"Do we have to have this on?" He asks through a mouthful of toast. "It's so depressing, I can't stand it."
"Well, I can and I like to. My house, my radio, my rules. If you don't like it, go back to bed."
News is important. That's what I tell myself. The dour voice of the reader murmurs through the eggs spitting in the pan, through the earthy smell of the coffee. There's something about global warming on the news again. Before then, the election. And then, how the government plans to deal with another alien attack. Then terrorism in the middle east. Then...
The tuneless drawl of Shane MacGowan. A Fairy Tale Of New York. Really?
"Lewis!"
My boyfriend is smiling like a pleased idiot.
"Merry Christmas darling! Let there be peace and goodwill on earth."
Trying to appear angry, I make a dive for the radio, but Lewis moves first. Before I know quite what's going on, he's taken me by the hand, and we are waltzing around the apartment. Lewis sings in a deep tenor, and I can't help but begin to laugh. The magnetons lift their metallic heads, and Rust dives out of the way of our swaying feet, making it to the couch just in time, his metal organs chiming within him like a bell.
"There's twenty-four days still." I remind him, out of breath, cheeks hurting pleasantly.
"Oh come on Eliza, I waited all of November for you! Now it's non-stop until January."
"Dear God!"
He's so much better now; glowing, alive. I remember how skinny and pale he was when I first met him. How long has it been? Nearly ten years since we met. Seven since we came together, on and off. We're no longer in our twenties; no longer young. And yet Lewis has grown; his red hair long and tousled, a beard beginning on his chin, his face a mass of freckles and his hazel eyes bright. Three years since he moved in.
I reach up, kiss him on the lips, and then break away.
"Did we run out of tomatoes?"
"Yeah. On Tuesday actually." He sits back down. "Shouldn't the ones on the roof be ready? D'you want me to check?"
Maggie chimes and waddles over to the table, struggling onto the empty seat expectantly. I shake my head.
"No, I'll go. I need to check how many layers I'll need anyhow."
As we live on the top floor it would have been easy enough to shimmy up the fire escape. But the burn of cold metal rungs is hardly the best sensation to feel on a Thursday morning. Instead, I step out from the roof exit, to where the Dalek used to live. The wind lashes my face, clouding my breath. Below, in the park and the gardens, the leaves will be frosted and cars will need to heat up before they can run.
But Sec's garden, by a miracle of technology, is as green and fresh as on a summer day.
I push past the olive tree, the crates of tulip like plants with fiery petals still in full bloom, the herbs planted in their rows. And the tomatoes, crawling up their bamboo canes, are as red and as plum as the middle of summer.
Sec. Our strange neighbour and friend lived here for almost a year. It was a short time but one I won't forget. We planted the garden. The broken water tower was utilised as a rudimentary home, with little more than a suspended mattress for a bed and enough floor space for his black casing. It's been demolished now; taken down for scrap. I miss him. We both do. Someone to whom I owe my life wouldn't have seemed like a good friend. Especially the kind who was a former genocidal space warrior, but, hey. So it goes.
I pick up the secateurs from the bench, and cut myself three tomatoes. They go well with the eggs.
"But we're needed, ma'am! With all due respect, my department is essential to the functioning of this sector!"
"The taxpayer has decided against that, Miss Birchwood. You'll have closed down by the end of January."
"But what about Alice? Isn't there a place for her here anymore? She doesn't retire for another ten years."
"My god Eliza, I'm offering you a promotion! You're overqualified for the archives and you should have moved up years ago!"
We are in my boss's office. She has kept it warm and out the window the wintry square of parkland stretches away far below. Certificates and medals sit in their frames across the wall, and the filing cabinet is overflowing again. My boss, General Kathy Vice of the New York branch of U.N.I.T, is telling me to move to Washington. I, in turn, am trying to tell her why I don't want to.
She pushes out of her high back chair, walks around the desk to stand on my side.
"Listen; we're hitting hard times. It's been years since the last significant alien attack, and now the White House's priorities are here on earth. People are beginning to wonder why we're needed anymore. You're lucky I've been able to find you a position elsewhere. The pay will be better, and the work will be more...suitable for a woman of your level of expertise."
"Expertise? I read books and write reports! I'm no expert on extra-terrestrials."
General Vice's face darkens.
"Eliza Birchwood. The Dalek Girl. That's who we hired. And that's who Washington want to hire now."
"Look, I never liked that name."
"Well you owe it. It's stopped you from becoming redundant. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but honestly, if you don't take this opportunity, then you're going to have to look elsewhere."
I sit back, and my breath comes out in one long, shaggy blow.
I've been working here ever since two-thousand and nine. Ever since the earth was stolen and the sky afire with stars. It was my first paid job since the force, since I dropped out of Columbia University after only a year. Ever since...
Vice rests her hand on her desk. It has a glass top, and is kept meticulously clean. I imagine she hates it. The mismatched books on her shelf, the photos of friends and decorations that clutter the rest of the space seem to show a woman of organised chaos. The photos show a person who was once well built, athletic, but years at a desk job and too much stress have made her stout. A mannish haircut, badly dyed brunette, seems to be the only physical remnant of her life in the field.
"Eliza, they tell me what you did during the invasion. They said you were a hero. You killed the rogue prisoner Dalek Sec. Their top strategist. Do you know how many more could have died that day?"
I don't say anything.
"I couldn't sack you. I would never. And I think you need to retain some of that honour. If not for yourself, for me."
My eyes are stinging.
I stand up, my chair scrapes loudly on the tiles.
"Well, thank you. It's a lot to take in; that's all. I really do appreciate what you've done." I mean it.
Vice smiles, and for a moment she almost looks motherly.
"Just give it a think then. If it is time for you to move on, well..."
We shake hands, and then I'm in the elevator, taking a long trip to the ground floor.
It's a little past one, but it's been so grey to day that it could be a lot later.
I head out onto the plaza, towards the fountain. I pass the large wooden box that had been placed as an art installation. The air is stinging, bitter, but I feel numb enough anyway. Everything is changing. I sit on the marble edge, watching the pigeons gather at my feet. An elderly man, dressed a little too fancily for the bad weather, is perched at the opposite end. Apart from him and I, the city is in motion. Christmas shoppers hurry past, a young man carrying coffee, some teens giggling in thick woolen scarves.
For seven years I've had this job, working quietly among the books and records, identifying different species from historical accounts, writing the catalogue. I took the occasional trip out of the city to look at specimens, document them. Venezuela and the tepui was one of the most amazing things I had ever done. Well, pretty close to second.
And back in New York I loved my workspace; the rows and rows of shelves and drawers. The smell of books. I loved the banter with Alice my assistant, big boned and chatty Australian. Hearing about her twins was almost on a par with any alien battle saga.
All gone.
We'll have to move. Would Lewis want to leave New York? Do I want to leave? The guys in Washington are closer to the army, and honestly, that would leave a bad taste in my mouth. Vice was very clear about one thing; they were interested in the catalogue. Especially the part about weaponry.
I rest my head in my icy palms. I'm lucky. I know I am. But the idea of changes slices through me, makes me shaky.
"Dalek Girl? That's quite a title, takes a lot of bravery to earn one like that. I'd like to hear about it."
"What?"
I look up. The elderly man has walked over. He has a chalky complexion, his wild grey hair is pulled by the wind. His eyes sit under furrowed eyebrows, and hold a steely intensity.
How does he know what they call me? Perhaps he read it in a paper or journal.
I groan internally. This isn't the first time this has happened. People have sometimes claimed to recognise me in bars and cafes, and right now dealing with a fan is the last thing I need.
The gentleman sits down next to me, thankfully not too close. His accent is British, thickly scottish when he speaks.
"They say you fought well during the invasion."
"Do they?" I try to smile. It comes out weak. "I wouldn't have said fought. I just..."
I remember Sec then. His dark, heavy form, like a metal shadow. Reassuring. Bizarre.
The man smiles, a little tightly, and looks forward as if reminiscing. His jumper under a velvet jacket is full of holes.
"I knew Dalek Sec." He says.
I don't expect to hear that name. It throws me.
"You did? How?"
"Trust me; when you've been around as long as I have, you tend to meet a lot of people."
His words are deep, solemn. I raise an eyebrow.
Barely anybody new Sec. To the other Daleks, he was little more that a myth. Here; an urban myth.
"What happened?"
The old man smiles a bloodless smile.
"I battled him, naturally." He says. "Both during the time war, and on Doomsday. I helped him, too. Gracious, that was a long time ago; they all were."
He speaks like a veteran, but one of centuries. For a moment, just a moment, I begin to believe him.
"He was one of the worst of all of them, Dalek Sec. He was a merciless commander and a fierce leader. He was willing to break their taboos and protocol, and trust me, if a creature as single minded as a Dalek can break a rule and live; that's quite something. He died in 1930. Not too far from this spot."
I've heard all this before. The first time, it was from Sec himself, and the change, the deja vu, is as astounding as it is sickening.
"They thought he died." The man goes on. "But then, apparently you killed him during the invasion a few years back. You shot him through the eye stalk with a .39 when he attacked a lab in Midtown West. You saved all of them."
He speaks praise, but as he turns to look at me his eyes are stormy.
"He was a murderer." I reason. My mouth is dry. "If you did do all those things, you'd know that he murdered and mutilated hundreds of humans. They all are. What else could I have done?"
My words sound rehearsed, and my accuser must know it.
"You could have let him go. Because he was very close to becoming a decent creature."
The way he words this is very very close to being an observation, not an opinion. I stare at him long and hard.
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
The old man shrugs. Stands up as if he has pins and needles.
"Come with me and I'll show you."
I stay sitting, and watch as he crosses the plaza, heading for the blue wooden box. They must have installed it during the morning. I can't remember seeing it when I arrived at nine. He opens its double door and nods towards it.
He must be mad. How stupid does he think I am.
Perhaps it's my anger that makes me follow him over.
"You old creep. There's barely enough room for the two of us."
"If you say so. But I thought it was a bit nippy, that's all."
He disappears into the blue box. I look inside.
I quickly realise that I'm wrong.
There is enough room for two people inside the box. If not fifty. A hundred. An army.
It must be out of amazement that I stumble inside, gazing at the glowing core at the centre.
And when the doors close behind me, and I try and wrench them loose I realise what a proud fool I've been; stolen away like a gullible child.
The floor tips. Everything goes sideways.
And the man who calls himself the Doctor yells:
"For God's sakes; stop screaming and hold onto the rail!"
There's nothing more I can do than obey.