Chapter Eleven: TIME; HOW IT FLOWS.
"The consistency of Time is difficult to understand. It has elasticity. It can alter its shape. The extent of its malleability far beyond human comprehension, and the comprehension of many other intelligent life forms for that matter. We were not wrong. We never doubted our power. We knew the risks.
So it was a great misjudgment for me to pursue Dalek Caan.
The consequences could have been so much worse. I was extremely fortunate. I kept my sanity. But not my form.
The winter of 1933 had been bitterly cold. Life on Earth was difficult. Three years had passed since he had left. Since we had failed in our cause. And before I had enough power to attempt the journey.
I had always been superior to my foe, or so I had believed. Where he was credited for his perseverance I was for my intelligence. I believe that he is dead. He had failed. He must have. I was nearly killed following his path. It would be impossible for him to have survived.
Through these means, however, I am able to articulate the nature of time. See, while it is believed to be continuous, as I have stated, it should in reality be viewed with a different perspective. Time appears to have a conscience. That is, it lives. It can approve or disapprove, its effects vary and can be cheated. We would have regarded such traits as irrelevant. It's not in our nature to regard such things.
When attempting time travel, a vessel is usually required. When I had attempted it in 1933, my means had been my original Casing. Due to anatomical reasons, which are obvious, it was no longer practical for me to travel within this devise. So I attempted a temporal shift while fully exposed to the vortex.
It failed. By the time I had realized what it was that my former comrade had attempted to do, it was too late. I was thrown off the barrier and propelled to appear back on Earth. Fifty one years after the date I had departed.
Travelling exposed left its mark.
On entering, I was in my Evolutionary form.
But Time remembered a broken small, mollusk-like creature that lived inside a metal shell. My original form.
When I struck reality in 1984, I was halfway between the two.
I am not an isolated case. Time Lords have experienced similar changes. They appeared part way between child and elder; a most unsettling life form to behold.
I predict, with open access to the Void, however, the affects can be reversed. But I would not attempt this. The consequences will be severe."
(Dalek Sec, speaking to Doctor Denise Ullswater January 18 2008. Recorded and transcribed by Fredrick Heinkel.)
When I wake up, the first thing I hear is the humming sound of some dull newsreader on my radio clock. Then; this is followed by the hammy voice of Winters, saying something about Anglo-British relations. I hate the news; bores me to tears. But still, I think it's the wisest thing to know what's going on in the world. And besides; hearing about the Valiant is something.
Milky, hazy light flows in though the window. It's the light of a red sky over noisy streets and steaming vents, the sky over wet streets where the traffic is beginning to jump and to wake up, and the trash collectors shout out to one another and where drunks wake up in doorways and so many take the walk of shame down these wet hazy streets, between brick and concrete and drain covers and wires that lead to nowhere, and where the trash is stirred by hot air and flaps in the breeze.
It's the red sky I should be rising for. Damn. I've only been asleep two hours. And my neck stings. It burns, hurts like hell. I raise a hand, feel the dressing. Then I notice the desk pushed up against the door, minus the lamp, the old tape deck and the laptop, and think that's a weird place to put the desk.
Then I remember.
I have a green alien with tentacles curled up asleep on my couch. A thrill of fear, then the stomach sickness of worry, and a little of exhilaration zings through me.
Sec; that was his name wasn't it.
I push off the bed; I had crashed on top of the covers without tucking in, and cross to the door. I don't even remember moving the desk I was so tired. But now I'm not. No way.
Questions, all of them from two hours ago zip through my mind. This is my chance. The nostalgia, the discussions me and Malcolm used to have, about space, and aliens. This alien.
But God, it's all so real now.
What planet did you come from? How long have you been living in New York? Are there any more of you? How are you connected with that Robot? Are you actually a Dude, or do you just look like one?
More practical ones.
What were you doing in the docks? What the hell even is a Slyther, really? Do you own it? Where did it come from? Was it always here (because Sweet Jesus I have never seen anyone torn up as bad as that body last night)? Did it follow you here? Did you have a licence for those firearms? Have you ever actually killed anyone?
The last question is the one that, to be honest, I'm most worried about.
The desk proves more awkward to move than I'd anticipated. If my flat's tiny, then my room is mostly dominated by the bed and the closet. My muscles and bruises moan and complain as I try to shuffle it back, one side out at a time. It bashes into my shins. I stub my toe and swear really loudly. It scrapes on the carpet. But I manage.
The door creaks too loud as I pull it open. I hope it doesn't get grouchy if woken.
The tiny room is bathed in the same dull dawn light, and the first thing I notice is that the blinds been pulled up. I hesitate, shocked.
The Dalek sits curled on the window sill, the curves of his brain a dark shadow against the opposite building. I think he turns a little as the planks squeak, his tentacles flow from his body and hang down to the floor, curling like long tails. They aren't like a squids; each one is segmented like an earthworm, and has that greenish tinge. He looks like he's thinking.
How did he get there? He didn't seem particularly agile. He must have been up ages ago. Gazing out on the waking city. I'm not really sure I want to know why.
It's still pretty dark in here, but I leave the switch.
"You're up then." I remark, smile.
Then, thinking of nothing better to do, or less awkward, I sidle over to the counter, searching for the coffee pot. My house guest hears me clatter. I see him pull himself round, leaving a trail on the white paint. I flinch. That wizened face, with the single eye focuses on me. It's not unbearable to behold, but its gaze is sharp, focusing like a target. He narrows his lids.
Bemused, I glance at the steel pot in my hand. I try and pretend it's a normal person.
"Erm...do you want any? Coffee; I mean."
Sec doesn't look impressed. I should have grabbed my phone. But I think I left it to charge.
"Do you...are you going to do that cell phone chat...thingy again?" I suggest, hopeful.
I look at my hands, realise I've used the gravy browning rather than the Nescafe. Yeah. So what? I'm kind of distracted.
The creature blinks slowly, and I can almost feel the sardonicism coming off him in waves. I'm impressed it manages to look sardonic; how does it do it? It's the same look my history teacher, my brother and on several occasions Melanie kept on giving me.
Then, he raises a tentacle, curving it upwards like an arm, taps on the window three times. Thunk thunk thunk. He wants my attention. There something in the street he wants me to see.
I place the pot on the side.
"What is it?"
I come over, and he turns, quickly, dogged, so I will follow his gaze.
And there it is.
Parked on the sidewalk, like a station wagon. A cab, waiting to pick him up. So very out of place on the grey paving tiles, jet black and geometric. It's eyestalk points straight at us, the blue light glowing up at the window. His casing's come to pick him up.
I glance down at the actual Dalek, the occupant of the casing, and he returns it. Small and squid like. A mollusc. Something that lives in a shell.
And I feel a strange, draining disappointment.
"Oh."
He looks me up and down, that eye zipping about.
"So, you want out then? Well, I guess I'd be a bit of a freak, if I didn't mind you staying."
He gurgles. Almost as if he takes offence.
More implications. He can lift his shrunken body a metre, but he probably won't manage the stairs.
"You want me to carry you?" I don't hide my disgust.
He inclines a little. A tiny, octopodic nod.
I shrug. But I don't want to do it. It would be like helping an incontinent old man. Not meaning to sound cruel. I'll guarantee you know the feeling though.
I remember his clothes. Yes. I stoop, scooping them into my arms. They reek, not just of his stench. But of gunpowder too, the damp from the rain. And Slyther. All rather un-delicious.
I had to lie, taking him here. One of the cops by the body drove me home. I told him the bundle was my coat, which was believable when I held it long ways.
"Some pretty powerful perfume you got on there, sweetheart." He remarked, his voice an accented mumble. Thankfully he was watching the lights when the bundle twitched. The smell, he must have presumed, came from my slimy attacker. Likewise, no-one knew there were two.
There's a black anorak, a pair of office pants, and a light cotton shirt, white and unfortunately stained. Size forty. They look, understandably, mismatched. Pre-owned, like they've been borrowed. By the quality of the shirt I know it's relatively new. And still soaking wet. Also, a pair of heavy black boots, also un-creased and new. Crusted up with dried mucus.
I unlock the door, and suspend this collection between my two arms, like a hammock.
"Here."
The Creature observes me. He understands. I lean towards me, and try not to flinch as he struggles off the sill, his weight pulling me down.
Mustering all of my strength, I carry Sec, the Dalek out into the chilly stairwell.
When we come out onto the sidewalk, I feel the goose pimples on the back of my arms rise. The street is still wet from last night. And the clouds still dwell, threatening and angry against the red glare of the risen sun.
My guest burbles, and I face the machine that I always called the Dalek. It's not as tall as I remember. But I guess I've grown.
There is a metallic whine as its domed head turns to face me. His. I shudder to realise, the thing controlling it is sitting in my arms. That little blue light, round as the moon, a camera. And eye. Here we are again.
"How are you doing that?" I ask, and he stirs. Yep, here we go. The bulbs either side of its head blare.
"TELEPATHIC MANIPULATION."
"You drove it here; just by thinking?"
"IT REQUIRES GREAT CONCENTRATION." The strange machine answers. The same wailing, grating bark. Just like on the cell. Just like I remember.
A motorbike engine roars a couple of blocks away. A dog hollers behind a fence. We're not alone. Me out here, my sneekers barely slipped on, in a night shirt and yellow pants with penguins on. As if that's not strange enough. I see a dude with headphones and a denim jacket saunter past. He gives us a long, hard look. A wiry black woman holding a large green squid, opposite the world's largest pepper shaker. Now, he has to imagine how strange this must be for me.
I look the Dalek shell up and down. Note how strange it is. The domes on its lower section. The chrome of its eye stalk, its sleek plunger, both protruding, but the former pointing away. It's changed. The rust is gone. The dullness of pollution has been buffed away. Someone's given this thing a clean. Maybe he couldn't always change shape. Maybe someone did it for him. And it's so very black, sucking in the light.
And as I watch, a sharp hiss, like water vapour, escapes from it. It's opening.
The casing splits down the middle; revealing an unseen seem in the machinery. The two halves of the mid section swing down wards on hinges and hydraulics, that previously had been invisible, while the black segments of the skirt fall open like the petals of a futurist robotic flower. I have to take a step back. This all happens slowly. So it's not solid machinery; no tangle of processors and flashing lights. Instead, there is a small hollow under the dome, which stays fixed forward. The smell of oil, and of disinfected, damp, feted flesh hits me like a hammer. I fight back a cough.
It's one of those tiny abnormalities. One of the strange things you suddenly catch sight of in the City, sometimes, when your lucky. An abstract piece of graffiti. A sculpture made of junk. The Dalek bursting open.
I know what the hollow is for. It's for the computer, the hard drive of the Dalek. In this case, in the form of an actual brain.
From my arms, Sec squirms, coiling his backmost tentacles.
"MOVE CLOSER." He commands, so I raise my now aching arms, and he leaps into the space, like a frog. He does this with surprising force, throwing me off balance, and pulls himself atop of the disk like platform that forms the bottom of the space. Turns around. Drapes his appendages behind it; letting them become tangles in the forest of chunky cables below. He blinks up at me.
"ELIZA BIRCHWOOD." He announces.
"Yes. And you're welcome."
I recoil a little, as I see a pair of wires snake down from the dome of the machine. They curl into the soft tissue of the creature's brain. The eyestalk twitches.
"I WISH TO EXPRESS GRATITUDE. YOUR ASSISSTANCE IS APPRECIATED."
"Well, I should think so to." I reply. I'm feeling cold. I still have so many questions. The casing is beginning to slide shut. I catch sight of the mutant squid, green against black before the gap is sealed, and impenetrable. Now it's just a machine.
The glowing eyestalk is focused on my face, the rest of it poised, ready to move. If I have anything to say, I ought to say it now. But then, he begins to rotate, facing away from me. The head turns last. Sec trundles away down the sidewalk.
That's it? He's just leaving? Feeling oddly distraught, I pace along behind him. My sneekers clip uncomfortably on the stones. We pass rusted fire escapes and sliver trash cans, piled up haphazardly.
"Hey, Dalek."
The bulbs flare.
"YOU WISH TO COMMUNICATE?"
"Well, yeah. A guy was killed last night in Red Hook. It was that Slyther thing."
"THAT IS QUITE POSSIBLE."
"You were a witness." I gabble, hurriedly. "I need to...to ask you. What were you doing in the shipping yard?"
The Dalek slides to a halt, and I catch up as he rotates to face me.
"I WAS PURSUING THE SLYTHER, AS YOU WERE." He replies, his voice blaringly loud in the otherwise silent street.
Well that's something. I fold my arms.
"So, you know where this thing came from?"
There's a pause.
"NO. I DO NOT." The modulated reply is curt. No? Really?
"You don't?"
The head turns, the eyestalk raises to observe the flat rooftops above us.
"I CAME AWARE OF ITS PRESENCE LAST NIGHT. IT IS NOT NATIVE TO THIS PLANET. IT'S ARRIVAL...DOES NOT COMPUTE..."
I have to agree on this.
"Sec. What do you know?"
The Dalek makes no answer.
I bite the bullet.
"What exactly are you?"
I only watch as he tips off the kirb and onto the road.
"THAT IS CLASSIFIED INFORMATION. I ADVISE THAT YOU MAKE NO ATTEMPT TO FOLLOW ME."
He reaches the other side, a blue glow spills onto the asphalt, and I swear the machine rises, and lands on the sidewalk. He turns left, and glides away out of sight. I see a cyclist zip past. Everything's normal again. Except it isn't. And it never will be. I have just met the strangest, most confusing, and most frighting individual I think I'll ever come across.
I take his advice, and don't bother to follow. What would the point be?
I groan to myself, run a hand through my hair. It snags painfully on the curls.
I'm supposed to get to the bottom of this. It's my job, after all. I asked. But he has left me none the wiser.
I turn, and slowly make my way back along the street. My eye catches movement. I look.
A sliver alligator, with a long knife like dorsal fin sifts through the trash, nosing around in the shadows with its long barbed snout. The one I saw at the vegetable market. I barely feel any surprise anymore.
Perhaps the Dalek knows something about that too.
But I know one thing for certain.
Even if I am quitting my job, I'm going out at my best.
There's no way I'm letting this drop.
