by Doctor Who
Nuclear Time
Apollo 23 by Justin Richards
Night of the Humans by David Llewel yn The Forgotten Army by Brian Minchin Nuclear Time by Oli Smith The King's Dragon by Una McCormack The Glamour Chase by Gary Russell
Nuclear Time
OLI SMITH
BOOKS
1 3 5 7 9 1 0 8 6 4 2
Published in 2010 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.
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Copyright © Oh Smith 2010
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For Emma,
without whom I wouldn't be a writer University of Michigan, 23 February 1973
The radio hissed static for a second, squealing as the dial searched for the right frequency. The garbled voice of an announcer suddenly faded to silence on the word 'Brothers', and Doctor Albert Gilroy spun the volume up to maximum.
In the dark lighting of the computer lab, silhouetted against the warm orange glow of the overhead projector, he thrust the sleeves of his lab coat up his arms and prepared his best air-guitar stance as the soft opening riff built in intensity and the high-hat skittered away underneath. The electric guitar solo squealed in and Albert began, vibrato-ing thin air with his left hand and nodding
7
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his head in a fashion that was completely wasted on his closely cropped blonde hair.
'Who's that lady?' the radio sang.
'Who's that lady?' Albert warbled an echo.
'Beautiful lady.'
The double fire doors to the lab slammed noisily open, and Albert scrambled into some semblance of a dignified stance as he spun around and pushed his glasses back up his nose.
One of the cleaners was shuffling backwards, bum first through the doors, dragging a floor polisher behind him. He turned at the sound of the radio and squinted to spot the scientist in the dimly lit room. The faintly blinking LEDs that spanned the computer banks of the lab did little to illuminate the old man, and it took Albert a second to recognise him as Sam, the part-time janitor who refused to retire.
Sam shuffled self-consciously as the awkward pause lingered. 'Uh, sorry to disturb you, Dr Gilroy.
Bit late to be workin', isn't it?'
'Yeah, I guess, but it takes four hours to boot up these babies in the morning, so I might as well take advantage of them while they're still hot.' He gestured to the technology around him, raising his voice over the music. 'Not much longer now, though. I'm expecting a breakthrough tonight.'
'Oh yeah? Something good?'
8
NUCLEAR TIME
Albert smiled wryly. 'Well, either I will have created something Earth-shatteringly incredible, or...'
He paused. 'Or I discover that I've been wasting my life for the past four years.'
Sam ran a chubby hand through his thinning hair.
'I see. Well, you let me know when that happens either way, an' I'll come back and do the floors.' He started shuffling back the way he had come. 'Have fun with the Isley Brothers.' He nodded to the radio.
'You a fan?'
'Nah, not for me, but my daughter likes 'em.
Anyway, see you later.' The double doors closed behind him with a soft thud.
Albert waited a few seconds before bunching his hands into fists and bicycling them around in time to the music once more. 'Gotta keep on keepin' on, if I don't, she'll do me wrong!' He resumed his singing.
'Oh, Dr Gilroy, I forgot to mention.'
Albert made a big show of looking for his pen, scattering his research papers onto the floor in the process, as Sam poked his head back around the door frame.
'I don't suppose you'd have heard if you've been in here all day.' The janitor paused. 'But the war's over.'
Albert sobered up for a second. 'Oh really?
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Wow.' He tugged at his tie. 'Who won?'
Chicago, Il inois, 23 February 1973
It had taken Major Geoffrey Redvers two helicopters, a plane, a taxi, three buses and four days to return to Chicago from his post in Saigon. He leaned against the greasy window pane of the route 57 bus, counting the blocks until he could see his house. Orange streetlamps rippled a hazy glow over the empty seats in front of him and he looked out at the grey mundanity of the shop fronts that slid lazily past. Still familiar after three years.
This was not a hero's welcome.
He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and rubbed his eyes, pulling his overcoat tighter over the freshly pressed and ironed uniform beneath. 'Waste of time that was,' he growled under his breath.
No one had been waiting for him at the airport. No one had been waiting for any of them. Geoff remembered standing forlornly on the tarmac for nearly an hour with his brown leather suitcase, just in case Margaret had been caught in traffic, before eventually making his way quietly to the taxi rank.
'Goodbye, Vietnam,' he'd muttered as the 10
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third taxi driver locked his doors and made a disrespectful gesture. A few minutes later he'd admitted defeat. He walked hurriedly back inside the lobby and bought a coat.
The sound of the bus bell broke Geoff's reverie, and he stumbled groggily to his feet, yanking his luggage off the shelf above his head. One hand on the suitcase and the other holding his coat together, he shuffled past the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk, turning his face into the warm evening drizzle. The hiss of the bus doors closing blended with the sound of its wheels in the puddles as it pulled away, splashing his polished shoes.
He swore and dropped his bag to inspect the damage. His fingers fumbled in the half-light, scratching the wet tarmac as he searched for the ends of his laces, but he was too tired. For nearly a minute he stood, doubled over on the sidewalk, screwing up his eyes to try and clear his vision, his hands swinging loosely over his shoes.
Then he crumpled. He clenched his fists hard and straightened up, kicking the suitcase with frustration as
he let out a yell of anger — years of pent-up rage, anguish and grief condensed into a short, brutal punch of sound.
Alight came on in the house across the street and he paused in embarrassment, quickly composing 11
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himself and wiping a hand across his face.
Calm.
He breathed deeply and gathered his coat together once more over his uniform. Slowly, he picked up the suitcase, tested the clasp to make sure that it hadn't snapped, and strode over to his front door, trying to look for all the world like his heart hadn't been broken.
Margaret opened it before he could knock and ushered him quickly inside, slamming the door behind him.
'Shoes off,' she said. 'And be quiet. Sally's in bed.
What did you wear that uniform for? You know what everybody thinks.'
Geoff leant against the grubby patterned wallpaper as he tugged his shoes over his damp socks and looked over to the darkened staircase at the end of the hallway. Sally had a window above her bedroom door, and so the landing light was turned off when she went to bed to help her sleep. He was supposed to have papered that over the last time he'd been on leave.
He turned his attention to the hallway, taking in all the familiar details: the sickly orange glow of the wall-mounted light fittings, the chips in the kitchen doorframe from where they had carried the dining table when they first moved in. He tried to replicate the feeling that he had felt so many 12
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times before, that this house was home, a haven, somewhere that he could keep his family safe and apart from the horrors of the world outside. But the familiar warmth didn't come, and he was left feeling hollow and empty.
From the corner of his eye he realised Margaret was still waiting for a response.
'I didn't know,' he replied simply. 'But I guess I do now.'
Margaret stopped fussing and stared at him. Her soft brown eyes were warm and homely, though Geoff's had long since lost their shine. She held out her arms and gathered him to her, hands spread across his back, still wet from the washing up.
'I'm sorry I didn't come,' she whispered. 'Yeah, me too,' he said.
She had to stand on tip-toe to kiss his forehead, deftly brushing her hazel hair away from her mouth as she leant in. 'Are you all right, honey? You're home now, it's over. We're together again.'
Geoff gazed at her with nothing but pain and turned away. 'No, Marge, I'm not all right. I'm not all right at all.'
University of Michigan, 24 February 1973
'It's not the memory capacity that's the issue; it's 13
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the accessing of that memory. I believe that the fold-loop set-up I've created here is at least able to approximate some sort of intelligence. Not in the sense that it can learn and evolve, but in the sense that it can use the information it already has in a manner that, to the person interacting with it, resembles intelligence. It can access the data to an appropriate depth dependent on the situation, and should have the ability to tailor the retrieval of that data and apply it to problems that are not directly related to the specific, um, category it has assigned to said... data.'
Albert snapped the Dictaphone off for a second. 'Too many datas,' he said to himself. He looked at the clock before hitting the record button once more.
'Time check, and it's four-oh-five on February the twenty-fourth, and I'm running the program now.'
The room lit up. Accompanied by a roar of fans as the computer banks struggled at full capacity to run the software that contradicted all their traditional programming. LEDs strobed across the walls, imbuing the lab with an atmosphere that was more disco than science.
Albert wasn't dancing. He tapped his pen feverishly against the side of his neck and stepped over to the amplifiers that stood beneath the overhead projector to flip them on. The 14
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accompanying pop made him screw up his face in discomfort but, before he could adjust the levels, something happened. Something that he hadn't expected to ever experience in his lifetime, something he had hoped and dreamed and prayed for, but that he had never truly believed nonetheless.
A voice came out of the speakers.
'Good... morning,' the synthesised though feminine voice grated softly.
Albert opened his mouth and closed it again. 'It's late,' she continued. 'Or is there an error in my clock?'
The second time Albert opened his mouth he managed to muster a faint squeak at the back of his throat. Unwilling to take his eyes from the speakers, he raised a hand slowly and scratched his fingers through the bristles of his unshaven cheek. Then he slapped himself.
'Um, yes yes no, you're right. Your clock is fine, absolutely fine,' he gabbled, darting forward then realising he had no good reason to do so. He had the strangest urge to shake the voice's hand but, with no tangible presence to engage with, he ended up flapping his arms about instead. 'Holy Lord,' he whispered.
'Who are you?'
'Me? Oh yes, of course, I'm Albert, I'm the one 15
DOCTOR WHO
who's been staying up late, the one who's been, you know, trying to bring you to life! And by life I mean...' he added hastily, waggling a pair of air-quotes with his hands, 'Life.'
'So you, Albert, are my creator? I will reassign the data to that category.'
Albert sniffed and realised he was crying. It worked! 'Reassigning data! Picking and choosing, categorising, making logical connections! This is it!
This is exactly it! You work!'
He raised his palms up against the projection on the wall and watched the hand-drawn flowcharts spread across the backs of his hands as they moved under the light — the key to artificial intelligence. He rested his forehead against the golden square and breathed deeply.
'You're alive.'
The LEDs around the room flared for a second then died down as the computer banks considered his words for a second before the voice came again. The inflection programme wasn't quite as effective as Albert had hoped, but the voice appeared to be choosing its words carefully in the sentence that followed.
'And I am?'
Albert spun around. He had nothing prepared to answer
that
most
fundamental
of
opening
questions. He scanned the room quickly: computer 16
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banks, desks, notes, paper, pens, the projector, the radio.
Nothing really jumped out as inspirational. The radio!
A slow smile spread across his face.
'You are...'
He paused. No, that wasn't right.
'Your name,' he said finally, his grin broadening, 'is Isley.'
17
Chapter
1
Colorado, 28 August 1981, 3.39 p.m.
Golden sands lifted themselves from the dusty ground and swirled into the air, catching the heavy light of the afternoon sun as they ballooned out from the soft, square indentation on the desert floor that was slowly imprinting itself onto reality. With a thunderous squeal and roar of engines, the hefty blue outline of the TARDIS forced itself into the world with all the subtlety of a locomotive. The cloud of dust had barely settled when the Doctor slammed open both double doors and slouched in the frame, observing the tableau in front of him.
'Colorado,' he said, scratching his nose and flipping his fringe from his deep-set eyes. Rory 19
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appeared in the doorway behind him and peered over his shoulder.
'Oh yeah?' he said. 'And how do you know that?'
The Doctor looked at him as if he were stupid. 'I can smell it.'
His companion smirked with disbelief. 'Right. You can smell where we are?'
'That's what I just said.'
Rory folded his arms. 'OK, so what can you taste?'
In response the Doctor fell to his haunches and scooped up a handful of dust. Then he stuck his tongue in it. He mull
ed the flavour over for a few seconds then stood up once more. 'August the twenty-eighth, 1981.' He glanced at the sky. 'And it's three o'clock in the afternoon.'
He shot the young man a smug look and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets before striding out into the sunlight.
Rory took the bait. 'All right,' he sighed. 'How did you do that?'
The Doctor spun around and flourished his hands like a magician. 'Magic!' he whispered theatrically, then turned back in the direction he'd been walking and sauntered away.
Rory felt a hand on his shoulder.
'Ignore him, he's just showing off,' said Amy.
20
NUCLEAR TIME
Rory reached his hand up to touch hers and turned to look at her. 'I wasn't impressed anyway,' he lied.
Holding Rory's hand tightly, Amy stepped past him out of the TARDIS and started after the retreating figure of the Doctor. 'Come on then, let's go and find out why we're here.'
Rory barely had time to pull the doors closed behind them before he was dragged off into the street.
The street?
For the first time since they had landed, Rory took a
proper
look
around.
The
TARDIS
had
materialised at one end of a small village. Homely timber houses marked neat grids between the dusty desert roads. Every garden had a white picket fence backed with deep green bushes and tightly trimmed lawns. Various polished automobiles were parked casually in the drives. Behind the housing, Rory could make out the wooden spire of a traditional American church and the outline of a few taller structures that were lost in the haze of the sun.
Amy came to a halt in front of a large wooden sign that was positioned opposite the TARDIS doors and Rory almost tripped over her. He craned his head up and squinted against the glare to read what had been painted, surprisingly roughly, on
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the whitewashed board.
Welcome to APPLETOWN.