Doctor Who_ Time Zero Part 2

'A big "if",' Culmanov cut in.

'I'm just saying that it may not be totally fanciful,' she said. 'That's all.' There was silence for a few moments, then Miriam asked: 'Just so I know what we're talking about, what is it exactly that we're trying to achieve here?'

Michaels laughed and slapped the table with the palm of his hand. 'You tell us there may be some value in the notion, but Naryshkin here hasn't even told you why we're interested? That's good that's very good.'

Miriam found she was smiling. But Naryshkin was totally serious as he turned to her. 'I am sorry. The nature of our work is confidential, as I explained. But now that you are here you will of course need to know. We are endeavouring to create a black hole.'

The next morning, Naryshkin showed her inside the Cold Room. Even wearing her parka over the thermal suit she was trembling. She was pleased to see that Naryshkin, Michaels and Culmanov were s.h.i.+vering too.

'We try not to spend too long in here,' Michaels a.s.sured her. 'Once everything's set up, we monitor from up there.' There was a wide window set into the side of the room and a gallery looked down into it.

'Good idea,' Miriam agreed as Naryshkin motioned for them to make their way to this observation area.

'The goal is to create an optic black hole,' he said as he closed the door behind them. Miriam could feel her face beginning to warm, burning her cheeks. 'And that means slowing light. To the point where we can suck it into a vortex.'

'Hence the centrifuges,' Miriam offered, as they looked down into the steel*lined room below.

Michaels nodded. 'Like a tornado sucks in matter, so the light can be sucked in. In theory.'

'And in practice?'

Michaels blew out a long misty breath. 'The best medium we've found so far to create the vortex looks like being a spinning bath of rubidium atoms. We keep them at about one hundred degrees centigrade.' He grinned. 'Which it least gives us something to warm our hands on when we're in there. But then we need to slow the light to a speed of about eight metres per second.'

'Which means,' Naryshkin said, 'that the vortex will have to spin at about three hundred metres per second.'

Miriam whistled. 'Tricky,' she said.

'Tricky,' agreed Michaels. 'But not impossible. We hope.'

It was only when Culmanov spoke that Miriam remembered he was there. He moved almost silently and kept in the background. She s.h.i.+vered again at the sound of his voice. 'Once we detect Hawking Radiation,' he said, 'then we know we have succeeded.'

It was as they left the Cold Room that Miriam saw the ghost.

The man was not especially tall, but well*built. He looked to be about thirty years old, wearing heavy furs, the hood pulled back. His ears stuck out slightly and his nose was a stumpy b.u.t.ton on his face. His hair was dark and brushed back, receding from his high forehead.

He pa.s.sed Miriam as she stepped out into the corridor, walking purposefully. She opened her mouth to greet him, but he swept past, seeming not to see her. She watched him, frowning at his rudeness, as he continued along the corridor. There was something strange about him something not quite right. He seemed faint and pale, as if the colour had been bleached from him... Insubstantial.

There was a door at the end of the corridor, studded steel. It was closed. Just before he reached it, the man paused and swung round suddenly. She thought perhaps he had realised his rudeness and was about to apologise, to acknowledge her. But his eyes were focused elsewhere, looking beyond her.

Miriam was vaguely aware of Naryshkin and the others emerging from the Cold Room behind her. But her attention was fixed on the man now as he turned again. As he set off once more down the corridor. As he ignored the heavy steel door in front of him. As he stepped right through it and faded from sight.

She flinched as Michaels put his hand on her shoulder. 'Are you OK?' he asked. 'You look like you just saw a ghost.'

And the others laughed. As if that was the funniest thing.

48: Walking with Beasts

A man stands. Out of time, out of place. In the shadow of a large*leafed tree he shades his eyes from the brilliance of the sun and watches the creatures on the plain. Just watching is unlikely to change the world.

The beasts are huge, bodies like fused armour made of reptilian scales. They rip the gra.s.s from the ground and the leaves from the trees. Nearby is a different type of animal even larger, with long, straight horns erupting from a bony head, a cruel beak, an upright orange crest behind the horns. There are several of them, moving slowly across the plain, perhaps in search of water.

In the clear blue sky, a large birdlike creature glides on leathery wings. Its head ends in a long jaw as it wheels and turns. And everywhere the sounds of animals on the move, calling to each other, sounding alarms and signalling to mates.

The man stands. Watching. He is about thirty years old, wearing heavy furs. The hood of his coat is pulled back. His hair is dark and brushed back, receding from his high forehead.

Behind the man, sheltering behind the trunk of the tree, furtive and nervous, is a small animal with dark, scaly skin and a long head. Its nostrils wrinkle as it tests the air. As it watches the man. A lizard, but with a ma.s.s of sharp teeth and an appet.i.te for flesh... It is intrigued, has never seen anything like this before. Something that stands on two legs not just as a quick balancing act to reach into the higher branches, but as a habit. Upright, standing.

Hesitantly, the small proto*reptile rears up on its own hind legs. Imitating. For a second it manages to balance, but its legs are not built to bear the weight. Not yet. It tries again, again it succeeds for a second. Then two.

It will keep trying. It will balance on its hind legs for a few seconds. Eventually for a minute or more. Because it watched the man watching the dinosaurs.

The man stands for a while longer. The light of the sun seems to flow through rather than round him. As if he were insubstantial, a dream. Eventually, as the sun reddens on the horizon, he turns and slowly walks away. Fading from the prehistoric scene. Like a ghost.

Its head swaying to and fro with interest, the little creature watches him go.

Just watching is unlikely to change the world.

47: Reunion

The tavern they had been to the previous evening was closed. There was no explanation. The door was locked, and a one*legged beggar croaked at them through cracked lips when they tried to open it. Fitz was half*inclined to give the old man some money, but George shook his head and led Fitz away.

They stamped through the chill night, the air as crisp as the light covering of snow beneath their feet.

'There'll be another hostelry nearby,' George said. His voice was m.u.f.fled by the heavy hood of his furs. 'Mark my words, there always is.'

'I didn't think you'd been to St Petersburg before,' Fitz said.

'I haven't. It's a universal truth.'

'Universal.' Fitz nodded, wondering if his friend had any concept of how wide that really was.

But already George was pointing along a narrow side street. 'There, that should suffice.'

Fitz glanced at the street name. It was a wonder George had noticed the place. Katerin Street, it seemed to be called, if he had deciphered the Cyrillic correctly. Usually he was hopeless at it.

The street was empty, but light spilled from the open doorway of the tavern and they could hear the sound of drinking and conversation echoing from inside. It was a crush. The place was long and narrow: with tables along its length. Everyone who should have been on the street seemed to be at the bar, Fitz reflected. It would take forever to get a drink. Longer to find a table.

'I think there's a back room,' George shouted in Fitz's ear, his voice barely audible above the din. 'They might serve us there. I can see a door.'

'So why isn't everyone in there?' Fitz asked as they forced their way through the throng of people.

'More expensive. You want service and a quiet booth, then that comes extra.' George was head down, pus.h.i.+ng.

Suddenly they emerged from the crowd and Fitz gulped in a breath of air. It was laced with tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes, but that was an improvement on the stifling smell of people who probably hadn't had a bath in months and were dressed in the remains of long*dead animals. Which wasn't far off his own situation, he thought wryly.

The door did indeed lead into a back room. It was smaller than the main bar, half a dozen tables pushed against the walls. But the seats were upholstered (though not recently), and the atmosphere was cleaner. All the tables were occupied.

A young woman, her cheeks red with cold, was carrying a tray over to a table where two men sat. One of them was leaning back in the chair, his eyes glazed. His companion was slumped forwards, head on his arms on the table. Sound asleep. The girl put the beakers of drinks down on the table, apparently not bothered that dark liquid slopped out of them as she did so. The man who was still awake or at least whose eyes were open turned slightly to stare gla.s.sily at her. She stared back, and after what seemed an age he reached fumbling into his coat pocket and slapped several coins down on the table in front of him.

'Over there,' George suggested, pointing to the farthest table. There was just one person sitting at it. Like most of the others, his head was down, but the way he tapped his long fingers on the table top suggested he was more alert than most. Fitz watched as the serving girl went over to the table. She paused, speaking quietly to the man, hiding him from Fitz's view as he followed George.

The girl moved away. George waved at the empty chairs beside the table to make the point as he asked, in loud English, 'Do you mind if we join you?'

But Fitz was standing immobile, mouth open. Time seemed to have slowed. The noise from the bar behind them faded away as the man at the table turned towards them.

'Not at all.' The man's English was perfect. 'Be my guests.'

He stood politely, indicating that they should sit down. 'I've taken the liberty of ordering drinks for you already. I hope that's all right, but I wasn't sure quite how long you would be.'

George was staring too, his expression a mirror of Fitz's own surprise.

'Something wrong?' the man asked, his genuine concern evident as they both continued to stare at him.

'No,' Fitz managed to say, his mouth dry and his mind in a fog. 'Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all, thank you.'

'Oh good,' the Doctor said, breaking into a wide grin. 'I'm glad there's nothing wrong. Sit down, both of you, and tell me the story so far.'

They were on to their third burning viscous beakerful by the time George and Fitz had finished telling the Doctor of their travels. Once he got over the surprise surprise, not shock, he a.s.sured himself of seeing the Doctor, Fitz was anxious to tell him all about their travels by boat and train.

George was more enthusiastic about the forthcoming journey into Siberia. Every now and again he would punctuate Fitz's narrative with comments of his own hopes of what they might find; dreams of dinosaur bones and fossils, of curious rock strata and pumice.

'Perhaps there really is a mammoth or whatever frozen there.'

'Ah,' the Doctor said, wagging his index finger, 'but how many tusks will it really have?'

George and Fitz both laughed, recalling the first time they had met. 'And what about you, Doctor?' George asked. 'What have you been up to in the months since we last met? How is Miss Kapoor?'

'Months?' The Doctor glanced at Fitz, his eyes dancing with reflected light. 'Funny, but it seems so much longer than that.'

But Fitz could see more than just amus.e.m.e.nt in those eyes. In the depths. He sipped at the strong drink and returned the Doctor's gaze. He looked older somehow, his face lined and drawn now that Fitz examined it. And his hair was all over the place even more all over the place than usual. The Doctor's jacket was grimy. As he reached for his own beaker, Fitz could see that the st.i.tching at the shoulder had been torn away so that the sleeve was no longer attached to the rest of the coat.

'Been keeping busy?' Fitz asked, keeping his tone light for George, but giving the Doctor what he hoped was meaningful and steely look.

'You know how things are.' He drained the beaker in a single swallow, and Fitz grimaced at the thought of doing the same. 'I wonder, George...' The Doctor was looking into his empty beaker.

'Yes, Doctor?'

'I don't see that young lady at the moment, but I could do with another.'

George looked from the Doctor to Fitz. 'Of course,' he said slowly. 'Allow me.' He stood up. 'I'm sure you two have things to catch up on. Please excuse me for a minute and I'll get more drinks.'

'Thank you,' the Doctor said quietly. So quietly that Fitz wondered if George heard, or was meant to. 'You're a good man, George.' He turned back to Fitz, leaning earnestly across the table. 'So, how are things really?' he asked. 'Are you having as much fun as you seem to be?'

Fitz shrugged. 'I hadn't really thought about it,' he confessed. He had been surprised by his own enthusiasm as he described their journey to date. 'But, yes yes I am.'

'Good. I'm very glad.'

'And we're only just beginning really,' Fitz went on. 'On to Vladivostok in a few days to join up with everyone else. There's some problem with Anderton, the guy supposed to be leading the expedition. But I gather that's being sorted.' He leaned forwards, eager. 'I was thinking I might keep a diary, you know some sort of journal.'

The Doctor's expression seemed to be frozen to his face.

Fitz shrugged. 'Just a thought. I found a small shop where this guy does leather*bound notebooks. I thought I might appoint myself the expedition's chronicler. Got to make myself useful somehow. Perhaps I'll promise to send it to the Tsar.'

The Doctor's face twitched, and he smiled. 'The Tsar?'

'Apparently we get to be seen off by the man himself at some ceremony. It's all to do with finis.h.i.+ng the Trans*Siberian Railway.' He frowned. 'Or starting it, I'm not really sure which.'

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. 'Which one will it be, I wonder?'

'Sorry?'

'Which Tsar.'

Fitz laughed. 'Forgetting your history, are you? It's Alexander III.'

The Doctor nodded, smiling. 'It is at the moment. But if you're not quick it'll be Nikolas II.'

'Oh.' Fitz looked round, checking they could not be overheard. 'I see.' He grinned as a thought occurred to him. 'Perhaps I can earn brownie points by warning him not to make any plans after 1917.'

The Doctor's smile froze on his face. 'Don't you dare,' he said. His voice was hard*edged and his eyes flashed.

Fitz was taken aback. 'Just a joke,' he protested. 'I wouldn't '

'Well don't.' The Doctor's expression relaxed, but his tone was still grave. 'However much you might want to change something, you can't. I thought you'd know that by now.'

'Yeah, yeah, I know,' Fitz told him, miming a yawn. 'History is immutable. Whatever will happen has happened, and all that. You can never change it. You have mentioned that, actually.'

'I have?' he seemed surprised.

'Once or twice, I believe.'