Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [5]
‘Come on, don’t dawdle, we haven’t much time,’ the Doctor said. ‘And in answer to your question,’ he continued as the doors swung slowly, almost painfully open, ‘I imagine it’s already taking on the properties of the new outer shell. Of the host.’
As he followed the Doctor through the doors, the implications began to dawn on Fitz.
The Doctor’s voice was faint, muffled, distant as it floated back to him. ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, personality erosion will follow as Compassion’s energy drains away. We can’t let her slip away too far or even her primary focus of blocking the transmission will fail. And after that her systems will shut down completely as she drains the energies of the host entity as well. They’re an organic gestalt. Inevitably there will be some confusion of identities. And if one of them dies…’
But Fitz was still working it out as he tumbled headlong out of Compassion. He was cold, he was wet, he was struggling to his feet in a moonlit sea of snow. ‘You’re telling me,’ he spluttered, ‘that this host, which is the closest match Compassion could find to what you call “her natural appearance", is –’ He stopped short as he caught sight of the figure standing there, watching them.
‘Obviously,’ the figure that was and was not Compassion said.
Fitz jumped as a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He swung round quickly. Behind him the Doctor was smiling. ‘So far so good.’
‘The house is this way,’ she said. ‘Did you get lost?’
Fitz and the Doctor both turned slowly to stare at her.
‘You must be exhausted after your long journey. Let me show you the way.’
‘Confusion of identities?’ Fitz asked. He was having trouble tearing his eyes away from her. ‘Stunning gestalt, by the way,’ he said, to the woman’s evident confusion.
‘You know,’ the Doctor replied quietly, ‘I think it’s going to be one of those days.’
* * *
Finale: 1968
It was a room for the dying. Everyone knew that, including the frail figure lying in the bed. What light there was struggled through the faded thin curtains and was absorbed by dusty surfaces. The sounds of the home were muffled by the door and the plasterboard-thin walls. Outside a Ford Corsair stuttered into uneasy, throaty life. A dog barked.
The door opened, old and cracked. Its creak mingled with the high-pitched nasal sigh of the breathing from the bed. A rectangle of yellow light was broken by the figure that shuffled into the room. A broken, angled silhouette. The figure in the bed twisted slightly to see, waved a weak and wrinkled hand.
‘Is it time for tea already?’ The old woman’s voice was as reedy and hesitant as her breathing and her hand. ‘I don’t know where the time goes.’ She gave up the struggle to lift her head and let it sink back into the crushed hollow of the pillow. ‘Time.’ She rattled a coughing laugh. ‘I can hardly see any more, but I know what Time looks like. And I do know where it goes.’
‘Time,’ the dark figure repeated as it reached the bed. The door clicked shut behind it; the light faded back to a dusty gloom that shadowed the figure’s face. ‘It has taken me a long time to find you.’
The woman twisted, trying to crane her neck sideways so as to see who was standing beside the bed. ‘Do I know you?’ she murmured.
‘We have met. A long time ago.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t quite place your voice. I have met so many people, you see. And my eyes are not what they were.’
The dry rasping sound might have been a laugh. ‘It took me over fifty years to recover,’ the croaky voice said. ‘Another twenty or more to find you.’
‘So many people,’ she repeated as if she had not heard. ‘I have known so very many in my –’
‘Time?’ Again, the rasping laugh.
She struggled again to sit up, working her elbows into the mattress and shifting her weight. ‘Are you sure we have met?’
‘Very sure.’
She gave up and sank back again. ‘They will bring the tea soon.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh they always do, you know.’
‘I know. But not today.’
‘Oh.’ She accepted that. No comment. No curiosity. If she screwed up her eyes, tried