by Mark Speed
“Well…” Kevin stumbled on, embarrassed by his incorrect assumption and condemnation of his employer. “Well, you didn’t exactly get out your fat capitalist wallet for him – them. For Tim. Did you? Not like them tax-dodging Cleaners.”
The Doctor chuckled. “I let them live there rent-free. No one else in the Pleasant universe wants them around. I mean, you can understand why – the toxicity – but it’s not their fault. Someone has to offer them asylum. Refuge. It’s so unjust to persecute people just for being who they are. Wouldn’t you say?”
Kevin looked at his feet. “Yes,” he said. “’Course it is. Sorry, Doc.” A tear rolled down Kevin’s half-Scottish, half-Afro-Caribbean cheek from one of his unnaturally blue eyes.
“A touch of PTSD, lad. Post-traumatic stress disorder. You’ve seen a lot in a few days, but you’re handling it well. But there’ll be a lot more to come before we see an end to this. Your heart’s in the right place, and you should thank your mother for that. Get yourself home. I have to go to the university and check in with Dolt.”
Thickett grimaced at his colleague Dr Camilla Peterson. She returned a faint smile and he grimaced again. A small but prominent area of his scalp had been shaved so that a wound to his head could be sutured and a white plaster stuck over it, as if to mark him out for his failure the previous day. A grandfather clock ticked next to the desk of C’s personal assistant. Such an expensive item should have been in C’s office, so it was clearly in his anteroom to let those waiting for a meeting know who controlled the amount of time they spent there. It ticked loudly and deeply.
“I don’t know what you’re smiling at, Miss Peterson,” hissed Thickett.
“I filed my report and made my verbal submission yesterday,” she said. “I’m sure C just wants to ask you a few questions to corroborate the day’s events. After all, he’s having to sign off on some awfully expensive repairs.”
“I could lose my job over this!”
“I hardly think so. You’re the head of MI16, and have been for… decades. Who would replace you?”
The harsh glare from behind Thickett’s glasses told her exactly whom he thought would succeed him.
There was a buzz from the PA’s desk.
“C will see you now,” she said. “Go right in.”
Peterson reached C’s door first and held it open for her colleague, who gave her a final scowl before entering.
C’s office had a river view of the Thames at Vauxhall, in the fortress-like building depicted in the James Bond movie Skyfall. Its nickname in intelligence services was far less flattering: Legoland. A few hundred yards upriver the sun glinted off the new American embassy building at Nine Elms. The tide was going out, and the current downriver was swift. A stout tug boat was taking advantage. She was pulling three barges of garbage slowly through the water but was whisked past at unnatural speed.
“Ah, Thicky,” said a fifty-something man, looking over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
Thickett gave something akin to a smile and stepped forward to reach his right hand over C’s desk. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Brown.”
“Sir Adrian,” corrected Peterson.
“Sir Adrian,” mumbled Thickett. “Sorry.”
Sir Adrian shook Thickett’s hand in a disinterested way and then brightened as he turned his attention to Peterson. “Doctor Peterson,” he said, shaking her hand warmly. “Good to see you again. I do hope you slept well? Can’t have been easy, what with yesterday’s events. Do please take a seat. Camilla, if I may?”
“Of course, Sir Adrian,” smiled Peterson, taking a seat.
“I spent the night in hospital,” said Thickett. “My head still hurts.”
“Yes. Proves just how resilient Doctor Peterson really is, doesn’t it? One of our highest flyers before she somehow transferred into… your department, Mr Thicky.”
“Thickett. It’s Thickett.”
“Oh, I do apologise. For goodness’ sake, sit down, man – you’re making the place look untidy.”
“Thank you, Sir Adrian.”
“I have to say I’d forgotten MI16 still existed,” said Sir Adrian. “If I even knew you existed before I forgot. God knows how you survived all the budget cuts.”
“We deliver value,” said Thickett. “We aspire to be a revenue-generating asset by managing the transfer of foreign technology to Britain.”
“You mean stealing secrets?”
“Well, the original remit was to debrief German scientists after the Second World War. Not stealing secrets.”
“Hmm. Nothing to be ashamed of; a large part of what the rest of us do is related to stealing secrets. My understanding is that, in the absence of any prisoners of war from technologically superior enemies, you want to take them from… aliens. Is that right?”
“Ultimately, yes. We could steal a march on the Russians, Chinese, Japanese and Americans if we got alien technology.”
“Quite. So, tell me, in the last – let’s give you a chance here – decade, what technological secrets have you managed to acquire for Her Majesty’s Government?”
“Well…”
“Yes?”
“My department got an insight into the Google algorithm.”
“Go on.”
“Which allowed us to rank our websites higher in the search results.”
“A country can’t make a living by selling generic Viagra, Mr Thickett. Anything else?”
“Yes… Yes. As a matter of fact, there is!” He glanced at his colleague. “We retrieved a specimen yesterday. The jawbone –”
“Mandible,” corrected Peterson.
“The mandible of one of the giant beetles that attacked us. It’s lightweight and has a razor-sharp edge that can cut through steel. Doctor Peterson has sent it to Imperial College for testing. Haven’t you?”
“We got a note back an hour ago saying that it was some kind of unstable hydrocarbon material,” said Peterson. “It’s of no scientific interest.”
“What?” gasped Thickett. “But I saw that thing cut through steel. You just swung it at a chair and it chopped it clean in half. That technology is worth billions, surely?”
Peterson shook her head. “Unstable. Just gunk by the time it got to the lab, apparently.”
Sir Adrian smiled, and picked up a document. “The reason I ask is that an initial estimate of yesterday’s damage is somewhat over ten million pounds. Then there’s the matter of injuries sustained by personnel. Physical, as well as psychological.”
Thickett made a straining noise in his throat. “But the potential pay-off is so much greater. Imagine being able to travel in time, Sir Adrian.”
“Yes, just imagine. I’d probably go back a couple of decades and advise my predecessor to disband your department, to save us your pay and pension liabilities.”
“The technology the Time Keepers have is, I believe, superior even to anything any other alien species has developed.”
“If they exist.”
“Ask Miss Peterson!” blurted Thickett.
“I did, at length,” said Sir Adrian. “She has a Ph.D. in Astrophysics. She assures me that time travel is impossible.”
“What about the Doctor? The Time Lords. I mean, Time Keepers. You look at the records. Look at the records going back to the Second World War. They were here! They were working with us – out in the open!”
“A few dusty old files,” said Sir Adrian. “A lot of stuff happens in wars. Myths build up. Who’d believe that Barnes Wallace would invent a bouncing bomb and that it would be such a success, for heaven’s sake? It sounds ludicrous in the cold light of day. Two hundred years from now, few will believe it and they’ll think any film footage is a hoax.”
“Well, how in God’s name do you explain what happened yesterday?”
“I was rather hoping you would, Mr Thickwit.”
“Thickett. But Miss – Doctor – Peterson said she gave you a report already.”
“Yes,
she did. You brought a London black cab into a high security bunker.”
“It was a Spectrel! A time-travel machine.”
“Of course, there are a few other incidents we have trouble explaining. These giant insects. The underground explosion in Essex.”
“Aliens!” exclaimed Thickett.
Sir Adrian put his spectacles down on his desk and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so glad that Doctor Peterson was able to put out the convincing stories she did about fracking. All of us in the intelligence services know there’s a lot more going on than the public should ever be aware of. Her quick thinking with a topical subject was the perfect cover story for the whole episode.”
“Doctor Who!” said Thickett suddenly.
“What?”
“Doctor Who! The TV series. It’s been the perfect cover for the Time L– Time Keepers for the last fifty years. Don’t you see? Doctor How uses that as his cover. No one’s going to believe something if it’s already in the public domain as fiction.”
Sir Adrian sighed. “Look, I grant you that there’s something going on here that we need to keep an eye on, Thickwit. Sorry, Thickett. None of us can reasonably explain how this chap Jackson’s leg looks like it was amputated and then reattached without any apparent loss of utility. However, what I don’t need is explosions. Nor do I need damage. Certainly not tens of millions of pounds’ worth. I don’t mind if you dent the odd car. And you can shoot these bugs if you see any more – though I think an insecticide spray might be a touch safer. But I want things kept under control.”
“I –”
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sir Adrian. Perfectly clear.”
“Excellent. I’m keeping Doctor Peterson with you. She has a level head and an excellent brain. Good day, Thickwit. Cheerio, Camilla.”
“Cheerio, Sir Adrian,” said Peterson.
“Thank you, Sir Adrian,” said Thickett. C’s attention was already on some paperwork. Doctor Peterson smiled and held the door open for her boss as they went back to the anteroom.
“You could have backed me up,” hissed Thickett as they exited C’s anteroom and headed for the elevator.
“I think you got a pretty easy ride,” said Peterson. “I prepped him yesterday.”
“You could have told him about the Time Keepers.”
“You really think he’d have believed us?”
“He might have believed you. And then you went and told him time travel’s impossible!”
“Well, it is in terms of our understanding of the universe, isn’t it? If I’d told C that time travel was possible, he’d either have asked for a demonstration, or called someone in the Royal Society for confirmation.”
“You could have made more of the positive ID we made on How from the photos we have on file.”
“Old photographs, Mr Thickett. They count for nothing. You heard the man.” They exited onto the busy Vauxhall Cross area. A double-decker bus roared past. “At least you still have your job. You should be grateful.”
She jogged across the road in a gap between cars, heading for the Tube station. Thickett followed her, but where drivers had shown his colleague courtesy, they showed him only rage. A chorus of horns marked his miraculous escape to the safety of the pavement.
“Let’s get this straight, Miss Peterson.”
“Doctor Peterson.”
“Let’s get this straight. I don’t care what C says, and I don’t care what you think about these Time Keepers.” He jabbed his chest. “I’m going to be the man who gets the secrets of their technology.”
“Well, good luck. You’ll need plenty of it.”
“I don’t care how well in you are with C – Sir Adrian – you’d better give me your full commitment or you’ll be sorting filing cabinets in the basement.”
Dr Peterson stopped at the ticket barrier in the Tube station and smiled at him. “There are no filing cabinets, Mr Thickett. It’s all been digitalised. I think you’ll find I’m fully committed to this project in ways you’ll never understand.”
Doctor How had opened the package lying on his desk and examined the black mandible. He’d recognised it immediately as belonging to one of the giant beetles which had left a trail of destruction in the Dagenham area before he and Kevin had destroyed the last of them the previous day. It was about eighteen inches long, with serrations on the cutting edge. It was lightweight but tough, and the end closest to the joint with the mouth had been burnt. He knew it could only have come from the assault on the secret service bunker. He was delighted to have something that he could at last run a few tests on.
His heart sank as he heard the familiar clump of Dolt’s footsteps coming down the corridor. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said, already feeling his blood pressure rise.
“Good morning, Doctor. How are you?” His Humpty-Dumpty-like supervisor entered the room and closed the door behind himself.
“Fine, all things considered, Dolt. Is this a social call?”
“You know we Dolts don’t make social calls, but you always ask me this question.”
“Yes,” said the Doctor. “What do you want?”
“The Galactic Council is concerned,” said Dolt.
“No change there.”
“You haven’t heard me out. They are concerned that these illegal aliens are still on the loose on planet Earth.”
“Join the club. They’ve not tried to kill anyone from the Galactic Council – just me and my cousin.”
“But you have no explanation. No identity. And yesterday’s job became very messy. You risked compromising our collective secrecy.” Dolt’s eyes finally rested on the giant mandible on How’s desk. As a species, Dolts were not known for their powers of observation. Or, rather they were known for their lack of observation – unless it was a minor mistake in a lengthy piece of paperwork, in which case there were none so expert. “What is this?”
“A piece of one of the beetles. The ones that tried to kill me, my assistant and one of my cousins – Where. The ones that were rather a big threat and that we wiped out, with no help from anyone else, or a word of thanks or congratulation either. But please don’t let that bother you.”
“This can’t fall into human hands.”
“What a good job I have sentient systems in place to prevent that from happening. It was submitted to the university and, as Head of Technology Transmission, it came to me first. An email went out automatically explaining that it was worthless.”
“It is priceless.”
The Doctor grasped it by the joint end and swung it. “Chops like a hot sword through butter. Lovely. I’d wager the cutting edge of this is from the height of Tsk’s last civilisation, only someone’s been able to bioengineer it. Nice work.”
“And you have no idea who?”
“My Spectrel is analysing a piece of metal my new assistant retrieved yesterday.”
“Ah, your new assistant, Kevin. Very rough around the edges, I hear.”
“He did very well. Analysis of his brain shows he could get a human Ph.D. The Cleaners offered him a job this morning, as it happens.” The Doctor regretted that last sentence as soon as it had left his lips.
“The Cleaners. That was another thing we needed to talk about. The Rindan consulate isn’t too happy to be picking up a cleaning bill for the deaths of their consul and his wife.
“Well, I’m not happy to be in the position of having to claim it. Nor am I happy at having had to arrange for a cleaning in the first place.”
“They’re saying that it’s your fault for having let the Plenscas grow their own polyps for holy week.”
“There would have been no end of a fuss if I’d followed procedure and not let them do it.”
“And that is the problem, Doctor How. You did not follow procedure.”
“It was a risk the Plenscas knew, and they took it.”
“You’re not making any friends. I suggest you drop the claim for expenses.”
“Certainly not.
If someone is stupid enough to be eaten by their own lunch, why should I foot the bill? They should be grateful I had some good Cleaners who could perform the correct death rites.”
“The Rindan consul pays you about the same each month in rent that you spent on expenses. It seems only fair.”
“Fair? Since when did fair come into it? You’re a bureaucrat rather than a diplomat. They didn’t follow procedure, so they got killed. There are scores – probably even hundreds – of such deaths amongst the Rindan diaspora each year. Tradition dictates that the relatives pay.”
“You broke procedure. Those are the rules. More importantly, I need to know what you are doing about the polyps that ate them. They are on the loose in human society.”
“I have beings on it,” said How. “I’m clearing up that part of their mess too. I’ve a good mind to send them a bill for that as well.”
“Your problem is that you never do yourself any favours, Doctor. You never take the easy route of compromise.”
“You mean appeasement,” said the Doctor. “You’re right. Compromise is an ugly word, Dolt. Once something has been compromised, it is no longer of any use. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get this analysed.”
“But I understand you have even lost your Spectrel, Doctor. This is why the Council are so concerned. A Time Keeper without his Spectrel… It is unheard of.”
“She’s not lost,” said the Doctor hotly. “I just don’t know quite where she is at the moment.”
“But –” protested Dolt.
“Lost is another ugly word. A ship is lost if it is sunk. A battle is only lost if you give up hope. I have never ‘lost’ anything, Dolt, and I don’t intend to start losing by making absurd compromises. I have work to do. Good day to you.” He rose from behind his desk, glaring at Dolt and compelling him to rise in tandem.
“I shall need regular reports, Doctor How. Detailed reports. And I can’t stop the Rindans taking this further, you know. They’re already making a bit of a fuss.”
Doctor How held the door open for Dolt, who stomped through on legs that had never made the adjustment to Earth’s lower gravity. He turned to face the Doctor.