Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [48]
As the Doctor knelt by the cabinet, something went click next to his left ear. He ignored it for a moment, intent on his study of the codex.
A cool circle of metal pushed into the skin under his ear. ‘Stand up slowly,’ said a voice very quietly. The Doctor stood up slowly.
He saw Cristián and Ace looking at him, their mouths open. Ace was tensing, wondering if she could safely retrieve the gun tucked into the back of her jeans.
‘I don’t want you to do anything unexpected,’ said the voice behind him. ‘And neither do you. I’d be perfectly happy to shoot your head off. All right?’
‘Who are you?’ said the Doctor.
A heavy grip spun him around, and he found himself looking up at a six‐foot‐tall redhead with murder in his eyes and a .45 calibre pistol in his hand.
‘Well, that leaves me none the wiser,’ he told the stranger.
‘Now that,’ said Macbeth, ‘is just adding insult to injury. Don’t pretend you don’t remember me. What the hell are you doing in here, eh? Finishing up your business with Professor Fitzgerald?’
‘Who the hell?’ whispered Ace, glancing at Cristián. The Indian shook his head.
Macbeth’s gun hand jerked up to cover them. ‘Shut up,’ he snarled, ‘you just shut up! I’m the one with the gun here, and I’ll tell you when you can bloody well talk!’
This was the point at which Bernice put her hands on either side of his neck and pressed. Macbeth said, ‘Yrkrkrk –’ and dropped the gun, sagging gracelessly against the glass cabinet.
The Doctor caught the weapon as it fell, looked at it bewilderedly, and handed it to Bernice. She stood back from Macbeth, keeping the gun trained on him. The big man was rubbing his throat, his head bobbing about dazedly.
‘Well, that was a nice brief crisis,’ said the Doctor. ‘Perhaps you’d care to explain yourself, Mr…?’
Macbeth brought his knees up, hugging them to him, looking up at the Doctor with undiluted hatred. ‘Lieutenant Macbeth. Formerly of UNIT. And you can all go to hell.’
‘Name, rank, and serial insult,’ observed the Doctor dryly. ‘Right. Make yourself comfortable, Lieutenant, we’ll sort you out in a moment.’
Macbeth struggled to his feet, moving slowly, keeping his eyes on Summerfield. Even in the half‐light he could see that she hadn’t aged, not one bit, not a single wrinkle. Jesus. How’d she managed that?
They’d stuff him into their flying saucer and no one would ever see him again. Or maybe they’d just shoot him here and now.
Bits of panic dropped into him like stones into a pond, spreading fat ripples through him. You’ve really, really mucked it up this time, MacB. Mortal Ken might have had the sense to leave well enough alone and ship his arse back to Glasgow.
Oh well, at least he’d get to see what the inside of a UFO looked like.
Shit.
‘Here,’ said Cristián.
He was standing next to one of the glass cabinets, a high thing like a lecture stand enclosing a single tattered piece of maguey‐fibre paper. The Doctor crossed to the cabinet. ‘Let me see,’ he said, leaning over the glass, and began to read.
Slow motion:
The Doctor turns sharply away from the cabinet, his hands coming up to his face. Cristián takes a step back from him, startled by the suddenness of the movement.
The Time Lord stumbles and overbalances, landing on the polished wood on his side, fists pressed to his eyes. Cristián kneels beside him. There is blood coming out from behind the Doctor’s fingers.
Cristián’s head snaps up. ‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘Oh God oh God oh my God –’
A wind starts blowing, cold and fresh, lifting Ace’s hair away from her shoulders.
Macbeth explodes.
It’s not a horror movie explosion, with his skin rupturing and skull shattering and one of his kidneys striking the ceiling. He just vanishes, howling his surprise, in a coruscating fountain of Blue light, a violent up-and outrushing of energy.
‘He’s here!’ screams the Doctor,