Doctor Who - Nuclear Time (2 page)

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

1 3 5 7 9 1 0 8 6 4 2

Published in 2010 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.

A Random House Group Company

Copyright © Oh Smith 2010

Oh Smith has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.

Executive producers: Steven Moffat, Piers Wenger and Beth Willis BBC, DOCTOR WHO and TARDIS (word marks, logos and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 846 07989 4

Mixed Sources

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Commissioning editor: Albert DePetrillo Series consultant: Justin Richards Project editor: Steve Tribe

Cover design: Lee Binding © Woodlands Books Ltd, 2010

Production: Rebecca Jones

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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

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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?'

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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
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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
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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
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