by Dave Rudden
‘A surgeon. Was that what you were …’
Doubt looks down at her silver chassis, at the great gleaming paws of her hands, and she screams, and she screams, and she screams.
In the silence that follows, the click of Terrick chambering a round is very loud indeed. ‘We found the swarm. Mission complete. Badoris – set the charges.’
Badoris looks from Doubt to Terrick. ‘Sir … what about –’
‘Now.’
‘Sergeant …’ Memnes begins, but Terrick has his rifle raised and pointed.
‘I agreed to have that thing in my squad in order to find the swarm, and now we’ve found it. So now we don’t need –’
‘No.’ The stranger, the blond man, steps in front of the gun. ‘I’m the Doctor, and I won’t let you do this. I came to Agrippina to help. To try to rebuild. And then I found out what the resistance was doing –’
‘How dare you?’ Memnes snaps. Raoul’s eyes widen. None of them have ever heard him so angry. ‘What we did was necessary. There are thousands of Cybermen on Agrippina. What happens if the Cyber-Leaders come back and start giving orders again? What happens if they repair a Cyberman enough to take that role –’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ the Doctor says simply. ‘I’m here to do what you should have tried to do the moment you realised you could make a Cyberman think for themselves.’ He turned to Doubt. ‘What do you want to do?’
For a moment, Doubt is as frozen as any other broken steeler.
‘I could give you a big speech about how you’re a person. And how you have choices. But you already know you’re real. It’s the humans who have forgotten. So what do you want to do?’
‘Get out of the –’ Terrick takes a step sideways to get a clear shot, but the Doctor steps with him. The barrel of the pulse rifle is darkly streaked with soot, and leaves a black scar across the pristine white of his coat.
‘She’s a person,’ the Doctor retorts. ‘You made her a person again. You stole her back. You can’t abandon her now.’
‘Sir?’ Badoris says. Her gun is up too. It’s pointed at Terrick. ‘I think we should hear him out.’
Raoul stares between them both. ‘We’re not doing this. Tell me we’re not doing this. Doubt is one of us. Sort of. Kind of. We know her.’
The Cybermites buzz and trill.
‘It isn’t a her,’ the sergeant says. ‘And I’m not risking them coming back. You think some of them haven’t gone rogue before? You think she’s the first Doubt I’ve had to put down?’
‘Then help us find an end to it,’ the Doctor says.
‘No!’ Every part of Terrick trembles except the hand that holds the gun. Doubt is reminded of him inching towards the damaged steeler earlier – life and death balanced on the point of a knife. ‘Not until it’s over. Not until they’re gone. Not until we win.’
‘We’ve already lost,’ Memnes says, and lifts that never-before-fired gun.
Just as before, Doubt moves, faster than thought. Everything becomes static. Becomes snow.
When the drifting flecks clear, Doubt is on her back and the Cybermites are swarming. Wings unfold, light as glass, and a million silver insects boil upward into the arch of the cathedral like a tornado turned on its head, with Doubt lying in the eye of the storm.
‘Sorry,’ Terrick is whispering. He and Memnes have both dropped their guns. Raoul and the Doctor are shouting, though they can barely be heard over the burr of wings. ‘Sorry.’
Doubt feels the tiny legs of a Cybermite land on the edge of the wound in her chest. Then another. And another. There’s no pain. Why would there be?
It slips inside, and Doubt gasps as repairs begin.
When the legion left, it took the war with it. These units are broken. Empty. Soldiers with no orders. Bodies with no minds. Abandoned. Alone. Waiting for the Leaders who discarded them to tell them what to do.
There are no Cyber-Leaders any more. Just a lone steeler, who can think for itself.
Doubt pushes past the human memories in her head, reaching down and down into herself until she finds the parts the surgeons buried. Cold steel and connection.
‘Don’t apologise,’ Doubt says dreamily. ‘Correct.’
My mother and sisters were taken to one of the rural civilian hideouts up the coast. I’ll go there. Follow the coast until I find somewhere green. Maybe plant something and make it greener.
Doubt speaks, and the swarm listens. It is a simple order. Maybe Terrick will destroy the swarm. Maybe the Doctor will be able to stop him. Doubt doesn’t know. But there are thousands of broken steelers in the city, the city of her birth, a city with not enough humans to rebuild what has been destroyed. If the swarm can reach them, she can give them a last order, a final order, an order that might just end the war at last.
Plant crocuses.
9
A Perfect Christmas
‘It’s a plot,’ Vastra said morosely as she stared at the Christmas stocking. ‘And I will not allow it.’
The Christmas of 1885 at 13 Paternoster Row in London was to be as conventional an affair as possible, considering the circumstances. Vastra was aware this might involve extra effort on their part. Neither she nor her Sontaran manservant, Strax, had grown up with the holiday, what with her being a reptilian detective from a prehuman age and him being a bloodthirsty clone. They had, as Vastra’s wife, Jenny, put it, rather a lot to learn.
Personally, Vastra could see the advantage to being a stranger to the holiday (she refused to use the term ‘alien to’, as she was Silurian and therefore more of an Earthling than any johnny-come-lately mammal). It meant she was in the unique position of being able to treat human traditions as a sort of buffet, choosing those that intrigued her and entirely ignoring the ones that did not.
There was a purposeful note to Vastra’s optimism, though neither she nor Jenny had said as much. Even Strax was aware of it. Last Christmas had been a sombre affair. A revived Silurian priestess had sought to lure Vastra away from her human-adjacent life with murder and nostalgia. There had been … tension. Vastra and Jenny’s relationship had survived, of course, but it had been a closer thing than either of them liked to admit.
And so, Vastra was determined to pursue this year’s festivities with a precision bordering on the scientific. Exhaustive research had been completed. Popular publications of the day had been consulted for recipes and trends. Traditions had been assessed and advice sought, particularly from children, who seemed to have a natural talent for ritual whimsy. A whole host of provisions had been ordered. Finally, and most importantly, a master list had been compiled – a document as detailed as any legal case Vastra had ever assembled, in this age or her own. It ran to forty-eight pages, not including appendices and diagrams.
The Christmas of 1885 was going to be one to remember.
‘You know,’ Jenny said, ‘it’s possible you’re taking this a little too seriously.’
Vastra raised a scaled eyebrow.
December had dressed the city of London in winter’s white, but inside their drawing room it was pleasingly warm, thanks to the advanced heating system that Vastra and Strax had devised. Fat vines climbed the walls, lending the air a rich, smoky scent. Jenny was perched on a stool, effortlessly balanced as she adjusted strands of tinsel. Personally Vastra did not see the appeal of tinsel, but this was what humans did at Christmas and so it would be done.
‘I am not taking things too seriously,’ Vastra said, trying to keep a most unseemly note of petulance from her voice. ‘I am simply approaching your culture with the appropriate respect.’
‘Very much appreciated.’ Jenny flashed Vastra her pirate’s grin.
Vastra fought the urge to return it. ‘And,’ she continued, glaring at the stocking on the mantel, ‘my own particular research has led me to believe that stockings are a plot to limit the size and scope of possible gifts. You simply cannot fit anything of note inside one. It is a conspiracy.’
‘I see,’ Jenny said, jumping down
from her stool. ‘And do you have evidence for this?’
‘Not as such,’ Vastra admitted. ‘But I have spoken to Henry Wainwright from number eleven, and he believes my theory.’
‘He does?’ Jenny gasped, putting a hand to her breast. ‘And tell me, my love, how old is Henry? Nine?’
‘Twelve,’ Vastra corrected haughtily. ‘Not that it matters. Satsumas, Jennifer. They are giving children satsumas. It is, frankly, a matter of human rights. I have a mind to warn the authorities.’
‘Do not warn your foes!’ Strax barked as he stormed through the door, his voice muffled by a stack of boxes. ‘You will lose the tactical advantage.’
‘Yes, thank you, Strax,’ Vastra said wearily. One of these days the door was going to fall off. ‘Didn’t you say last week that surprise was the weapon of cowards?’
The Sontaran paused. Vastra could practically hear the wheels turning in his skull.
‘Tactics evolve,’ he said finally. ‘The warrior who stops learning is as good as dead!’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Jenny said. ‘Did you get everything on the list?’
‘The raid was successful!’ Strax placed the stack of boxes on the table and triumphantly waved a sheaf of papers. ‘Resistance was utterly futile. I left a veritable bloodbath in my wake.’
Jenny cleared her throat.
‘And by that,’ Strax muttered, ‘I mean I paid for the goods and services I required in the manner of a functional member of society.’
‘Very good,’ Jenny said. ‘And what’s –’
‘Did you get the correct herbs for the goose?’ Vastra interjected.
‘Yes, madame.’
‘And the breadcrumbs for the stuffing?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘What about the wine?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘Because I specified an 1858, and if you or the vintner has supplied an inferior year I will –’
‘My love?’
Vastra lowered her voice. ‘I would just like things to be perfect. We have a plan.’
Jenny gave the kind of nod one might give someone who is a hair away from agreeing to release hostages. ‘And it will be, my love. Don’t fret.’
Vastra looked away, then frowned. ‘Strax, what’s that box up there on the top?’
‘Ah,’ Strax said. ‘I visited the feeble human constabulary on the way home.’
‘The bobbies, you mean. The police,’ Jenny said.
Strax shrugged his meaty shoulders. The effort to re-educate the Sontaran was … ongoing. As far as Vastra was aware, the closest Strax’s culture came to Christmas was the ceremony in which they were given their first grenade. Not murdering shopkeepers was actually a sign of great progress.
‘A pickpocket was nearly apprehended in Spitalfields Market this morning. The constable failed. Pathetic. Only managed to drag off the ruffian’s coat.’ He scowled. ‘His superiors weren’t even going to execute him for his failure!’
Horror entirely failed to appear on Vastra’s face.
Strax sighed. ‘Well, the commissioner had the coat put aside for you. Not as a case. There isn’t one, really. But as a –’ his face screwed up – ‘mental exercise. Which I, of course, told him was a waste of time and the recourse of useless intellectuals …’
Strax disappeared into the kitchen, still muttering, and Vastra lifted the coat. The commissioner was fond of such things – little cases and curios, oddities and wonders. Sometimes she wondered whether he thought he was testing her. That was amusing. The hunters under which Vastra had learned her arts made Scotland Yard look like a nest of hatchlings. Armed with only her senses and a blade, she had hunted criminals at a time when the world was younger and more violent than these greyly civilised times. Any measure that could be taken of her had been taken a long time ago.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.’
Jenny’s eyebrows rose.
‘What?’ Vastra said. ‘It’s Christmas. It’s the holidays. And I do not wish for anything to intrude upon our time together.’
Now it was Jenny’s turn to frown. ‘That’s not like you.’
Vastra looked stung. ‘Not letting things interfere?’
‘No,’ Jenny said. ‘You just like a challenge, that’s all.’
The coat didn’t look like a challenge. It was just a ratty old grey topcoat. One sleeve was matted with dirt as if its owner had fallen often, and badly. There was a frayed hole in one shoulder. Moth-eaten, Vastra supposed. She’d rarely seen a garment so desperately unloved.
‘Besides,’ Jenny said coyly, ‘I like watching you at work.’
Some cold little knot in Vastra’s stomach eased. It felt like a long time since her wife had smiled at her like that.
‘A man,’ Vastra said. ‘Obviously. Previously wealthy, but now fallen on hard times. This coat was in high fashion ten years ago. If its wearer was still wealthy, he would have replaced it.’
Jenny sniffed. ‘That’s easy. Come on now, my love. Impress me.’
Vastra knew she was being baited. That didn’t make it any easier to resist.
‘He’s stopped treating his skin condition,’ she said airily. That made Jenny sit up straighter. ‘There’s strawberry oil staining his collar, but the stains are at least a year old. Can’t afford it any more. Sudden weight loss, too. You can see it from the wear on the buttons. An illness, perhaps.’
‘Madame Vastra?’
Strax had poked his head round the door frame.
‘Yes, Strax?’
‘Can I offer a theory?’
This was unexpected. ‘If it’s about shooting the butcher,’ Vastra answered. ‘Then no. I do not think it will “put fear into all the others, therefore improving our chance at successful commerce”.’
‘A theory on the coat, Madame Vastra.’
Vastra waved a hand for him to continue.
Strax gave the coat a long and serious look. Not for the first time, Vastra had the disturbing thought that the Sontaran’s cheery brutality might only be a cover for a very sharp mind.
‘I think that the coat’s owner might be all those things you mentioned, madame. But the person who was wearing it during the scuffle at Spitalfields is probably a fifteen-year-old human child. A beggar, about five feet tall, with red hair and an impressive knowledge of local sailing curses.’
There was a long silence.
‘Strax,’ Vastra said. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I just caught her trying to climb in the kitchen window, madame. Hit her with a frying pan.’
He looked at their shocked faces.
‘Would you like to question her?’
‘Want my coat.’
The girl was fifteen years old, as Strax had said, and unkindly constructed, it seemed, from string and sinew and straw. Every detail of her looked to be battling with itself – from her broad face to her long, gawky limbs, her hair a shock of angry ginger flattened where Strax had introduced her to the frying pan.
It hadn’t seemed to slow her down any. When she had regained consciousness, she had immediately started flailing at Strax like a trapped daddy-long-legs but without, Vastra had noted, screaming or panicking. Panic would not have been an undeserved reaction to being treated by a Sontaran nurse, but instead there had been an eerie calm on her freckled face as she struggled. As if she had already decided nobody would come at the sound of her screams.
The look of someone who knows they have to save themselves, Vastra had thought.
Now, the girl sat in the centre of the table, fists cocked as if ready to give them all a bloody nose.
‘I said,’ she repeated in a thick Irish accent, ‘I want my coat. Are ye deaf, as well as being …’ she trailed off, scowling, ‘whatever ye are?’
‘I’m a nurse,’ Strax said, his tone offended. ‘And you are a patient. A patient with a mild concussion, by my estimation.’
‘A concussion you gave me.’
‘Well, that’s neither here nor there –’
>
‘Please stop,’ Vastra said mildly.
She had donned the veil that allowed her passage through human society and now appeared to be no more than another British high-born. The girl glared at her. Vastra knew that look. It was the look of someone who had decided to prioritise escape over explanation.
‘Why were you breaking into our home?’ Vastra asked her.
‘You’ve got me coat,’ the girl snapped. ‘I saw the bobby pick it up, and I waited outside the police station until I saw this … gremlin bring it back here. It’s mine. You’re thieving from me.’
‘Well,’ Vastra said, ‘that must be a novel turnaround. And is it your coat?’
‘I were wearing it, weren’t I?’ the girl said coldly.
‘Then you are more than welcome to it,’ Vastra said.
Strax and Jenny turned to her in surprise, but Vastra had already tossed the girl the battered old topcoat. The urchin couldn’t help but flash a toothy grin as she snatched it out of the air, but the grin soon disappeared as she ran her fingers under the collar.
‘Is there a problem?’ Vastra asked.
‘I … well …’
‘It’s your coat, you said,’ Vastra said. ‘And now you have it back. Unless …’
The girl scowled.
‘Unless what?’ Jenny asked.
‘Unless she’s just checked the thief’s pocket in the collar and realised there’s something missing. Something the bobbies didn’t find.’
Vastra held up her hand. A gleaming ruby pendant slithered out from between her fingers, bouncing on a thin golden chain. The stones had the heat and hue of a Jurassic sunrise, red as freshly spilled blood.
Inside the largest of the rubies was a shadow, long and slim, trapped like a fly in amber.
‘Give it to me!’ the teenager demanded.
‘Do you know what this is?’ Vastra asked.
Her tone was still calm, her face without expression, though as soon as she’d found the pendant her mind and heart had started racing, thoughts swirling like the snow outside. That thing. Here. How is it possible? All she had wanted was a perfect Christmas. That’s all. A Christmas to replace the one that had gone bef–