Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [78]
Ace had not moved a muscle. ‘So,’ she said. ‘What do we do now?’
The Doctor grinned ferociously.
‘We win.’
* * *
Soldiers were all around him.
He sat in the foyer, catching flashes of green and olive out of the corner of his eye. They were carrying furniture, phones and things, computers in huge cardboard boxes. A stout sergeant went past, clutching a vase of flowers.
The nurses helped the subjects out, some still dressed in their pyjamas, swaddled in two or three dressing‐gowns against the cold. Researchers carried clipboards and pieces of electrical equipment, the wires trailing down.
Everything must go, Macbeth thought blankly.
The whole place had been closed down. Orders from the very top, the very, very top. There would be a huge investigation. He would probably get court‐martialled or something.
But I’m not a soldier, he thought. Blankly.
The extraterrestrial was gone. He had never had a chance to ask the questions he wanted answers to, needed answers to. He had dipped his toes in a far ocean and he would never be allowed to swim there. Never. UNIT would take away the money and the research and he’d never be able to work there again. It was gone, all gone, all wiped clean. Blank.
Blank.
And deep inside him, something Blue was itching –
* * *
In the attic, Ace was sitting cross‐legged on the end of the big brass bed, like a guard dog. She had her anorak on; it was freezing cold. The Doctor was wearing thick flannel pyjamas and a dressing‐gown with a little embroidered cat on the pocket, and the quilt was pulled up to his middle.
He lay on his side, fingers digging into the pillow, mouth open as he dragged in ragged lungfuls of the chilly air. His eyes were squeezed shut, the smile lines standing out sharply against the pallor of his skin. He was back in that hippie cellar. Ace didn’t want to know what he was seeing.
Even when the flashback finished he did not completely relax, but lay still, just concentrating on breathing. A bead of sweat ran down his face and onto the feather‐stuffed pillow.
Ace looked at her watch and said, ‘It’s been nine hours.’
‘Mmm,’ said the Doctor weakly. ‘Getting fewer and further between. He’s got something else to concentrate on.’
‘You should try to get some kip.’
‘I don’t think I dare,’ said the Doctor.
‘Hey?’
‘What if he should take me in my dreams?’
Ace said, ‘Lie on your stomach.’
The Doctor rolled over. The bed rocked as Ace sat down next to him, gripping his shoulders. ‘What’re you going to do?’ he asked, muffledly.
She pushed her fingers through the material of the dressing‐gown and started to massage his shoulders. This close she could see the feathers in his hair, some of them fine and downy like a baby bird’s, some of them longer and fully formed. She’d watched them sprouting as he’d struggled with Huitzilin. ‘Better?’ she asked, shoving her thumbs into his shoulder‐blades.
‘Argh,’ he said.
‘How long’re we going to stay for?’ she asked. ‘We’re not safe, not even here. Not from a ghost. Especially a portable one.’
‘Mmm. Not long. Lots to do. Won’t be so bad while his attention is elsewhere.’
‘Close your eyes. Close your eyes and relax.’
The Doctor’s eyelids half‐lowered. ‘I’ve been possessed more times than I can remember. Usually it’s like being inside a fist. Something comes from outside and grabs you.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘This is different. It comes from inside. The way a headache does, or an idea.’
‘And in the meantime,’ said Ace, ‘you can read the monster’s mind.’
‘Yes.’
‘So,’ she asked, ‘what are we going to do if the monster takes you over first?’
‘Well,’ said the Doctor, ‘if that does happen, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.’
She took her hands away from his shoulders and got up off the bed. Slowly the Doctor rolled onto his back and looked up at her.