ECHOES – PART 2

She needed Mr. Smith – of that much Sarah Jane was painfully aware. The emerald fire baited her, drawing the journalist toward it. With an unrequited burst of fury, Sarah Jane tore her gaze away, chastising herself for the threat of weakness.

"Mistress." The voice was low, as though the robotic dog's battery were nearly depleted; except K-9 didn't run on 'batteries.'

Sarah Jane threw her faithful companion an agonised glance.

"Mistress... power source, strengthening."

A dull cackle trilled through the autumn air; the ex-investigative journalist did not need to turn her gaze upon the capsule to know the fire had reformed into its mocking, exposed tongue.

"Hold on, K-9; I'm going to get you away from here. I promise." Even as she spoke, Sarah Jane could hear the panic in her own voice.

Clearly the malevolent canister of 'alien' fire was having a most dire effect on her watch and, more importantly, her newly repaired canine companion. In other words – it was corrupting technology within its vicinity. A cold dread seeped into her bones at the poignancy of K-9's worlds. Strengthening. The fire; this malicious, inexplicable force was getting stronger and, she hardly dared consider, it seemed entirely probable that its 'area of corruption' would spread; out of the tree line... out of the park.

With uncharacteristic fear, Sarah Jane nudged a mound of earth with her foot, showering the canister.

A ridiculously stereotypical emerald light burned beneath, casting squibs of green through the breaks in loose soil.

She needed Mr. Smith, but clearly she couldn't permit this thing within her own walls. The supercomputer aside, her attic was rife with unpacked crates; remnants of alien tech.

Alien tech.

A flicker of doubtful hope ignited within her. The scanner watch, K-9, they were both 'alien.' She pulled a mobile telephone from her pocket; nothing about it seemed unusual. Battery, signal; both fine. She flipped it open, the usual image of the night sky greeted her, along with the familiar lack of messages, missed calls – heck, any attempted communication from the outside world.

Sarah Jane swallowed deeply, a begrudging grimace alighting her countenance. If the 'thing' couldn't be moved – and it obviously could not be left unguarded... She could see but one option.

Mr. Smith – sealed neatly within the wall of Sarah Jane's attic, had been monitoring a seemingly inoffensive military satellite. He wondered – to the extent of which artificial intelligence is capable – whether the satellite knew it was being observed by a small fleet of miniature spacecrafts... they were cloaked, rendered invisible to Earth's primitive technology... so probably not.

A telephone icon alit the supercomputer's monitor. He might have jumped – had he not been a super advanced artificial life form and therefore immune to such humanistic eccentricities... or sealed in a wall.

"Yes, Sarah Jane?"

"Mr. Smith?" The journalist's voice was strained, demonstrating a human emotion Mr. Smith had become quite familiar with; concern.

The line was bad, leading the supercomputer to replicate this emotion – he was too advanced for a bad connection. Something; something not of Earthly origin, was toying with his systems.

"Mr. Smith, I need you to do something for me." Sarah Jane's voice was, the supercomputer noted, more concerned than he had realised. Or, for that matter, before witnessed. Perhaps it would be pertinent to make the journalist aware of the apparent alien threat while the phone line was still open.

"Sarah Jane, I believe I should inform you–"

"Yes, yes, whatever. Mr. Smith, I need you to trace recent telephone calls to my landline." She paused, taking an audibly deep breath. "And find the number for a Joshua Townsend."

Mr. Smith might have sighed, had computers had the capacity. He would inform Sarah Jane of the alien threat upon his systems at a later date. "Accessing."

"When you have it, Mr. Smith, dial, and patch through to my mobile. Do. Not. Speak. To. Josh. Understand?"

"I understand, Sarah Jane."

She hung up. Mr. Smith, for whom the requested task took little more effort than it might take an example of the human species to wipe their nose, noticed, with computerised intrigue, that his systems were functioning normally.

"All systems are functioning normally." He declared, mechanised voice resounding through the empty attic.

There was no response. Perhaps, he mused, stating such victories aloud is only worthwhile in the presence of an organic life form.

What this meant, however, was that the alien predicament had attacked him through the telephone line. It was, whether she knew it or not, within Sarah Jane's vicinity.

Mr. Smith located the number for which he was searching, naturally, and dialled.

In the time it took for Mr. Smith to acquire the desired number, dial (but not answer, which seemed a direct contradiction of observed human etiquette) and transfer the open line to Sarah Jane's mobile; the increasingly impatient journalist had moved her car some distance from the site of the enigma. At least, she decided, her faithful robot companion should be safer away from the capsule.

Her mobile phone trilled as she walked back toward the offending, imprisoned fire.

Sarah Jane Smith did not consider herself a nervous individual: 'If there's one thing about me,' she recalled herself stating during a visit to Romania, 'I don't frighten easily.' Why, then, did the preset ringtone strike a note of fear into her heart?

"Hello?"

After what seemed an age, a familiar voice sighed with audible relief.

"SJ, Sarah, I didn't think you'd call."

Sarah Jane swallowed hard. Neither did I. "Well, I did."

"How are you?"

"Fine." The response was curt; his betrayal, his lies burned viciously in her stomach. At least, the journalist found herself lamenting, a robot dog and an alien supercomputer tell you the truth; even if they were a poor substitute for a human family.

The voice on the other end of the line sighed. This was, apparently, not the reunion he had imagined. "Look, Sarah, you must have some questions. Last time you saw me I... well, I–"

"Died?" She couldn't help herself. "Look, Josh, right now I have other things on my mind than your glorious resurrection!" Yes, she wanted answers, very much so. Still, one of the first rules of journalism was to never give the interviewee the illusion of power.

Josh made a sound as though he were about to respond, but she interjected. "Where are you, at the moment?"

"Erm, at home. Why?"

Sarah Jane rolled her eyes; missing the straightforward conversation typical of her mechanical companions.

"And where's home, exactly?"

"You know where I live."

She did; after all, the untidy, musty flat had once been a short lived place of refuge. The only place that she could hide out and wait for the surrender of amateur reporters, skulking in the bushes of her temporary abode. It wasn't far, at least. She threw a glance at her car, K-9 barely visible through the windshield. Hang on, she pleaded.

"Can you catch a taxi?" She didn't wait for a response. "I need you to come and meet me. I'll give you the address..."

Her Motorola snapped shut; the most uncomfortable telephone conversation of her life, complete. That was one thing she missed about Josh, Sarah mused; no matter the time of day, the weather, the reason, he was always there. Loyal.

"Except that he wasn't." She spoke, to nobody in particular.

He would be with her in under an hour. That still left far too much time for cogitation; too much time to stoke the anger brewing within her.

Sarah Jane Smith was successful in many respects. Her career, her financial situation; even her maintenance of the Doctor's legacy. Yet friends were few and far between. Business acquaintances had dissolved along with her reputation. And as for romance... Pfft. Josh had been a good friend when she needed one the most; nothing more, and nothing less. She had, more than once, jestingly referred to him as her 'guardian angel.'

Too late, the troubled journalist had learned that was exactly what he was. A guardian, assigned to her by a maniacal cult, convinced she was some sort of alien herald. There was considerable blood on his hands; and every drop had been spilled in her name.

Joshua Richard Townsend served as an unwelcome reminder of a particularly dark period in her life. She could hardly help but be nervous by his... reappearance.