Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [79]
‘Think of it as damage control,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Or triage. Anyone you can’t save you have to leave to die. You know that.’
‘No crukking way.’
‘Benny can’t do it. You have to.’
She reached up and pushed a stray bit of hair out of her face. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Why waste any more time?’ She reached into the anorak and brought out her Flash Gordon gun. She did something to it, manipulating controls embedded in the plastic. She pointed it right between his eyes.
He focused past it, to her face. His pupils snapped open, black overtaking the blue. He was surprised. Beautiful.
‘That’s a child’s toy,’ he said.
‘Nope,’ said Ace. ‘It’s a lightweight flechette thrower.’
More surprise.
‘You took this thing on board,’ she said. ‘You’re the door it can use to get into our world.’ The Doctor lay very still, watching her. Was she supposed to do this? Who cares? ‘It’s screwed around with everybody’s heads and it’s killed a lot of people. It’s too bloody dangerous to let out.’ She spoke steadily, keeping the gun aimed at his face. ‘And now you’re telling me you can’t control it? You’re ready to give up? Ready to die? Are you ready to die? Are you?’
She pulled the trigger.
The Doctor flinched.
The gun went click.
He flinched.
‘Nah,’ said Ace. ‘Didn’t think so.’ She stowed the flechette pistol away and walked out.
Beautiful.
* * *
Interlude 2
The old women stroked his face with their leathery hands, soft as kid gloves, cool fingertips brushing back the hair from his temples. It was just another hallucination, another of the diminishing flashbacks, but he could feel the texture of their ragged fingernails as they smoothed out the tension in his face and shoulders, calling him baby, baby.
I’m no one’s sacrifice. No one’s.
There was a laugh like a bell jingling.
His head was full of gibberish, like a cupboard that had been pulled open, all the junk tumbling out onto some hapless cartoon character.
Peter Pan ripped loose his shadow. The shadow danced over the walls, reaching out black and sticky hands to smother little Peter, not so immortal as he thought he was. Wendy was off‐stage, screaming something, but Peter’s mouth was full of shadow, tasting of dust and gunpowder, blood and cactus wine.
The old women cooed to him like a newborn, cradling his tired body, their voices dripping like raindrops into his head. Go to sleep, little midwife, go to sleep, melt into the shadows.
Who was he the midwife for? What would be born?
What do you want me for?
A grin in the dark. Lunch.
What, you’ve never heard of pizza?
Wonder what the Brigadier makes of all this? Didn’t happen the first time round. Must ask him next I see him. Wonder if he noticed the change, noticed his past shifting… someone playing around with time… somebody playing…
Don’t like this pawn side‐stepping me, the pawns should move in a straight line, not hop about unexpectedly. Another en passant from Ace? Just in passing? Once upon a time, a man was travelling across a field. Suddenly, he was set upon by a tiger. He ran from the tiger, and found himself at the edge of a cliff.
Don’t like not knowing the enemy.
Jangling laughter.
The real enemy, the shadow behind the shadow. Behind every great monster stands a great megalomaniac. Why do they want me? Who’s the enemy? Who is it? Who? S/he’s trying one experiment after another. This one’s a butterfly effect: tiny change in time, tumbling down the years, blowing out into a storm. Doesn’t care about the damage done. If Huitzilin gets out –
Don’t like having to play Mina and Van Helsing.
Taste of blood and cactus wine. The old women feeding him a courage potion, washing the dregs from the sacrificial knife into the liquid, pouring it onto his tongue. He choked and spat out the foul stuff, and they touched his face and hair, soothing, soothing.
The man caught hold of a vine growing at the edge of the cliff, and, in desperation, swung himself over the edge. The tiger looked down at him, roaring hungrily. Another roar came from below, and the man looked down to see a second tiger at the bottom of the