’ll get onto that. You worry about this one. The others can’t be as lethal.” “As lethal?” said Kevin. “They’re either lethal or they’re not.” “Who the hell are you talking to?” asked Schlutz. “I think it would help to see Kevin as a sort of security guard at the moment,” said Peterson. “I think he’s talking to his boss. Doctor How, is my guess.” “Look, I’m the one that thing really wants,” said Kevin. “Not unless I chew a chunk outta your tail first, son,” said Schlutz. “You made Uncle Sam look like a complete fool the other day with your shenanigans in the sewers. I’ve got three men still in hospital. Then there’s the damage to –” “Twenty seconds. Numbers two-zero,” crackled the voice. “Do you mind?” asked Kevin. He took the box from Peterson. “Nice work earlier, by the way.” “Thanks.”



“Where the hell are you going with that box, son? That’s my property.” “He needs it,” said Peterson. “I need it,” said Schlutz. “I want that technology.” “Miss Peterson,” said Thickett. “It is our department’s responsibility to requisition such technologies for –” “Be quiet, you fool,” said Sir Adrian. “Joe, tell your guys to tell our guys to get the Apache to buzz off. The crew are only going to get hurt. And I can’t be responsible for any more multi-million pound holes in people’s budgets.” He glowered at Thickett. Schlutz shouted a command to the officer, and the Apache pulled back quickly to a position a quarter of a mile away. “Never mind this one unit,” said Schlutz to Peterson. “There are maybe a couple of hundred more of these things. We can impound the stock at Hamlod’s and do a recall of the others.” “A couple of hundred of these lethal killing machines going on a rampage doesn’t worry you, then?” she asked. “Especially if they want to ‘chew a chunk outta your tail’, as you put it.” Schlutz’s face dropped. “Aw, Doctor Peterson.” A distant explosion echoed across London and everyone instinctively looked to the north west, including Kevin. “Where was that?” Peterson asked Kevin. She knew that human intelligence sources would take a while to confirm the location. “Imperial College,” came the Doctor’s voice in his ear. “Guess whose office needs a major refurbishment? On the plus side, I’ll be able to redecorate. I think fuchsia would make a nice change. Or do you think that would jar a little?” “Imperial College,” said Kevin. “I think we’re a bit too late for a product recall, Colonel.” Kevin strode over to the fire exit. He took a position next to the hinges and unsheathed his Con-Bat. One swipe , he thought. One good swipe and we’re done . “That young man is made of stern stuff,” said Sir Adrian to Peterson. “The sort of recruit we need to be attracting. Very ‘street’ - is that the right expression?” The fire exit door pushed open and the fifteen-inch-high robot emerged. It spun its head quickly from side to side and then locked in on Schlutz, who was twenty yards away.



“JCS. MUST. DIE. ” There was a whine and the short-barrelled blaster emerged from its torso. Kevin brought back his Con-Bat behind his shoulder. “Stop!” said the Doctor. “They’re swarming! This one’s in charge. You have to keep it alive.” Out of the corner of his eye, Kevin saw dozens of black boxes flying in and hovering over the group of senior security personnel. More joined with every passing second. The front of each box was open to reveal a foot-high robot, red eyes blazing and blasters levelled at Schlutz. The other members of the group began backing away. “Hey!” said Kevin, and tapped the robot on the back of its head with his foot. “I’m KevT1994.” The robot spun its head towards him. Its fierce red eyes fixed on his face. They seemed to dim and then brighten. “YOU. ARE. KEVT1994 ? ” “Yeah,” said Kevin. “And what are you going to do about it?” “CONFIRMED. KEVT1994. MUST. DIE . ” The robot’s torso spun around to point the blaster at him. With a flourish, he put the robot’s box in front of it at an angle. He braced himself and there was a searing flash. The bolt of energy was deflected into the building, leaving a six-foot hole in the solid wall around the stairwell of the fire escape. He could hear chunks of concrete flying around inside and the shouts and screams of soldiers. The whole structure vibrated with the aftershock. “I can give you Y,” said Kevin. “He’s your real target.” The swarm left Schlutz, who staggered back in relief and was caught by Sir Adrian and Peterson. The robots hovered thick in the air over Kevin. A few latecomers joined their ranks, their evil red eyes and blasters all fixed on him. “KEVT1994. MUST. DIE. Y. MUST. DIE . ” The whining was building up again. “It’s Y that you want,” said Kevin. “And if you don’t watch it, I’m going to turn this the other way around. The next shot will destroy your vehicle. He spun the box around to show its interior to the robot. It tried to snatch the box out of the way with its claws, but Kevin was too quick. The robot’s eyes dimmed and brightened. “KEVT1994. MUST. DIE. Y. MUST. DIE.” “Your boss has gone,” said Kevin. “You’re on your own.”



“DEATH. OR. GLORY. IT. IS. THE. WARRIOR. WAY.” “I’ll take over from here,” said a voice to Kevin’s left. The figure of Why stood next to his red Mini Cooper Spectrel with the union jack painted on its roof. The robot spun its head between the two, eyes flashing. Half of the swarm turned their weapons on Why. “Haven’t you got a product launch to do?” said Kevin. “After all, there’s money to be made, isn’t there?” “Speaking of true colours, Kevin, thanks for offering up my life instead of yours. I’ll remember that.” “My absolute pleasure,” said Kevin coldly. “Thanks for getting us all into this mess in the first place and leaving us to sort it out.” “I can deal with this. My cousins are pathetic . They understand nothing of the intricacies of transdimensional discharge and displacement. I am the true master of this science. Such a master that I have made it into an art .” He held out what Kevin recognised as a modified Tsk Army Ultraknife. “Not only have I solved the bug, but I can send these babies back in time, thus repairing the damage. This incident will never have happened.” He turned to the robot. “And you’ll be back home like this never happened, obviating the need for your revenge mission.” “Tell that blithering egomaniac idiot to stop!” shouted Doctor How into Kevin’s ear. “Uh... The Doc. Your cousin How. Sh –” he stopped himself and cleared his throat. “He says you’re to stop because you don’t understand what you’re doing.” Why squinted his eyes, apparently noting Kevin’s change from she to he in reference to Doctor How. “Cobblers,” said Why. “It’s typical of his smallmindedness. Before the first nuclear detonation some of your scientists thought it might set off a chain reaction that would end the world. When they switched on the Large Hadron at CERN there were similar noises from morons about opening up black holes. Your gaffer , your boss , your Doctor How is an unimaginative failure with a self-limiting set of beliefs. God alone knows how he ever made it as a Time Keeper. Why is the most powerful question one can ever ask, and thus how the most powerful answers are obtained.” “Ask him why it is that I’m the only Time Keeper whose name doesn’t begin with a flaming W, then,” said How.



“Don’t tell me,” said Why, holding up his hand. “He’s probably telling you that he’s the only non-W of all the cousins. In my eyes, that always diminished him somewhat. W is a double-U, built for strength. An H is just a square U reflected on the horizontal axis.” “Yeah, well I happen to think it marks him out as unique,” said Kevin, levelling up his Con-Bat. “How might be a bit flaky at times, and he might have some issues here and there, but he’s the only one who never quit his job.” “Thanks, Kevin,” said Doctor How in his ear. She sounded emotional. “Oh, la-di-da,” said Why. “What do you know about it, amigo ? You haven’t been here five minutes and you think you know it all. Typical of one of How’s assistants. Or Who’s, for that matter.” He put his index finger onto the side of his Tsk Army Ultraknife. “Bug fixed. All this will go away, little boy, like magic. I just need to press this button to simultaneously launch Rorrim and sort this mess out. You’ll wake up and this little escapade will never have happened. Oh, except that yours truly will be raking in hundreds of millions by the minute.” “Doctor How was wrong when he said you were more of a joke than Austin Powers.” “Oh, we have a final bon mot , do we? Go ahead: amuse yourself.” “Austin Powers may have been self-centred, but he at least fought on the side of good. You’d deal with the devil if you thought you could turn a profit.” “Big yawn. If you’d played your cards better you’d have been the posterboy for this launch and made a packet – less my fee, of course. But you’re a born loser, just like my cousin. I’ve a good mind to sue you for breach of contract. See you in another timeline, buddy – this one’s a dud.” Smiling triumphantly, Why slid his finger along the Ultraknife. Kevin’s world disappeared, and he was cast into a nothingness that was simultaneously both vast but minuscule, where his body did not exist, could not exist. There was literally no time like the present – instead there was a simultaneous squashing of past and future. So this is death , he thought, and then, Oh. There is some kind of consciousness after it . I hope I’m not going to hell.



Kevin found himself lying on his right side. He felt a stone surface under his face and body. The air was so thick with smoke that he couldn’t see more than a few yards, and he could feel heat all around him. He knew his combat suit was protecting him from the worst of it, but could tell that the heat was tremendous. His heart filled with dread as the truth dawned on him: he had died and gone to hell. He tried to rationalise, and realised that he wouldn’t be wearing a combat suit in hell. The cobblestone under his face might have burnt him unless the suit’s balaclava had been protecting him, and he was grateful to it for filtering the smoke out of the air. It let just enough through to allow him to identify it as wood smoke, which meant he could rule out London in 1834, or his own time for that matter. He checked in with the rest of his body which, thankfully, still seemed to be there and functioning. There was no pain. His suit had him in stealth mode by default. He tried rolling onto his front so that he could get up onto his knees, but his right ankle seemed to be tied very tightly to the ground. His heart sank and he felt a surge of fear and adrenaline. He stretched down to his ankle and felt that one side of the sock was somehow pinned to the ground. He could feel the surface of the gold coin he’d hidden there. He couldn’t budge it. Then he realised: the gold coin was pinning his sock to the ground. He struggled for a few seconds to get himself into position, then pulled on the sock, which was a conventional one from his era. The suit and gloves put power into his efforts and the sock tore, leaving material underneath the coin. He was free, so he got onto his knees and tugged curiously at the piece of sock still trapped underneath the coin. It came out and the coin clicked loudly onto the stone from which he’d picked it up nearly two thousand years previously. He was back in Camulodunum, and it was still burning. He remained kneeling for a minute, taking in his unfortunate state of affairs. The fires had lasted a couple of days, he seemed to recall from what the Doctor had said. The people in the temple held out until then.



And he was stuck in AD61. Did anyone know he was there? Had the gold coin saved his life, or had it jeopardised the entire planet Earth? He could almost hear the Doctor jumping up and down with rage, and see Cassandra with her ‘I told you so’ look. “Aw, no,” he said. He patted his side. At least he still had his Con-Bat. Just as well, because it looked like he was going to have to live out the rest of his natural life in Britain at the height of the Roman Empire. This was about as bad as it got. His mood lifted slightly. If he could keep his special powers secret, then he could join the Valeria victrix, the Twentieth legion, as an elite soldier and work his way up. After all, the Romans were equal opportunities employers. But then there was the whole slavery thing. And he’d also be fighting against his ancestors. The alternative was to join the rebels. They would be sacking Londinium in the next few days and there were a few postcodes in north London he had issues with that he’d like to resolve. Until the rebellion was crushed, he could have quite a good time. After that, he could maybe head north to join the rebels in Caledonia. Perhaps he would become the real reason the Romans built Hadrian’s Wall? Or he could just integrate. Become a farmer. Marry a local and raise a family. Or would he risk becoming his own ancestor and get trapped in a horrendous paradox? The Doctor would have his guts for garters . Then he had an idea. If he went to Londinium he could locate Doctor How’s big tract of south London – the bit that would become Balham, Brixton, Streatham Hill and Tooting. The Time Keeper must have staff on the ground there already, and he must be at least an occasional visitor. He’d introduce himself and explain where he was from. He could either live there, or he could get back to his own time. He congratulated himself on the brilliance and resourcefulness of his thinking. The Doctor would be proud of him. Relieved that had a foolproof plan, he got to his feet. Now that he was looking up, he could see that the thickest of the smoke was at ground level, and that it formed clouds higher up. He walked a few steps in different directions and could see that the buildings were burnt down to ruins. The town was smouldering, rather than burning now. So this was perhaps a couple of days after the sacking of the city. Using the triumphal gate as his reference, he looked towards what must be the east and saw the



disc of the low morning sun trying to break through the smoke. Between wisps he could just make out the temple a few hundred yards away – the only building left intact, although the white marble was now blackened by soot and the red roof tiles were a dull brown. The Britons would be coming in soon to finish the job and kill everyone inside. He had to get away. There was enough blood on his hands. Then through the smoke at ground level he saw a pair of glowing red eyes. His heart skipped a beat as he saw a shining metal robot about fifteen inches high emerge from the smoke. His stomach dropped. “KEVT1994, ” it said. He took out his Con-Bat. “And what if I am?” “KEVT1994. MUST. DIE.” There was a whining and the barrel of its blaster emerged from its torso. “Not here, and not now. Not after all that. No way,” said Kevin. His ConBat adjusted itself and he braced. There was a flash. The bolt of energy deflected off his Con- Bat’s shield and tore through the air with an ear-splitting sound. It hit the portico of the temple, which blew up, scattering roof tiles high into the air and sending several of the pillars crashing to the ground. The timbers underneath the roof caught fire. The main structure of the building was still intact, but it had lost some of its structural integrity. He could just make out terrified screams from inside. “We should stop this before someone gets hurt,” said Kevin. “You can do two more rounds in quick succession, then I get to beat you to a pulp as you recharge. Game over for you.” The robot’s eyes dimmed and then brightened again. Behind it, two hundred bright red pairs of eyes appeared. They rose into the sky in a formation like a giant concave lens, with him at their focus. “Aw, pants.” The air around Kevin and the robots began to vibrate and the sky began to brighten, but not from the sun. There was a thundering roar from above. Kevin looked up. His eyes struggled to comprehend the object, but then he recognised it from the projection he’d seen in When’s Spectrel. It was the alien ship. It looked like it was trapped in some kind of tractor beam. It was heading directly for the centre of Camulodunum, between himself and the temple. From the projection he had got the impression that it was a big ship, but in reality the one-being craft was no bigger than a single-decker touring



bus. A shaft of energy shimmered behind it. “Your boss is here,” said Kevin, nodding his head in the direction of the ship. It seemed not to be falling, but being pushed steadily and deliberately towards the ground by the shaft of energy. Not fast and not slow, but with a horrible, unstoppable inevitability. The robot had already looked distracted, as if detecting the presence of its superior. It flicked its head around quickly and looked up to confirm what it already knew. Then it turned its attention back to Kevin. “ATRUK. WILL. SEE. ME. ACCOMPLISH. THE. MISSION. KEVT1994. MUST. DIE.” The alien ship crashed into the ground with a sickening crunch, which Kevin felt under his feet. It didn’t stop – it kept going at the same speed, displacing earth as it was pushed down. Its tail disappeared underground and still the beam of energy continued ploughing the ship into the ground for several seconds until finally the vibration stopped and the beam of energy disappeared. The earth that had been displaced fell back into the crater, and there was a final rumble as the tunnel formed by the passage of the ship collapsed in on itself. There was a moment or two of silence as the robot and Kevin took it all in. Then the world disappeared again and Kevin was cast once more into the void which was both infinite and claustrophobic.



Mrs Thomson had had to stay late on shift. She’d been on the early shift: six to two. There had been yet more trouble at the American embassy and every emergency department in the capital had been placed on high alert for a flood of casualties. One poor man had lost his hand, she knew that. And there were a few people with burns and shrapnel wounds. So far St Thomas’, the closest, had been able to cope. Her own team had fewer emergencies because the capital had pretty much ground to a halt – transport south of the river had been shut down and everyone was glued to the news. When she’d grabbed a sandwich from the tiny cafe in the waiting room she’d seen live BBC news coverage of the incident. The building, which had been attacked by terrorists only a few days ago, was showing fresh damage. This time there had been yet another explosion and there was what looked like some kind of hostage situation. One of those vicious-looking military attack helicopters was buzzing around. Then the camera had zoomed in on some kid, some complete idiot, in a hoodie and a baseball cap. If it wasn’t for the fact that the boy wore glasses she’d have sworn it was Kevin. She had shaken her head at the memory of a broken promise. The police had said they’d bring him home for a good talking-to but he’d apparently been taken away by some high-flying lawyer. Maybe some friend of that Doctor How, she’d thought. Someone told her later that the TV screen went all fuzzy a little while after the kid appeared. Then when the transmission problem cleared the whole thing was over. The authorities were not willing to comment further about the incident. End of. So her shift had been allowed to go home, one-and-a-half hours late . The US embassy situation had turned into a real non-event. Literally a non-event. One of the younger nurses was on the bus with her and said there was no YouTube video of the resolution to the situation; nothing. All the recordings just blanked out at the same point, and then the situation was normal. Someone said the CIA or NSA had probably developed special software. She didn’t care for any of this technical or conspiracy nonsense. It was four in the afternoon when she got off the bus at Tulse Hill. She couldn’t



wait to put her feet up. She walked up the cul-de-sac between the low-rise blocks of flats. Jabba the Hutt’s window was being replaced. She was still angry with that man, and if he continued to shoot his mouth off about her boy she’d see him in court. As for that boy of hers, just wait until she got hold of him. She hadn’t noticed the black cab outside her block of flats. It was like it had come from nowhere. That showed how tired she was. Maybe she’d take a nap when she got in. The cab driver, a man in his fifties, leaned out and looked at her. “Mrs Thomson?” he asked. “Kevin’s mum?” “Oh, my sweet Lord above. What trouble has that boy got himself into now?” “It’s alright,” said the cabbie. “I’m here to help. I need you to have a word in someone’s ear. Jump in, love.” “I ain’t got no money for no cab fare, you know.” “This one’s on the ’ouse, darlin’. I owe the lad one or two favours.” “Favours? I dread to think.” Mrs Thomson opened the back door of the cab and got in. Then her mind went blank.



Kevin became aware that he was lying on a flat dry plain. The ground was hard and looked grainy. It was not dissimilar to sand in appearance, but was somehow smooth. This was not Roman Colchester. He sniffed the air. If there was any smell at all it was that electrical discharge smell of ozone. He checked his right ankle, which was free. That was a positive. More confident of his abilities this time, he got to his feet. He’d solve this one in a jiffy and be out of there. He strongly suspected that the alien ship’s crash would have brought the mission of all of the assassin robots to an end. He looked around at the landscape, which looked totally alien and yet somehow very familiar. There were defensive positions a couple of hundred yards ahead of him. “Oh, no . No!” “KEVT1994. MUST. DIE.” A pair of red eyes appeared from behind one of the defensive positions. They were housed in the head of the assassin robot. The other robots rose up around it in the concave formation, blasters pointed at him. He glanced around again. He knew exactly where this was. This was the world that players of the game of Rorrim had been attacking for weeks. At the back of his head he remembered Doctor How and Walter When warning about the dangers of getting caught up in the wormhole behind the alien ship. They’d said they didn’t know where you could end up. “KevT1994?” asked a disembodied voice which boomed across the landscape. Manners first, his mother had taught him. “May I ask who’s asking?” He found himself speaking and understanding an alien language . “I am the Mighty Ming, Emperor of my people. You are the chief slayer of my people. You are KevT1994. You must die.” “Not…” said Kevin, smiling, “Not Ming the Merciless?” “Yes. Many call me Ming the Merciless.” Kevin put a hand over his mouth to stifle a snigger. “You laugh in the face of death. I admire your bravery.” “Your name is well-known – but it’s a fictional character on my home



planet.” “I can assure you that your death will be very real. And not as amusing for you as it will be for me and my people. You are the alien responsible for the invasion of my planet.” “Hang on. I’m not an alien.” “Yes you are.” “No I’m not. I’m human.” “Whose home planet is this? Yours or mine?” “Er…” “You are the alien invader, and must die.” Kevin cleared his throat. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said. “Highness.” “What?” “You addressed me as Imperial Majesty. My subjects call me Highness.” “Isn’t Imperial Majesty one up on Highness? You know, majestic .” “Yes, I suppose it is. But stop toadying – it’s pathetic. However, I rather enjoy being called Imperial Majesty by a condemned human who is about to die. Continue.” “Um, thank you, Your Imperial H- Majesty. I’m sorry. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding.” “A misunderstanding? You dare to call an unprovoked war on my people a misunderstanding ?” “We didn’t know what we were doing. As far as we were concerned, we were playing a game. We didn’t know we were killing real people – other sentient beings. I and all the other humans are very deeply sorry for the losses we have caused you.” “You must be punished. The ultimate punishment is annihilation. Prepare to die KevT1994.” “Ask the droid. The robot thing,” said Kevin, pointing at the robot. “It killed plenty of our people. Your warrior At… Aturk?” “Atruk . Our finest warrior. Bravest of the Imperial Guards.” “Yes. Him. He destroyed our parliament building. Then a large bit of, well, admittedly unpopulated land – but land nonetheless. And then he destroyed an entire town, killing hundreds, if not thousands, of our people.” “But you are the person responsible. So you must die.” The robots started whining as their blasters charged. “No way. No. Absolutely not. It was someone else. We don’t have the



technology to do this. You must know that. I mean, do you have the technology to create a transdimensional wormhole to our world?” There was silence for a moment. “No. But we can exploit it when it appears – though we had to receive instructions on how to do so.” “Well, we can’t even do that. You’ve seen our technology. We don’t have the weapons you do. The best we can do is just throw fireworks at each other.” “You had blasters when you attacked us.” “Only when we were attacking from beyond the wormhole. The blasters existed in this world only. They were only virtual to us.” “They were very real to us. You have some powerful weapon systems about your person. Perhaps we will not vaporise you.” “Thanks. I knew you would see reason.” “When we destroy you we will leave your weapons unharmed so that we can copy the technology.” “Oh.” He dreaded to think what kind of technology they would employ to kill him. “I should point out that it’s not my gear.” “What? ” “It’s not my civilisation’s technology. It was lent to me. The Con-Bat is Tsk Army.” “Is it indeed? The Tsk is a legendary warrior race. The Con-Bat is a technology never since replicated. I shall have it instead of my ceremonial mace. All shall fear me.” This wasn’t going as Kevin had expected. “I said it was loaned to me. By Doctor How. The suit is Time Keeper technology.” “We are at the edges of the Pleasant universe here, little warrior. The Time Keepers mean little to us. And I can see that they are complicit in this. You are the proxy of one of them. You must prepare to die. Say a final prayer to your gods.” There was silence for a second or two. Kevin felt something behind him and realised that attention had been diverted elsewhere. He clutched his ConBat tightly and wondered how many robots he could take out before he was annihilated. “’Ere we are, love,” said a familiar male voice behind him. “I’ll wait ’ere whilst you sort it out. Don’t worry – the meter ain’t running. Frankly, it would be an ’eck of a fare if it was.” There was a wry chuckle. He looked over his shoulder to see David Where leaning out of his cab



window. “Wotcher, Kev. Thought you was in a bit of pickle, son. So I brought the cavalry. ’Ope you don’t mind, but someone wants a word with you.” “Kevin!” shouted his mother as she emerged from the rear door. “What’s all this nonsense? Mista Ware here tells me you been causin’ all sortsa problems.” Kevin’s heart sank. She’d switched to the Caribbean accent she reserved for severe reprimands. He took a couple of steps backwards. Between his enraged mother and a host of killer robots, he knew where he fancied his chances. “Come back here, you stupid boy! I have been worried sick about you. I’ve had that impudent imbecile Jabba telling all sorts of tall tales in front of the police and my colleagues, making accusations about your behaviour. ” “Who are you?” boomed the disembodied voice of Emperor Ming. “Who do you think I am, you stupid man? I’m the boy’s mother.” “He’s in trouble beyond your human understanding,” replied the voice. “Who the hell do you think you are?” demanded Mrs Thomson. “I am Emperor M–” She waved the voice away with her hand. “Yes, yes. I’ve heard it all before. You can kindly just shut up and wait your turn. You can have what’s left of the boy when I’m finished!” His mother ranted and raved at him for quarter of an hour, asking him what his late father would have thought of his behaviour, telling him how ashamed the long-dead grandparents he’d never met would be of him, reminding him of long-forgotten (except by her) school reports, and a host of misdemeanours for which he thought he’d done enough penance. There was one final loud, “What have you got to say for yourself?” and then she glared at him expectantly. “Like, I said I’m sorry,” said Kevin. “Well I should think so! You should be ashamed of yourself.” “Sorry, mum.” “Now apologise to Emperor Thingie.” “Your Imperial Majesty –” began Kevin. “It’s alright,” said the disembodied voice. “I don’t want to hear it. Apology accepted.” “No. He ain’t done. Apologise to the Emperor this instant!” “I’m deeply sorry for my actions, Your Imperial Majesty.”



“And ?” asked his mother, scowling at him. “If there’s anything I can do to make it up, Your Imperial Majesty?” He looked at his mother, who raised her eyebrows in expectation. “I don’t know what the cosmic equivalent of washing your car is. ” “I pity you, little warrior Kevin. You’re a good lad really. I can see that. You just fell in with a bad lot.” “Fell in with a bad lot?” shrieked Kevin’s mother, turning away from her son and searching the landscape in vain for the source of the disembodied voice. “Fell in with a bad lot ? Don’t be givin’ him excuses, you hear me?” She shook her fist and took a deep breath. Where had been leaning back on his cab, arms folded, trying not to show how much he’d been enjoying the spectacle. He pushed himself away and made a signal with his right hand in front of Kevin’s mother. Her eyes became distant and her face became blank. Slowly and silently, she got back in the cab and closed the door behind herself. “Mind if I have a word, Your Highness?” asked Where. Kevin was impressed by the Time Keeper’s protocol in picking up the correct term of address. “You are the Time Keeper called Where, are you not?” “At your service, Your Highness. I can promise you one thing. Kevin will help us track down the beings who were really responsible for this palaver. The ones who deliberately opened up the wormhole and unleashed the destruction on your people. They’ve been trying to destroy and discredit the Time Keepers in the last few universal standard weeks.” “It would give me great satisfaction to see them punished. They gave us just enough know-how to retaliate via the wormhole, then gave us false information about your cousin Doctor How. Please send him our apologies for the inconvenience. But it must be said that we have our own direct intelligence about the involvement of the Time Keeper called Why. He is also your cousin, if I am not mistaken.” “Yes. Yes, he is certainly implicated. I can’t say he’s flavour of the month right now, Your Highness. I’m not sure whether his ego or his greed got in the way of his common sense, but I think he was duped. He likes to think he’s the sharpest tool in the box, but… you know what I mean. ” “If my people can help you bring those responsible to justice…” “Then we’ll give you a bell, guv’nor.” He held open his arms to Kevin, who came to him. They hugged tightly, and the Time Keeper ruffled his hair



fondly. “I missed you, Dave. I was worried.” “I missed you too, my son.” He broke off the hug and opened the passenger door. “Come on, then. Let’s be ’avin’ yer. No disrespect, but this place is worse than south of the river on a Saturday night. And you know I don’t go there if I can ’elp it.” There is always an awkward silence between parent and child on journeys home from such reprimands. Kevin’s mother sat stock-still and silent after taking a seat in the control room of Where’s Spectrel. “What have you done to her?” asked Kevin. “Oh, she won’t remember any of that, don’t you worry. It’ll all just have been a poorly remembered dream to her when she wakes up tomorrow morning.” “You mean I’ll have to take all of that again?” “Nah. She’s worked it out of her system. You’ll be alright, son.” Where ruffled Kevin’s afro hair fondly. “Come on. Let’s get her to bed.” They needed the help of a couple of Where’s house-bots to get Mrs Thomson onto her bed in the flat back in Tulse Hill. They and the bots left the room quietly and squeezed back into the reduced-sized black cab Spectrel in the living room. “Let’s get you back to my cousin.” “I don’t understand what happened to me. But thanks for pitching up when you did. I owe you one.” “I owed you at least one, son. Not that mates should be counting favours, eh? As for the transdimensional displacement stuff, Peter could explain it in more detail, I’m sure.” “So she sent you?” Where laughed. “He – oh, I’m sorry, she – that’s taking some getting used to, let me tell you. She and When lost track of you after that trip back to 61AD. I have to tell you one thing in private.” “What’s that?” “Sometimes How and Why aren’t the most powerful questions. Sometimes you do have to know Where.”



“What the –” said Schlutz. “Well, that’s a relief,” said Sir Adrian. “I think a decent lunch at my club might be in order.” “You!” said Thickett to Peterson. “You helped him – them – get away!” She’d picked up the black box when Kevin and the robots had disappeared, and he snatched it from her grasp. She snatched it back and held it above her head so that he couldn’t reach it. “I order you to –” “Go!” said Sir Adrian. He glared at Thickett and pointed to the compound’s exit. Thickett slunk off. “Wait just a goddamned minute. What the hell happened there?” said Schlutz. “I recall a guy in a Mini Cooper with a union jack painted on top. And robots – hundreds of them. And then it all just went away. The whole damned thing. Was that this Doctor How guy?” “I think that was Why,” said Peterson. “How much can you recall about Why now when you think hard about it?” “Uh,” said Schlutz. “A suit. Tweed, maybe. He had a car. It was a small one. No. Wait. Could’ve been a saloon. Wait a second – his suit was grey, surely?” Peterson smiled. “And you, Sir Adrian? Think hard.” “Now you’re asking. Funny, I thought I had a jolly good look, too. Was it a Hillman Imp – you know, like in the Harry Potter movies?” He laughed. “Isn’t that extraordinary! What’s going on?” “It’s a sort of a masking thing. A bit like mass hypnosis. The Time Keepers and their Spectrels are protected by it.” “Their what?” asked Schlutz. “The things they travel in. Their time-travel machines. Spectrels. It’s in the files. Well, they blank everything out about themselves. Not that they really exist in a way that we can understand ourselves, anyway. You’ll find the cameras will have gone blank. We came across the phenomenon a few weeks ago.” She smiled. She could remember every detail of Why’s clothing and his Spectrel. “You mean Thickett’s right? About this Doctor Who stuff?” asked Sir



Adrian. “I think Thickett’s a long way from the truth. You can see Doctor How and his assistant are a force for good,” said Peterson. “Wow. I want that cloaking technology, Doctor Peterson. We’d have plausible deniability for all our missions. Speaking of which, I need to take that box off you.” He reached for the robot’s black box and took it off her. “If you don’t mind, Joe, I’d quite like to keep it. To study.” “Aw, Doctor Peterson,” Schlutz didn’t want to fall out with this dream woman. “Camilla. I mean, I bought the thing. And it’s on sovereign US soil. We went through this kinda thing before. Be reasonable.” Sir Adrian intervened. “Joe, Doctor Peterson saved your life using it. It’s the least you owe her. Please, give it back to her.” “Excuse me, please,” said a girl with long red hair in a ponytail. She was wearing black boots, a black skirt and a red blouse. And she had appeared from nowhere. She took the black box from the open-mouthed Schlutz. “Sorry,” she told him. “Can’t just leave these things lying around, can we?” She made eye contact with Peterson. “Sorry to disappoint,” she said, and walked off. “Hey!” said Schlutz. “Just wait a –” The girl bent over and vanished into thin air. “Well I’ll be… something,” said Schlutz, staring at the space into which the girl had vanished. “Camilla, did you… Is she one of them?” Doctor Peterson laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “Describe her. ” “Early twenties. Caucasian with long red hair. Fashionable black kneelength boots, red blouse and a black skirt. About five-six without the heels I’d say. A hundred-and-twenty-five pounds.” “And you, Sir Adrian?” “Yes, I’d say the same.” “Then she wasn’t a Time Keeper,” said Peterson. “So I would put good money on her being an assistant, wouldn’t you?” Her colleagues nodded dumbly. “Besides,” she said. “There are apparently no female Time Keepers anyway.” She allowed herself a secret smile. “Well,” said Sir Adrian. “Looks about lunch o’clock to me. Come on, Joe. You’re going to need something to tide you through the mountain of meetings and paperwork.” Schlutz looked back over his shoulder as they walked off and shook his



head. “Damned Limeys,” he muttered. “Chin up,” said Sir Adrian. “It’s no longer parties unknown.” “I ain’t writing any of this stuff into my report. If there’s no visual record of it, it don’t exist.” “And let’s just agree to forget we know Kevin Thomson from now on, shall we?” said Sir Adrian. “He seems like a good lad.” “Aw, shucks. This is all just between us then. Lunch is definitely on you, Sir Adrian.” A man in a suit with one hand on an earpiece jogged over to Sir Adrian, took him aside and whispered in his ear. Sir Adrian looked surprised and asked a couple of questions. The man spoke into his lapel and listened intently to the earpiece before talking to Sir Adrian again. Sir Adrian thanked the man, who jogged off. “Was that about the explosion at Imperial?” asked Peterson. Sir Adrian nodded. “Doctor How’s office.” “Damn,” said Schlutz. “Just when we realise we have to rely on him, he gets himself killed. ” “Oh, I think he’s fine. After all, wasn’t he instructing Kevin at the time? No human remains were found, but then Doctor How isn’t human.” “So what was it?” asked Schlutz. “An exploding chocolate cake, apparently,” said Sir Adrian. Schlutz stared at him. He shrugged. “What on earth makes them think that?” asked Peterson. “Might it not have been a chocolate cake that was caught up in an explosion? Occam’s Razor: the easiest explanation is the likeliest.” “Aha,” said Sir Adrian, tapping the side of his nose. “Forensics say part of its mass is unaccounted for. E equals M C squared and all that.” “Sure,” said Schlutz. “An exploding thermonuclear chocolate cake. Why the hell not, Doctor Peterson? We’ve had giant exploding insects, over-sized man-eating jellyfish, killer robots, time travellers in cars. I just hope to God my wife didn’t buy an exploding cake for my boy’s birthday party.” “Tell you what, Joe,” said Peterson. “I’ll help you choose a more suitable toy for your son. How does that sound?” “Oh, you got nephews?” “No, I’m an only child. But I bet I could choose a better present than that last one. Maybe something more constructive, like a box of Bricky.” “Yeah, Bricky’s pretty harmless. Cheap and cheerful, as you Brits say.”



“Here you are, son. Home sweet home,” said Where as they appeared inside How’s Spectrel. Doctor How, wearing her black skirt suit and white blouse, put her finger to her lips, rolled her eyes and tapped the side of her head. “But Grk cannot get no refund!” said a disembodied voice. “I put half all moneys on shipment.” “Well, you knew the technology wasn’t permitted for Earth import, didn’t you?” said the Doctor. “No. I not know that.” “Rubbish, Grk. You know the rules and you signed the Agreement before coming here on your work permit. And you’re not that naïve. If someone’s offering quality merchandise like that to you for so little money, no questions asked, then you know it’s a dodgy deal. And that’s a rule throughout the Pleasant universe – not just Earth.” “No, he nice man. I lose half of all moneys. Comes off back of losing Rindan consul rental business too. Is not good for business. Cashflow has big problems.” “It’s really no concern of mine.” “You make whole stock disappear through wormhole.” “I told you, it was my cousin Why. You wouldn’t even have been offered that stock if it wasn’t for him.” “Then I sue him! Big court case! I kill him!” “Join the queue. They have a Latin saying on Earth, Grk: caveat emptor . Buyer beware. Goodbye.” She cut the connection with a wave of her hand. “Honestly,” said How. “The whole out-of-town community just drains me. It’s not like he isn’t making good money out of cleaning up the remains of dead Rindan consuls either.” She turned her attention to the two new arrivals. “David, thank you for returning Kevin. We could have done with your help earlier. But I’m grateful you chipped in at the last minute. As usual.” “That’s alright. I have to say you’re looking very well, Peter.” “Do you know,” said How. “I feel absolutely terrific. Bursting with energy.”



“Can you please tell me what happened?” asked Kevin. He slumped down in his usual seat. He realised how tired he was, and sank back into it. It stretched out and became a steamer seat. “They say crime doesn’t pay, Kevin,” said the Doctor. “But in your case it did. When Why activated his software, the wormhole was attracted to the one thing that was out of place in the time stream. If you hadn’t stolen that gold Aureus, then the wormhole would have allowed a massive invasion by those aliens.” “So, let’s get this clear: I saved the world.” “If you say so.” “What do you mean? Don’t denigrate my achievement!” “We had a plan.” “Yeah? You and whose army?” “No, not Who’s army. Me and When.” “Says you.” Where chipped in. “Well, it was a nice, neat solution. Good man, Kevin.” “Thanks. And I only stole that money because Cassandra gets a per diem .” “You get a clothing allowance and I pay you as well! A per diem is a daily living allowance. She returns her unspent money to me at the end of every adventure. Unlike you, she knows not to pick up souvenirs.” “Huh. So what happened after that?” “The next wormhole I thought you would have figured out. You got caught in the one behind the alien ship. Of course, you were from outside that part of the space-time continuum, as were the robots. So back you went, swept away in an eddy current.” “It seems extremely unlikely. Not to mention convenient.” “Ah, but nature is like that, Kevin. Once you get that Ph.D. in Astrophysics you’ll understand the very strange behaviour of sub-particular matter, and understand that the sub-particles like things to be just so .” “What about my painting? The portrait Turner did of me? Won’t that cause problems?” “I thought you’d be wanting that. I had the house-bots fetch it from Streatham Hill for you. The difference, as I’ve explained to you countless times before, is that this one has been left to age in its proper time stream. If you recall, that is part of the problem I had with dear cousin When’s behaviour a while ago.” “Gotcha.” A house-bot presented him with a framed picture. It was the



watercolour JMW Turner had painted of him in October 1834. The Doctor had preserved it perfectly; Kevin’s smudged fingerprint looked as fresh as the evening he did it. “Thanks, man. Can you keep it safe for me, please?” “Of course. It will be put back in the proper time stream a moment after it was taken.” “Look, Peter,” said Where. “I’ve gotta shoot off now. Give my best wishes to Tiger when you see her.” “Of course. And thanks again, David.” “Be seein’ ya!” Where disappeared. “You know,” said Kevin. “There was this episode of Doctor Who where an alien ship crashed into Roman Colchester. A couple of thousand years later they’d built a toy shop over it. And then the alien craft got activated somehow and there was an invasion by Cybermen.” “Cybermen?” “People who’ve been turned into robots. And the Cybermen were trying to take over the Earth.” “And now you know,” said Doctor How. “Most of your human mythology is based on real events. Who and Why just ransacked the Time Keeper archives for stories. Of course, the megalomania meant that my brother took all of the credit for the events you’ve just been part of. And Why, as his agent, would never have let himself take any of the blame.” “What’s happened to Francis? To your cousin Why?” “I’m afraid you find me bereft of an answer for that one. His video game launch wasn’t a success, as you can imagine. But of course he vanished at the same time as you. At this stage we have very little idea where he got swept. Unlike you and the killer robots, he wasn’t outside of his own time stream. But he’s decidedly less welcome in most parts of the Pleasant universe than he was a day or two ago. That’s his affair. He’s a Time Keeper – he can make his own way back.” “What do you think really happened? I mean, you know, don’t you?” The Doctor gave him a wry smile. “I never let my ego get in the way of my thinking in the same way as Why does.” She paused for thought. “I believe it was the same beings behind this whole situation that were behind the hacking of Where, the giant beetles, and everything else that’s been going wrong. Another failed attempt to destroy or discredit the Time Keepers.” “You still have no idea who it is?” “Not yet. I can only eliminate suspects.”



“When said he had to get on with stuff, so he just sent me back,” said Cassandra, appearing in the projection area. “Look what I got!” She was still in her boots, skirt and blouse, and was holding the black box which had belonged to the assassin robot. “It’ll do for your trophy cabinet, Doctor. Careless Kevin left it behind, didn’t you Kevin? Perhaps that can be your nickname? Careless Kevin. I think –” Cassandra froze and stared at the Doctor, taking in her woman’s clothes and man’s face. “Doctor!” she gasped. “It’s disgraceful . I had no idea you had such a secret that you were hiding from me. Oh, for shame !” The Doctor was speechless. “Hey!” said Kevin. “You can bitch me out all you like, Cassandra, but you don’t talk like that to the Doc. You get me?” “But he’s… I can’t bring myself even to use the words.” “She is a woman . Or not a woman, but a female Time Keeper. Alright? This is an equal opportunities Spectrel and you’d better get used to that. If you’ve got a problem you can –” “Enough , Kevin. Thank you. I don’t think Cassandra has quite understood the situation.” “I think I understand well enough, Doctor. I demand that you set me back in my own time. I shall have nothing more to do with you. So if you’ll just wave your magic wand and make me forget we were ever associated, then I shall be grateful.” She folded her arms and glared at the Doctor. “But Tiger –” “Now, please. This instant.” “Yo, Cassy,” said Kevin. “Don’t ever call me Cassy,” hissed Cassandra. “Don’t ever call me careless,” said Kevin. “Not when you’re being careless with people’s feelings. The Doctor – our boss, right – was regenerated as a woman. It was – how can I put it – only successful from the neck down.” “He… what ?” “The Doctor is a female of his species now. Get over it.” “But I thought –” “Yeah, but you didn’t think, did you? You just assumed,” said Kevin. “Kevin, thank you. I shall take it from here,” said Doctor How. Doctor How went over to Cassandra and gave her a hug. “Oh Doctor, I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I thought that, you know, you’d



been hanging around with the Covent Garden mollies. You know the ones. Why didn’t you say something?” “It’s my fault, Tiger. I didn’t know how to break the news to you, dear. Not in the middle of a mission.” “But it’s awful.” “There’s nothing awful about being a woman, Tiger. ” “But I don’t know if I can work for a woman, Doctor. I mean, the status .” “And who did you just see lead a rebellion against the Romans?” asked the Doctor. “Queen Boudica,” sniffed Cassandra. “Exactly. Learn your lessons from history. Now, you have quite a lot to do, both of you.” The Doctor let Cassandra go, and gave her a handkerchief. “Thanks,” she sniffed, drying her eyes. “There,” said the Doctor. “I think that’s cleared the air. I’ve never had two assistants before. We’ve got Walter and David firmly on side now. A shame about Why. But, do you know, I think things are taking a turn for the better. I was just telling Kevin and David how marvellous I feel.” A med-bot slid into the room and set itself at chest level in front of the Doctor. “Ah, my latest blood tests.” She looked at the med-bot in disbelief. “Really?” She looked over at Trinity. “Oh, Trinity. You weren’t joking after all.” The Doctor fell back onto her chair, ashen-faced. “Doctor! What is it?” screamed Cassandra. “Kevin wasn’t the only one who was careless,” she said. “I’m pregnant.” Please review If you’ve enjoyed this novel, I’d be really grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon. As an independent author, reviews and word of mouth are the only way I have of spreading the word. The kind words of readers mean so much to me - thank you! ☺ US: www.amazon.com/dp/B06XF6DLBV UK: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B06XF6DLBV



Historical Notes The old joke about the Roman telling the Briton that he only had time to bathe once a day is a genuine joke from the era. Really, you had to be there. Still, at least it’s a clean joke (groan). I only discovered after I’d started writing this novel that there’s an old episode of Doctor Who in which an alien ship crashes into Roman Colchester. Why do we writers have it in for Essex? Historians disagree about the year of the British rebellion against Rome and the burning of Camulodunum. Some sources say AD60, and others AD61. Some say that the Valeria victrix were dealing with the druids in Anglesey at the time, but other sources put that at AD58. What is consistent is that this elite legion was away from the south east of England when it happened, leaving the Ninth in charge. The XX really were an elite unit and the Britons saw their chance and took it. In another timeline there’s a Britain where the Romans were pushed out. (My ancestors are Scottish. We did see them off.) Seneca did indeed make ruinous loans to the British aristocracy, and his shoddy treatment of debtors contributed to the rebellion. The Greek philosopher, historian and geographer Strabo did remark that even the adolescent Britons he saw in Rome were half a foot taller than Roman citizens, but that they were bow-legged and made no cheese despite the abundance of milk. Mind you, he also said Britons were poor gardeners and farmers. He never went to Britain, and the only Roman experience of it at the time he wrote that can have been of Caesar’s brief invasion. In fact, Britain was a big grain producer. And as for Britons being poor gardeners…. I refer the reader to Asterix in Britain , where you will see Britons manicuring perfect lawns. The head of the statue of Emperor Claudius from the temple is on display in Colchester. Visit it; Essex isn’t as bad as Kevin says, and they could do with some tourism. JMW Turner lived incognito as Mr Booth in Cheyne Walk. He did draw and paint studies from a boat in the Thames on the night of the burning of the Houses of Parliament. He didn’t spend all night on the boat, though – that’s poetic licence on my part. But the event was a huge spectacle for all of London. The crowds were very well-behaved, especially given that they were mostly still disenfranchised. But then you have to consider that the authorities at the time weren’t squeamish about killing unarmed civilians – not even



their own citizens. An odd coincidence is that the Pankhursts lived next door in Cheyne Walk. Could their championing of women’s rights in later generations have been influenced by the strong female role model of Cassandra? Streatham Wells water was well-known in London for its quality and (supposedly) curative properties. Until the outbreak of WWII it was served fresh every day outside St Paul’s cathedral. It is richer in minerals than Epsom water (which it replaced). I know – the limescale problem I have at home in Streatham Hill is terrible. (I should note that Doctor How is a neighbour, and these are his authorised memoirs.) Two tourists did view the tapestries of the Armada on the day of the fire. As described, they reported great heat underfoot near Black Rod’s box and couldn’t see the tapestry at all well due to the pall of smoke in the chamber. That was at four o’clock in the afternoon. For decades the great and the good had been complaining that the place was a fire hazard, and yet nothing was done. Staff in the Houses of Parliament failed to raise the alarm until it was far too late. King William IV offered the newly-built Buckingham Palace to house parliament because he loathed it. North of the Thames there was a by-law stating that candles had to be placed outside private houses at night to provide street lighting. Apparently this did not apply south of the river. The first Russian nuclear detonation did yield much more than they were expecting. Old McDonald’s Farm was written in the early 20th century, and thus wouldn’t have been known to someone of Cassandra’s era. Poetic licence on my part. But Doctor How could have sung it to her as part of the joke or she could have confabulated it. One final note for the pedants out there (and I count myself as one). Technically, Kevin did not encounter vestal virgins because it was a temple to Claudius. Vestal virgins were only employed in the temples of the goddess Vesta. That’s a nice bit of trivia to drop casually into a relevant discussion. You’re welcome.



Postscript When I began writing this series back in 2011, my main worry was that the BBC would take legal action against me. My only defence is the so-called parody and satire defence. Many fans of the Doctor How series have been kind enough to say that it is something above parody – being an alternative universe where over 50 years of conflicting timelines are explained away. As it’s turned out, the BBC seem to have followed my lead in the character of the Twelfth Doctor – not to mention the regeneration as a female. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I’m very touched – but I wouldn’t mind a gig as a writer on the series if the BBC are going to use my ideas… ;-)



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About the author Mark Speed finished writing his first novel at the age of fifteen. His comedy writing has appeared in newspapers as diverse as the London Evening Standard and The Sun , and been broadcast on BBC Radio 4 Extra. He performed his solo comedy, The End of the World Show , at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2011 and 2012. Amongst other postgraduate and professional qualifications, he has a Master’s degree in Creative Writing from City University, London. In 1995 a chiropractor told him he’d never run again. Sensibly, he gave up chiropractors, and has since completed several marathons and a couple of Olympic-length triathlons. He occasionally does irresponsible things like scuba and skydiving. NLP founder Richard Bandler publicly called him a ‘polarity responder’.



Other titles by the same author: The Doctor How series: Book one, Doctor How and the Illegal Aliens: The Doctor Who is Not A Time Lord US: www.amazon.com/dp/B00IWC40JK UK: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00IWC40JK Book two, Doctor How and the Deadly Anemones US www.amazon.com/dp/B00SDGFNEQ UK:www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00SDGFNEQ Book three, Doctor How and the Alien Invasion US:www.amazon.com/dp/B06XF6DLBV UK: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B06XF6DLBV



Books that are NOT the Doctor How series: Why not broaden your horizons with one of these? The Default Girlfriend: A Sex Comedy US: www.amazon.com/dp/B006X2SYWU UK:www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006X2SYWU Apocalypse Later: A Guide to the End of the World by Nice Mr Death US: www.amazon.com/dp/B00KIX4VH2 UK: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00KIX4VH2 Britons in Brief (anthology) US: www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00AD5LS9O UK: www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00AD5LS9O More about him is available from these sources: Author information and more writing: www.markspeed.co.uk Amazon Author Central: http://www.amazon.com/author/markspeed



Acknowledgements Thanks to Lynda Thornhill for proofing. Thanks to ace beta-readers Ian Sturgeon and Suzanne C. Cope CBT for early feedback and encouragement. Thanks also to Nathan Van Coops, author of an excellent time travel series. If you want an excellent three-part time-travel series check out Jule Owen’s The House Next Door series.



Legal Stuff Disclaimer For the avoidance of doubt, this is a work of parody. You might also have noticed that it’s a work of fiction, and that – as such – any characters are fictitious. Any apparent similarity to real people, living, dead, or yet to be born is coincidental. Historic figures referred to are dead and beyond caring, but I’ve tried to be sensitive to living relatives and not made them monsters, which is more than you can say for some biographers. Doctor Who and TARDIS are registered trademarks of the BBC. This book series is not affiliated with or endorsed by the BBC. It is not a Doctor Who story. Copyright © Mark F Speed 2017 All rights reserved The right of Mark F Speed to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and publisher. Cover design by Rachel Lawston www.lawstondesign.com Published by Terra Supra Limited Registered in England and Wales no. 8109753



www.terrasupra.co.uk Nothing is black and white



Preview - Doctor How and the Dragons Doctor How, book four



Dr Suki Mehta was delighted — the griffin had looked absolutely lifelike under the bright artificial light. Or as lifelike as a mythical monster could look. Indeed, a few people had even seemed a little frightened of it, and he’d noticed at least one person turn pale and make a hasty getaway. It had the body and back legs of a lion and the head, wings and talons of an eagle. And it was made of Bricky; the little plastic building blocks for children. At four feet high, with a similar wingspan, he did have to admit that it was quite an intimidating beast. Its eyes were a malevolent black that seemed to stare right through the observer. The yellow of its body continued onto the backs of the wings, but their undersides were blood red, like the lining of a vampire’s cloak. The hooked beak was red and its forked tongue yellow. There were two crests or tufts on the head, just above and behind each eye. The talons were red. They had been particularly difficult, and Mehta was pleased at their sharp and vicious appearance. His Bricky griffin was a show-stopper. He glanced in his rear view mirror at the griffin as it lay in the back of his estate car. The wings were in separate boxes on either side of the body, laid out carefully in foam rubber surrounds. Somehow the lid of the box containing the body had come off and was lying on top of one of the wing boxes. How had that happened? He must have passed over a bump, but couldn’t remember one large enough to have done that, and it had never happened before. The passing lights of a junction gave the illusion of movement to one of the creature’s talons. Maybe movement was something he could work on in a future design? A griffin with flapping wings and a flaming tongue — that would be a real crowd-pleaser. He concentrated on the wet motorway ahead as the spray from a truck reduced his visibility. He glanced in his rear view mirror again to make sure



he was safely past and swore he saw the griffin move. One of its clawed talons had been reaching out of the box. Impossible ! He shook his head. It had been a long day, but even in this weather he should be home in under fifty minutes so it wasn’t worth taking a break. He lowered a window for some fresh air. There was a scratching noise from the back and he took another glance in the mirror. The lid of the box containing the right wing had popped off. The road had definitely been smooth for the last minute. His engineer’s mind tried to work out the forces needed to have made it happen, and decided it simply couldn’t have been done by any bump except one that would have made him hit his head on the roof. Maybe he’d not been paying too much attention, and it could have been like that for a couple of hours? He shook his head again: he was tired. Tired but happy. That was it — the explanation wasn’t physical; it was physiological and psychological. He was over-tired and excited. But there was now an edge of fear in his heart. He had to get home safely. He’d been a Bricky nerd since he was a boy, and was proud of it. It was the one constant in his life, and he owed everything to it. When he’d started a Bricky club at university as a fresher, he’d faced some predictable sniggers as he set out his stall to entice new members. Much to everyone’s surprise, including his own, he’d finished that afternoon with a good crowd around the table. By the end of the first month it had become one of the largest and most active societies on campus. It had some kind of retro childhood appeal, and even a couple of lecturers had joined for the relaxation and teamwork it required. For the May ball at the end of his first year they’d produced a life-sized model of the unicorn featured on the university’s crest, and they’d been the toast of the campus. “It’s beautiful — so life-like!” one of the women students had told him as she took a selfie of herself with it. Ten years and a Ph.D. later, she was his wife and he was a lecturer at a university nearer his childhood home in Essex. “Build it and they will come — even future wives,” he told his first-year mechanical engineering students. He was halfway through writing a book called Zen and the Art of Bricky Building . If a traditional publisher wouldn’t take it, he’d bet that the Bricky company would. New university, new mascot: a griffin. This one had been quite a challenge, and he’d done it himself. The unveiling at the engineering



symposium that Saturday morning had been a real feather in his cap. It had been a PR coup not just for his department, but for his university. The irony that a Bricky model for his redbrick university had outperformed the expensive well-thought-out PR for the more established institutions made him chuckle to himself. Even representatives from other universities had taken selfies with it. His junction was coming up in a mile and he needed to change lanes, so he glanced back in his mirror. The griffin was standing up. It had attached its right wing to its body and was flapping the wing slowly, testing it. The plastic creaked an unnatural creak as the wing flexed impossibly — Bricky could not flex. It was crouched over due to the low height in the back, examining the wing with its big black eyes, so it couldn’t see him looking at it. Mehta was transfixed as he watched the creature. This wasn’t happening. Someone must have spiked his coffee. A jealous colleague from another university? It seemed highly unlikely. He shook his head again and concentrated on the road ahead. It wasn’t real. He had to focus on getting off the dual carriageway and back home safely. He ignored a loud click from the back of the car. He saw a gap in the traffic and checked the mirror again. The griffin had attached its left wing, and was flexing it. The creature sensed it was being watched by its open-mouthed creator and turned its head to stare at him. It opened its hooked beak wide and let out a loud, piercing screech. Mehta screamed, and covered his face as he lost control of the car. Doctor How and the Dragons will be released in 2017 If you join the reading group at www.doctorhow.tv/free/ you’ll be the first to know!