Smith

It was cold and snowing; fitting for the eve of the New Year and the end to the Christmas Holiday. Max, now going by his full name "Maxwell" strolled through the London streets toward home. He tipped his top hat to others as they passed, some greeting him by name. Having been a repair man in his own time, his skills with the more primitive technology of the day had earned him a fine reputation and a sizeable fortune. Coming to his house, he stepped inside, greeted by his proper and bosomy maid Celine.

"Evening, sir," she said taking his coat. "All is handled for the night. You have a meal sitting in the oven. That was a wonderful idea, letting the dying coals keep the food warm."

"Thank you, Celine," Max said, handing her his hat and gloves. "Where is Stewart?"

"In his room, same as always, sir," Celine said. "I left a plate for him outside his door. Don't know if he got it."

"I'll check," Max said. "The hour is late. You button yourself up and depart. I'll leave the dishes for you in the morning."

"Thank you sir," Celine said as she got her coat. "The way the weather's been these days. Lightning and all with no rain, sir, it's a bad omen it is."

Max cast a wary eye up the stairs. "I'm sure it's just Mother Nature ironing out the creases. Good night."

Celine gone, he headed up the stairs. At the top he looked down the hall toward the closed door at the end. On the floor was an empty plate. Behind the door, flashes of light shone through the cracks. Max sighed, his mind and heart filling with worry.

There was a knock at the door. Celine must have forgotten something. He hustled over. Opening it, expecting to see his fresh-faced maid. His shoulders dropped. "I've been expecting you. Please come in."

He turned and led his caller into his sitting room.

"How've you been?" the visitor asked.

"Well," Max said. He went to a mirrored table and poured a glass of brandy. "My future knowledge has made life here most bearable." He took a drink. "You've come for him then?"

"Yes."

Max spoke over his shoulder. "You knew didn't you? You always knew."

"Yes."

"Thank you," Max said.

"For?"

"Giving me the chance," Max said, "and for giving me the time with him." His hand traveled beneath the table, closing over the butt of a revolver. "Know that I understand your position. I really do."

"And I understand yours."

Max finished his drink and set the glass on the table. "All right then." He turned and fired the gun.

The Executor

The door to Stewart's room opened. Inside was a forest of glass tubes and beakers, gas burners, and a large magnet wrapped in wire; spinning and conducting a visible current between two metal balls. Wires led to a makeshift dish pointed outside an open window. The walls and ceiling were covered in the equation from the space station. In the heart of the room was a cluttered desk. Sitting in a chair facing the door was sixteen-year-old Stewart Dougherty.

He watched his visitor enter. The man wore the same outfit from before but had added a draping burgundy coat with bronze buttons and a deep hood. He drew back that hood, revealing his face. The pair locked gazes.

"Hello Stewart," greeted the Executor.

"Hello," Stewart replied; his voice soft with a budding manly baritone.

The Executor looked around the room. "It took longer than I thought."

"My father was very diligent in his efforts to keep me contained." He glanced at the door. "Did you kill him?"

The Executor's face was neutral. "Yes."

Stewart nodded. "I am sad. I had been meaning to tell him that I loved him for his sacrifices. I planned to do so at Christmas but got preoccupied. Do you suppose he knew?"

"I believe we reveal everything, even what is unsaid," the Executor replied.

"I had thought that the other one would come for me," Stewart said. "Is it because he could not kill me?"

The Executor shook his head. "It's because it would kill him if he did."

Stewart seemed to consider this, "Interesting." His hand flashed out. Draped around it was a metal framework with a crystal at the center of his palm. A current of electricity shot out; the sound as loud as a thunderclap.

The Executor

The door to the Dougherty house opened, a hooded figure exiting. The street was deserted. Nights in Victorian London were a dangerous time to be outside. The cold did not help either. The figure let out a shuddering sigh, his breath escaping in a foggy cloud. He looked down at his hand and the smoking maverick. Twirling it back into a cylinder, he tucked it into his coat.

The Executor took a step toward a black carriage pulled by ebony horses when he spotted a light at the end of the street. Pulling back his hood, he recognized the blue box. A door opened and the Doctor appeared, his face stern but resigned. The two Time Lords shared a look before the Doctor nodded and went back inside. His TARDIS' engines whirred to life as the Executor climbed inside his carriage. The horses pulled the carriage a few meters down the lane before they and the carriage disappeared leaving the street silent and devoid of life.

The

End