Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Times Crucible - Marc Platt [66]
The roar of the steam and the distant clang of the Tower bells vanished. It was peaceful here. Still and calm. A single flame, with neither candle nor lamp to feed it, was fixed in the air. It imbued the room with a golden aura, an atmosphere so familiar from the vanished TARDIS. The sloping walls were raftered like the inside of a roof. This was the attic where Ace had never been. It smelt of pine resin. A good place for contemplation and dreaming. If this was the last remnant of the ship, then Ace was certain it was also the source from which all the apparitions had emanated.
A figure was seated in a rocking chair — the only item of furniture. Cobwebs clung to him. Off his lap jumped the silver cat. It ran startled into the shadows.
As Ace approached, the Doctor's head nodded up and his eyes opened.
She had a frightened glow inside, but this time she knew she wasn't wrong. At last everything was going to come together. "Doctor?" she said gently.
He scrutinized her for a moment and then shuddered. His head turned slowly back and forth as he took in his surroundings. Through the open trap in the floor silent lights flickered and wisps of steam crept in.
The Doctor sniffed and frowned at her again. "Well," he said, "and what sort of Time do you call this?"
18: Future Imperfect
The older Process forced its bloated body forward. "Now disrupts!" it spluttered, breathless as it struggled to match the speed set by the younger creature.
The monsters arched their way along the outer spiral of the Tower. In the iron skeleton of the edifice, the engines pulled against each other. Wheels jarred and juddered. Chains splintered and flailed in murderous spirals. A repeated clank came from one of the broken bells as its mechanism jammed in a parody of frozen time.
"Are these your rumours?" croaked the younger.
The older Process ignored the jibe. It swung its head to stare out over the grey City. "This Now is new. Before, this Now never exists. Not when this Process was you. In my memories, it is not here."
"It is Now," the younger insisted.
Thin jets of steam spurted into the sky from all over the tangle of disparate buildings below. The City trembled as all points in its Time flung their protest into the sky. Already a billowing thunderhead cumulus was forming, mixing with the smoke nebula that hung amongst the coloured stars. The storm cloud loomed over the City, flickering with light from within.
"Omens," warned the older Process. "Ill portents. The Doctor, he returns. The guards, what do they report?"
They listened to the chattering messages of alarm that rose from across the City.
A guard on the City's main artery had seen a wall of cold fire that moved slowly north towards the Dial Square.
On the grey bank near the millwheel, a guard reported a host of shrews that ran squealing into the flood of the mercury stream.
In a courtyard near to the southern delta where all the streams met, a grey clock had climbed from its plinth and scuttled away on its hands.
On another artery, a sudden wind had whipped up the dust into a cloud. It circled three times in the shape of a carrion bird and flew off into the stars.
The older Process's fins rippled with rage at the news. "The Guard Captain, where is it?" it demanded. "Where is its report?"
News chittered back.
The Captain clung to the parapet of a spired building as it shook in the tremor. He watched the Phazels below him. It was the older group, far from their designated work location without leave. They moved through the grey shadow-streets with a purpose that suggested they had been summoned either by design or instinct. Either way, their usual subservience had been overcome by a boldness that would be their downfall.
"These omens, they are not ill fated," declared the younger Process.
The elder's beady eyes stared from around its slobbering mouth. "For who? Now disrupts. The birthright, it must be secured. The Doctor returns!"
"You grow too old to see. These signs foretell