by Doctor Who
A woman stepped into view on the other side of the glass panelling, the paisley-patterned picture of a perfect housewife who was joined on her right by a moustachioed, dungaree-wearing gardener, complete with tanned skin, sleek black hair and a chest that looked like it could house wildlife.
'Back!' Rory yelled.
But the front door was also blocked. Isley's dark shape blotted out the light that should have streamed through
the
frosted
windows,
and
a loud
hammering began as her fists beat out a deadly rhythm on the wood panelling outside.
Rory looked at Amy smugly. 'See, it was locked.'
But Amy was already pounding up the stairs to the floor above. She turned at the top of the landing to see Rory still dawdling in the hallway.
'What are you doing?' she yelled.
Rory looked up at her then dashed through the 102
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open door to the lounge. There was a crash that made Amy flinch; the sound of glass cascading to the kitchen floor as the sinister couple switched off their house-proud personas. In the confusion, she barely registered that the drumbeat on the front door had ceased.
Rory returned a moment later, struggling up the stairs towards the frightened girl and swaying under the weight of the bulky television set. He chipped its wood cladding on the banister as he clambered upwards.
'Find a bedroom with lots of furniture, we'll barricade ourselves in!' His voice was muffled by the large object.
'What's that for? Passing the time while they try to break in?' Amy was scared and confused.
'Just get in a room and get ready. I'm going to buy us some time.' He reached the last stair and turned just in time to see the housewife and her husband standing impassively at the foot of the staircase, heads tilted in unison, regarding the young man with a piercing gaze.
'There really is no point to all this fussing, young man.'
The woman placed a brown-slippered foot onto the first wooden step. 'You're only wasting your own time.'
She rested a hand on the banister and began to climb the stairs as if embarking on the most mundane of upstairs tidying.
Rory hefted the television over his head, 103
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stepping backwards in an attempt to keep his balance. He locked his arms and heaved the set in a wide arc that sent the heavy wooden box crashing down onto the surprised head of the android. The vacuum tube imploded, and Rory made a vain attempt to shield his face with his sleeve from the shards of glass and wood that streamed outwards from the figure as she was sent sprawling back towards her husband by the force of the blast. Some smaller splinters skipped through his fingers and Rory screwed up his face as a sharp cut slashed across his cheek, missing his eye by millimetres.
At the foot of the staircase, the woman clenched her fist and, unflinchingly, began beating at the wooden
frame
that
still
covered
her
face,
splintering it after only a few blows. The metal rivets and panelling tumbled to the floor in a pile of sawdust and scrap metal.
The woman turned her head once more to face the shocked pair who stood open-mouthed only a few metres above her. Amy gasped.
Where once had been the friendly face of a housewife, with permed hair and laughter lines, there was now nothing but a metal skull. The glass of the television screen had shredded the rubber skin completely, and sparking wires sprayed out from between the steel bones. One of her gel-
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eyeballs was still in its socket, and it swivelled slowly to meet Amy's horrified gaze.
Casually, the husband tossed the remains of the set back into the lounge and shoved his wife to one side as what was left of the woman's hand felt roughly about for the banister. But Amy was already being bundled into a nearby bedroom, Rory slamming the door shut behind them and leaping to grab the top of a nearby wardrobe as he did so. His feet lifted from the floor as he attempted to use the weight of his body to tip it over across the frame.
Amy spotted a desk in the far corner and began dragging it across, just as the wardrobe crashed into place. Rory moved over to help her heave it onto the top.
'This isn't going to hold them five minutes,' Amy panted.
'Well, I'm out of other ideas,' Rory responded. 'They don't seem to appreciate having their disguises destroyed though; maybe they'll take the time to devise an approach which doesn't involve them losing half their skin.'
He was interrupted by the steady clump of feet from the other side of the barricaded door as the husband's heavy gardening boots made their way across the landing.
'Then again...' Rory held up his hands. 'I'm 105
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probably wrong.'
There was the squeak of a door handle being turned and the pair froze, eyes fixed on the silver bar of metal. But it remained stationary.
'Next door.' Amy breathed.
She was right. There was a soft thud as the bedroom door to their left was closed again gently, then the footsteps resumed until they shuffled to a halt right in front of the terrified couple.
Another squeak, and this time the handle moved. It angled downwards slowly and there was a solid thump as the door encountered the wardrobe a second later. It rattled in frustration for a second, then the handle slipped slowly back into its original position.
Rory sighed as the footsteps began to retreat down the stairs once more. 'Then again...' He mimicked his previous gesture. 'I could be right after all.'
'Why do I always panic a little bit whenever you say things like that?' Amy's tone was chiding, but she wriggled under her fiancé’s arm and held him tightly.
'I hope you're not talking about those frozen pies we had in September,' Rory replied half-heartedly.
'Because if you are, it's your fault for throwing the packaging out before I had a chance to read the cooking instructions.' He paused. 'And 106
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you were only sick for a day - I had to take the week off work.'
Amy grunted in reply as her attention was diverted by Rory's arm, hung lazily over her shoulder. She grabbed it with both hands and examined it animatedly. 'Babes, you're bleeding!' she cried.
Rory looked down. 'Oh yeah,' he said, inspecting his arm as if seeing it for the first time. The striped sleeve of his shirt had been shredded by fragments of the television and beneath the tattered fabric his forearm was criss-crossed with gently weeping red scratches. 'I didn't notice that before.' He screwed up his face. 'It hurts like hell!' He winced as he gently drew the cuff away from his arm and licked his thumb in a half-hearted attempted to clean himself up.
Amy batted his faltering fingers away and took over. 'We haven't got time for you to play the squeamish nurse, Rory. Grit your teeth and imagine you're bandaging up any other patient - and do it quickly!'
Rory raised an open palm and made a face as if she were stupid. 'And what exactly am I supposed to tie it up with?'
In response, Amy grabbed a handful of his shirt up near his right shoulder and yanked hard, ripping off what was left of the sleeve in 107
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one smooth stroke. She pressed the improvised bandage into his hand. 'There, maybe now you'll stop considering grass stains to be a big issue.'
Rory slumped to the floor to tend to his wound as Amy slotted her head through a gap between the desk leg and the wardrobe to listen at the door. He grunted as he tugged the bandage tight and began winding it quickly around the bloodied area.
'Is that you?' Amy asked suddenly.
'Is what me?' Rory looked up.
'That smell.'
'What? No!' He paused. 'Wait, what kind of smell?'
Amy wrinkled her nose. 'It smells like...' She mulled the scent over for a second. 'Burning,' she decided finally.
Rory hoppe
d to his feet and strode over to her, quickly grabbing the edge of the wardrobe and tugging it away from the frame by the tiniest of fractions. A sinister grey curl seeped out from under the door.
He ran to the window. 'Blimey. They don't muck about, do they?'
Amy joined him. 'They've set fire to the house. The whole house!'
'Guess it's easier than trying to break in,' Rory muttered.
Spread out across the street in front of them 108
NUCLEAR TIME
was a sprawling group of villagers. Orange light flickering across their faces in a manner that reminded Amy of her first bonfire night.
She looked down into the front garden, and saw with little surprise that Isley and the house's occupants were looking up at her, petrol canisters swinging nonchalantly from their hands like so many watering cans. The metal head of the housewife spotted the pair's frightened faces as they looked down at her single eye from their attic room and, with one hand holding her husband's, she reached up another to wave a fond farewell. A few minutes later and all three of their heads were obscured by thick black smoke as it billowed out from the downstairs windows, heralding the red gobs of flame that hissed and crackled their way upwards across the dry wooden cladding of the building towards them.
109
Chapter
9
Washington DC, 28 February 1981
The inquiry hearing lasted six hours and thirty-seven minutes and Albert and Geoff sat quietly on the front bench as the independent tribunal heard the multitude of testimonies that were brought forward. Their faces displayed no emotion when the room was dimmed and the slides were projected onto the back wall of the courtroom. With each new photograph of each new body, they remained silent, staring impassively into the middle distance. Eventually the judge could bear it no longer and, following an impressive speech regarding the lack of respect for human life displayed by certain people in certain sectors
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of the military, she adjourned the hearing.
Albert hauled himself painfully out of his tight wooden seat, shaking the cramp from his legs, and Geoff patted a comforting hand on his shoulder as he stood to join him. Together, the pair walked resolutely from the courtroom, heads held high, their eyes refusing to meet the gaze of the crowd.
The ornately carved wooden doors slammed ominously behind them, breaking the silence and sparking a flurry of chatter from the courtroom inside.
An angry hubbub of dissatisfaction and protest - the tribunal wanted their heads.
Both men turned quickly down a side corridor that opened into a small, glass-walled courtyard at the centre
of
the
Halls
of
Justice
and
swore
simultaneously.
'Well that was a bit of a mess,' Geoff growled.
Albert snorted with derision. 'Yes, Geoff, yes it was a bit of a mess. A bit of a mess that we could have avoided if you hadn't pushed the project into a dry run without proper analysis of the combat programming.'
'Oh, what, so it's my fault they slashed the budget?' Geoff gestured to himself sarcastically. 'I'm sorry, I thought I could trust the man whose job it was to program the damned thing, the man who claimed it would work because he was so insanely brilliant.'
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Albert began pacing up and down the courtyard, the flagstones creating a circular path for him as he kicked at the bordering plants that hung limply out of their flowerbeds.
'It was programmed to destroy anyone who was aware that it was an android - that's what you wanted!
What's a few civilian casualties here and there, when your precious US military technology needs to be kept top secret?'
'Fifty corpses isn't a "few here and there", it's a massacre! God knows how they're going to square this with Cuba.'
'Oh yeah, and you'd know about that wouldn't you?
How many innocent civilians became collateral damage on your watch? Or is Vietnam different somehow?'
There was silence for a second, and Albert realised he'd gone too far. His fears were quickly confirmed as he found himself violently shoved backwards and pinned to the glass window that looked out onto the courtyard with the full force of the colonel's strength. The window cracked.
'Don't you dare bring up Vietnam.' Geoff was so filled with rage that his voice faded to a harsh whisper.
'You have no idea of the things I've seen, the things I had to do, the things that were done to me and my men. Sitting in your ivory tower with your pet projects - no wonder you've lost
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perspective. That is if you ever had any.'
It took all of Albert's strength to push the soldier off, and when he next spoke his anger matched the colonel's. 'Oh so that's how it is, is it? That's how you see me?'
Geoff was silent.
'And I suppose we're conveniently forgetting that it's your involvement in my work that's keeping you from an enforced retirement package, old soldier?
What are you, pushing 50? What exactly would you be without me? What exactly do you think you have left to offer the people in there?' He pointed back towards the courtroom, and Geoff found his hard stare unavoidable. 'I've been your virtual prisoner for three years. My existence wiped from the records, my every move monitored; the knowledge in my head a permanent green light for execution if I even think about talking to someone. Perspective is not something I have much access to.'
'You didn't seem that fussed when we were writing you a fat paycheque every month,' said Geoff.
'And what was I going to spend it on? My girlfriend? My wife? My kids? I virtually sleep in the workshop so a house was out of the question.'
'There
were
the
inter-departmental
singles
nights.'
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Albert laughed bitterly. 'Oh great, yeah thanks, that's fantastic, cheers, Dad. You might as well pick a girlfriend for me yourself. It's pathetic.'
'As pathetic as building your own girlfriend?'
The words hit Albert like a slap in the face, and he faltered for a minute before continuing. 'Isley is the only thing that is mine; her face, her body, her mind are the only aspects of my life that I have control over.
You've taken everything else from me, every single thing, and now we can't go back - there's no way out of this! You took my life away six years ago on that beach in California and burned it, and then this was my life. This was my life because you gave me nothing else, Geoff - nothing! And now even that's gone now.
You might as well have put a bullet through my brain and saved me the effort!' Tears were flying down Albert's cheeks now as he waved his hands about in anger and frustration, his shirt already soaked with sweat.
Geoff just stood there in silence and weathered the abuse until, finally, the scientist dropped to the ground, cradling his head in his hands and sobbing uncontrollably.
'I'm sorry,' was all Geoff could say. He slumped to his haunches and put his arms around Albert's heaving shoulders. 'We'll sort it out. I'll sort it out. I promise.'
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Albert slumped back and rested his head against the side wall, looking upwards into the bright rectangle of sky above his head, the evening sun dipping down below the roof arches. He breathed in slowly and exhaled deeply. His eyes were red and raw, but there was still a spark shining dimly amongst the tears.
'So...' Albert breathed again. 'What do we do now?'
Geoff straightened up once more and followed Albert's gaze upwards. He sighed. 'We've been ordered to go and oversee the clean-up operation.
They're getting rid of everything, destroying the evidence. Officially the last six years never existed.'
Albert wiped an eye with his palm. 'And how do they intend to do that?
We've got fifty operational models in the basement. They're virtually indestructible.'
'Ever heard of Appletown?' Geoff asked.
Albert shook his head. 'Where is it?'
'Colorado. It's an old nuclear testing site; they're giving us the go-ahead for one more nuke. Off the record, of course.'
The scientist cracked a haunted smile then, 'Ha, don't ever let me accuse you of not being thorough.'
He ran his fingers through his tousled hair, nowadays almost completely grey. 'But what
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about the Limited Test Ban treaty? It's not going to be easy covering up a mushroom cloud.'
'President Reagan's administration has decided the Cold War needs some hotting up - no more skulking and stockpiling, it's time to show that we won't be intimidated. The President feels this is a good enough justification to test the boundaries of what the USSR will put up with. We're asking for trouble, deliberately.'
Albert exhaled slowly. 'Jeez.'
Geoff smiled back. 'Jeez indeed.'
117
Chapter
10
Colorado, 28 August 1981, 3.28 p.m.
The desert had been swept clean across a quarter-mile radius from the edges of Appletown, and the Doctor was glad of his boots as he stepped over the border and into the rough wasteland. Here the rocks were bigger, the ground more uneven and the undisturbed sand held a darker hue than the recently overturned land that made up the foundation of the nuclear test site.
Out in the open, the scorching heat of the sun was heavy and oppressive and the deep blue sky hung dense and low. The Doctor had long since slung his jacket over his shoulder, but the itchy fabric against his back was still making him
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sweaty and uncomfortable. He unhooked a button on his shirt and shielded his brow to peer into the shimmering blur of the horizon. The ground rippled like water, but he was sure that the darker streaks of a building were beginning to appear in the golden haze.