by Dave Rudden
‘So,’ Horrinthal said, closing the door. ‘Why, can I ask, are you interrupting my Christmas Eve?’
‘We’ll ask the questions around here!’ Missy barked, slamming her hands down on the desk.
Horrinthal and Frond both stared at her.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that.’
‘Who is this woman?’ Horrinthal snapped. ‘I demand an explanation.’
‘I think an explanation would do us all some good,’ Frond said.
And he reached up to take a pistol from the wall, before pointing it squarely at the superintendent.
Missy laughed, clapping her hands. ‘Oh, well done, Frond!’
‘Frond,’ Horrinthal said leadenly. ‘Have you gone mad?’
‘I feel as though I have,’ Frond said. ‘From the moment that gentleman was stabbed on the station platform, I felt like I was in a dream. Or a story where none of the details quite fit together until you have the single piece that connects them all.’
‘Habitas,’ said the superintendent. ‘I don’t think you realise …’
Frond allowed himself a moment of improper enjoyment at the forced softness in his tone. Had you asked Frond before tonight, he might not have believed Horrinthal even knew his first name, so used was he to roaring Frond! like a general saddled with a first-day recruit. So many insults over the years. So many minor mortifications.
He jabbed the revolver at the superintendent, who abruptly went quiet.
‘I realise enough,’ Frond said, and then he aimed the gun at Missy’s head. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Oh,’ Missy said, and smiled a viper’s smile. ‘Plot twist.’
‘I am ashamed it took me this long,’ Frond said.
‘Yes, well,’ Missy said, ‘you are an astonishingly bad detective.’ She sat on Horrinthal’s desk, kicking her heels like a child waiting to be collected from school. ‘I thought I’d literally have to draw you a diagram.’
‘You killed those men,’ Frond said. ‘You killed people. Why?’
‘I’m bored,’ she said simply. ‘And the Doctor seems to get such a little kick out of picking up you people as pets, so I thought I’d do the same. If it makes you feel better, you kept my attention longer than the last crew.’
Horrinthal had gone puce. ‘Will somebody please explain what is going on!’
‘Oh, you are tiresome,’ Missy snapped, before her frosty smirk returned. ‘No wonder Frond despises you. He spilled out all his woes to me, and I thought I would give him a little Christmas miracle to solve. I tell you: we were lucky we witnessed a mugging, otherwise that little old lady was going to get it.’
‘A mugging,’ Frond said with dawning horror. ‘On the platform. That was all it was.’
Missy withdrew one of her long hairpins, and Frond tensed as he remembered the puncture wound in the first victim’s neck. ‘Oh, nobody writes detective series about muggings, dear Frond. So, I spiced it up a bit.’
‘But … but … the jewels,’ Frond said. ‘The thief we chased. The red glove, and the address. The barkeep who dived off the roof rather than deal with us. All of it.’
‘As I said, you kept my attention longer than the last crew.’ It wasn’t a viper’s smile, Frond was realising. Vipers had motives you could understand. Missy’s grin was … alien. ‘You’d think they would have been grateful, considering I lent my considerable experience to helping them steal the jewels, but then they betrayed me. Well – I betrayed them first, obviously, but it was a close thing.’ She tutted. ‘Poor Sidney at the Balelight probably thought he’d got off clean, but then you came along and I thought, why not kill two birds with one stone.’
‘You’re a monster,’ Frond said.
‘What I am, Habitas, is annoyed we didn’t even get beyond Act I.’ Missy rummaged in her bag. ‘I had a whole bunch of other clues I was going to fabricate. There was even a subplot about you turning out to be Horrinthal’s son. That was going to be really exciting –’
‘He’s not my son!’ Horrinthal said incredulously.
‘Give me fifteen minutes with your DNA,’ Missy said, ‘and there isn’t a doctor in this whole century who can prove otherwise.’ She sighed. ‘I’m bored, Frond. I told you that. I’m at a loose end. I’ve tried exploring. I’ve tried conquering. I cured a bunch of diseases, and then turned them back into diseases again. The last time my pulses got above two hundred was escaping from Skaro. I need someone to bounce off, and the person I like bouncing off most is currently enjoying quiet married bliss in an utterly boring corner of the universe. So I’m helping. Don’t you feel helped, Habitas Frond?’
‘Frond!’ Horrinthal snapped, with that parade-ground snarl that Frond had hated since the moment he’d first heard it. ‘Listen to me –’
‘Shut up,’ Frond heard himself say, then immediately flushed. ‘I mean, I …’
‘No, no,’ Missy whispered. ‘That’s exactly right. This doesn’t change anything, Frond. I can come up with some very convincing evidence for Horrinthal being the murderer, and you can be the one to take him in. Think of how impressed everyone will be. Think of how impressed Elizabeth and Ben will be. Isn’t that what you always wanted?’
Frond opened his mouth, then closed it again.
‘Frond, you idiot,’ Horrinthal said. ‘Tell me you’re not listening to –’
Slowly, very slowly, the gun swung round to point once more at the superintendent.
‘This is your Christmas miracle, Habitas Frond,’ Missy whispered. ‘All you have to do is take it.’
How much is one man supposed to take?
‘Frond, I order you to –’
In the confines of the office, the gun sounded very loud indeed.
‘Hmph,’ Missy said.
Frond dropped the gun in horror, as both he and Horrinthal stared at the wisp of smoke that rose from the hole in the wall.
‘Only you, Frond,’ the superintendent said, the relief in his voice mingling with contempt, ‘could be so incompetent as to miss at such a short –’
A hairpin materialised in his throat. Horrinthal gagged, fingers clamping round his neck, but the pin was sharp, and it had gone in deep. With a gargle, Superintendent Marcus Horrinthal fell backwards, taking a chair with him as he went.
‘He’s not wrong,’ Missy said, lowering her hand. ‘I however, am an excellent shot.’
‘Oh my God,’ Frond said. ‘You … you killed him.’
‘Well someone had to,’ she said. Her smile had disappeared, replaced by a very governess-like look of disappointment. ‘And now I find myself bored all over again.’
‘Wh-what do you mean bored?’ he stammered. He had tried to kill Horrinthal. What was wrong with him? How could he have been so stupid? ‘We have to fix this. We have to …’ He looked down at his commanding officer. There was really quite an appalling amount of blood, and the smell was even more forceful than before.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said suddenly. ‘It was you. I wouldn’t have …’
‘Yes, you would,’ she said. ‘You tried to. That’s the problem. I could offer the Doctor the moon and the stars and he’d turn them down if it’d hurt a single hair on someone’s head. That’s why I keep trying. That’s what makes it fun. You’re not supposed to just give in.’
Elizabeth. Ben.
‘What … what are you talking about? You said that we were going to –’
‘Oh, there’ll still be a crime scene,’ Missy said. ‘A really entertaining one at that. For the masses, at least.’
She reached up and withdrew another of her hairpins.
‘That’s the problem with substitutes. When I try to bounce off them –’ she came at him, laughing – ‘they break.’
11
A Day To Yourselves
The engines roared, and time roared back, washing over the hull of the TARDIS in waves of icy blue and burning gold. Reality unfolded for the spinning wooden box, funnelling it through a storm of seconds, then folding back int
o place as neat as wrapping paper.
The Doctor swept through the doors, wearing his best and fiercest grin.
‘Hello,’ he said grandly. ‘I’m the Doctor, and I’m here to save the world.’
‘That’s nice,’ said the receptionist. ‘And, tell me, do you have an appointment?’
The Doctor’s grin faltered, then he rallied, straightening the lapels of his black leather jacket. ‘Well, I’m a time traveller,’ he said jauntily. ‘I don’t really do appointments.’
That usually got a reaction. It was one of the Doctor’s favourite details about the universe outside Gallifrey, as well as one of the things he found most confusing. Time travel was, to Time Lords, about as exciting as the postal service. It was mostly cheap, mostly reliable, and everyone used it. Yes, sometimes it took an awfully long time to get to the desired destination, and sometimes things went spectacularly wrong but, all in all, it was just a thing that happened, and you were a bit weird if you talked about it too much, particularly at parties. Non-Gallifreyans, however, genuinely believed time travel was magic, while ignoring the far more impressive inventions of their own cultures. Such as, for example, a delivery system where one paid a pound to have a folded piece of paper inside another folded piece of paper taken from Bingley to Guam.
If the receptionist was impressed, he was doing a very good job of hiding it. His wrinkled face was set in the grimly pleasant expression common to all receptionists when dealing with the unwashed, appointment-less masses. This was another little detail the Doctor found interesting: whether you were dealing with a nine-foot-tall receptionist samurai on Hegetory Prime or the planet-sized Appointmentrix of the Wailing Twelve, there was a look. They all had it. He’d always meant to take a weekend to investigate why, but he’d presumably have to make an appointment to do so.
‘I’m afraid you need an appointment. We have a very packed morning here at Moveomax Holiday Cards,’ he said, checking the inlaid screen on his desk.
His name tag said WINSTON. Winston was not a nine-foot-tall receptionist samurai, disappointingly, but Moveomax Holiday Cards was apparently the kind of company that invested in their employees, and eight segmented metal arms branched from his shoulders, each one stamped with the Moveomax company logo.
‘Ah,’ the Doctor replied. ‘I understand. Except, wait. Because I don’t.’ He looked around. ‘Isn’t there some sort of … emergency you need help with?’
The receptionist followed his gaze around the waiting room. Moveomax Holiday Cards was at the forefront of the twenty-fourth century’s holographic personalised greeting-card industry. The Doctor knew this fact because it was emblazoned on the wall in migraine-bright letters. Below these letters was a small, hard couch, a coffee table with a framed selection of bestselling cards and a potted plant. Dracaena marginata, the Doctor guessed. Unfortunately, aside from the plant being a little underwatered, there was a distinct lack of emergency to be had.
‘I don’t think so,’ Winston said. ‘Sorry.’
The Doctor’s frown deepened. ‘Well, I don’t mean specifically in here.’ He tried once more to inject some jauntiness into his voice. ‘I don’t really do office emergencies. Generally, the emergencies I fix are a little more … global.’
Winston sniffed. ‘We trade on seventeen planets, you know.’
‘Oh no,’ the Doctor said hastily. ‘I didn’t mean to insult you.’
He was getting frustrated, and took a moment to remind himself that getting frustrated was good, actually. Frustration, he had decided, was something this version of the Doctor was going to feel a lot, because frustration meant he wasn’t winning. The Doctor had won a war recently; now he never wanted to win anything ever again.
He picked up the little flip calendar sitting on the receptionist’s desk. It was Moveomax-branded, and the picture of Santa on the front was animated, moving back and forth and waving at the Doctor. The Santa was Moveomax-branded too.
‘It’s the twenty-third of December, isn’t it?’ the Doctor said. ‘In the year 2321? And this is the planet Eirene? Galactic coordinates 51–2–89–14:02? Past the wobbly red star and that comet with all the yellow bits?’
‘This is Eirene, and that is the date,’ Winston confirmed. ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure about all the other words that you said.’
‘OK, good,’ the Doctor said. ‘Marvellous. Fantastic. It’s just … you’re really supposed to be getting invaded right now.’
The receptionist checked his screen again.
The Doctor waited patiently, or as patiently as the Doctor ever waited for anything. This meant that he fidgeted a lot, unfolded and refolded his arms several times, and absent-mindedly worked out Eirene’s axial tilt based on the position of the sun and how long it had been since Winston’s mechanical arms had been tuned up.
Winston’s fifth and sixth arms readjusted his glasses. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything under “invasion”.’
‘Really?’ the Doctor said. ‘It’s a Gnarlmind invasion, if that’s any good to you? Kind of like rats, but worse. Giant rats. In spaceships. Think it’s supposed to kick off around two?’
The receptionist thought for a moment. ‘Oh! Oh, yes. Large rat things. I remember now.’
‘Phew,’ the Doctor said, sagging with relief. ‘So, if you could just point me to –’
‘It’s all been sorted actually,’ Winston said. ‘Thank you very much, though.’
‘Sorted?’ the Doctor said. ‘What do you mean, “sorted”? It isn’t a printer jam.’ He caught himself. This frustration thing was taking a while to get used to. ‘Sorry. It’s just there’s supposed to be about forty-three million of them. I had this whole big speech prepared about how, in the face of a horde, it only takes one person to make a difference. Who sorted it?’
‘A man,’ Winston said. ‘He didn’t have an appointment, either.’ His eyes drifted across the Doctor’s battered leather jacket. ‘Though he was better dressed. He had a suit. Brightly coloured shoes. More …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Taller hair.’
The Doctor rubbed his scalp self-consciously. Some said regeneration was a lottery, but at least with lotteries you got to enter once a week and try your luck again.
‘He didn’t leave his name, unfortunately,’ Winston continued. ‘It was all a bit exciting. But he did have a box. A box just like yours, actually.’
He pointed at the TARDIS.
‘Oh,’ the Doctor said. ‘Oh. I see.’
‘Now that I think of it, he said someone might be dropping by.’ Winston laced four hands pensively under his chin. ‘And I believe he left you a …’
He turned to the shelf behind him, retrieving a blue pinstriped envelope with a single word scribbled on the front.
When he turned back round, the man and the box were gone.
Oh well, the Doctor thought, as the TARDIS plunged once more through the vortex of everything that was, will be or could be. Bound to happen sometime, right?
It was. It definitely was. The universe was large – really, truly, gigantically large – but it wasn’t so large that coincidences didn’t happen. He was always running into people from his past. And from his future, come to that. He’d even run into himself a few times, though that was usually only on special occasions. It was what happened when you had very specific interests – a bit like comic books, or Chibolg Mega-Stamps. There just weren’t that many people interested in the same thing, so you inevitably ended up crossing paths with one another.
It stood to reason that, eventually, another version of himself would accidentally poach his adventure.
‘Bound to happen,’ he said, out loud this time.
The words echoed around the control room. There was nobody else to hear them. The Doctor usually travelled with people. Travelling with people was half the fun. If Peri was here, or Jo, or Sarah Jane, they could have had a laugh about the stiff, confused look on Winston’s face. If the Brigadier was there, the Doctor could have had a laugh about it and the Brigadier cou
ld have scowled at him good-naturedly. Leela might have offered to stab Winston, and they could have had a jolly old laugh about that, too.
‘I’d even settle for Adric,’ the Doctor said glumly.
This was no good at all. It was nearly Christmas, or at least it had been on Eirene. The Doctor decided then and there that it would be Christmas for him too, because one benefit of living in a time machine was that you had Christmas pretty much on tap.
‘I’m going to save someone’s Christmas,’ he said jauntily, and that made him feel a little better. He needed to put things out of his head. Move on. Keep moving, as far as he could.
‘Bound to happen,’ he said again, and pulled a lever to take both him and the thought away.
Wind moaned through the Crystal Sphere of Zed Trief.
No one knew who had made the sphere, or set it spinning through the void. It was one of this sector’s great mysteries: where had the night-black sphere come from? Who had carved the mirror-smooth tunnels through its core?
To some cultures on neighbouring planets, the sphere was a bad omen, appearing at the end of every year like a miserable aunt. To others, it was a symbol of the universe’s fundamental impermanence, how even beings powerful enough to create such a sphere could be forgotten in time.
To the Cult of the Breaking Sunset, it was home.
Dark and mysterious rituals required dark and mysterious spaces, so the fanatical brotherhood had plumbed the depths of Zed Trief, turning its chambers into chapels, fortifying its surface, installing stolen weapon platforms. The sphere had been a bad omen. Now it was a fortress.
Or so the Doctor had heard, anyway. He neatly bypassed every single one of the cult’s security measures by materialising the TARDIS right in the middle of the sphere’s great central chamber. More specifically, he materialised it right on top of the Grand Hierophant’s black stone altar, knocking over some very ornate candleholders.
A thousand cultists paused mid-chant. The Hierophant, already a little top-heavy because of her crown, fell off her chair.