The Persistence of Memory

By Joseph Connell

 

Ten-second disclaimer: the characters are owned by the BBC, BBCi, and Lawrence Miles.   I’m just borrowing them for the next few thousand words for fun and not profit; send no money now!  This is a piece of fictional fluff I’ve been promising for ages, nothing more.  Time placement is pointless as this is a Time Lord we’re talking about.  Kind comments can be directed to yankee_pendragon@hotmail.com while unkind ones will be EX-TER-MIN-A-TED!  Or stuffed into a bottled universe.  Whichever.   Onwards…

 

 

"Wonderful view," Christine said, standing atop the fallen wreckage that had once been the Daly Center, her tone and stance communicating the exact opposite.  The Picasso sculpture had likewise succumbed to the cataclysm that had laid waste to the surrounding city.  Its twisted remains seemed to stare upwards at where she specifically stood, its empty eyes directed upon her alone.

 

At least that is what it looked like to the Doctor, who had turned back to ensure the TARDIS door was firmly shut behind them. 

 

They made for an incongruous pair amid this devastation. He, tall and lean in this incarnation, dressed more befitting a gentleman scholar from the reign of Edward VIII than the most celebrated (or reviled) son of the House of Lungbarrow, paired with a young woman not yet twenty at once gangly and tanned, with a cropped mop of dirty blonde hair and dressed in an get up of multi-pocketed khaki shirt and trousers, military-style boots and a belt that looked like an unbroken series of pouches and compartments.  Where he looked upon the world with darting, curious eyes yet remain stationary for a time, she would bolt forward, seeking out whatever danger or adventure awaited, heedless to her safety or that of others. 

 

This probably explained why they go along so well together.  It certainly explained why her 'mother' had been so anxious to pair them.  More accurately stated, to get her out of the Collection and him out of her hair before dear Irving's patience with them all was exhausted.

 

The Doctor looked about at the ruins and wreckage that littered the space around them, nodding to himself that the TARDIS was sufficiently concealed from anything short of a deliberate search.  The fact their newest surroundings were blanketed in a thin, grayish mist cut visibility down to mere metres in every direction didn’t hurt either.  This done, he then consulted the pocket bob he'd pulled from his waistcoat, nodding again as if satisfied they had arrived at precisely the proper place and time (for once).

 

Christine dropped down from the pile of steel girders and picked her way over to where the Doctor stood.  She fixed him with a glare and ticked off her fingers as she demanded  "Okay, spill: where, when, and why?"

 

The Doctor sighed, taking the gangly teenager's hand and slowly leading her up a different pile of rubble.  As they ascended he said quietly "Chicago, Illinois.  June 21st, around the first quarter of the twenty-first century in the Common Era if I'm not much mistaken.  The why is a bit complicated, I'm afraid."

 

"Your lot do this as well?"  Christine asked with an unpleasant edge to her voice.  Small surprise given that (a) they often found themselves materializing in some batch of ruins or another lately and (b) her own, first-hand experiences had left her with a natural tendency to equate planetary devastation with his people.  He didn't blame her in the slightest for either supposition or her anger.

 

"No, ‘my lot’ as you put it did not," he began, pausing to look her in the eye.  "Christine, I don't hold with what the High Council did, either its decision or the consequences to your...world."  He paused involuntarily, as if contemplating whether the word was even appropriate.  "And I agreed to take you on board largely because your foster mother...well...never mind."

 

"Well, answer the question, then."

 

"No, they did not.  This is all from a purely local agency.”

 

“Lovely.”

 

“Yes, it was once.”  They stood now atop a pile of concrete and half-melted steel girders, affording them a surprisingly wide vista of the destroyed city.  Nothing stood higher than a single story, and what little did was either fallen or wrecked.  The dirty waters of Lake Michigan were, surprisingly, visible in the distance, barely a couple thousand metres away.

 

“I say, that’s strange,” he murmured at the sight of the dark waters.

 

“What?  Its water, ennit?  Not much different than…what was that water planet we visited last week?”

 

The Doctor waved this off.  “Water that should be considerably further out.”  He could only sigh and shake his head.  “Lord knows how those decayed monstrosities managed it.”

 

“Which ‘decayed monstrosities’ are we talking about this time?  You sure its not your lot?”

 

“How I wish I was, my dear.  The High Council, any of them, would be far easier to deal with.”  The Doctor shook his head again and gestured off towards the south.  “The Museum of Science and Industry, the Adler Planetarium, and the Chicago Aquarium were in that direction.  The Aquarium was actually my favorite to visit.  Most realistic model of a giant squid I’d yet come across.”

 

“Fascinating,” Christine murmured, disinterested in the extreme.  In her minds eye, she could picture it: some grandiose structure of marble and glass and other stuff, its roof caved in and opened to the elements, all order within the exhibit rooms long lost, their cases shattered or emptied…she’d seen it before. 

 

It all got boring, even inevitable, after awhile.

 

Rather than dwell on familiar if unseen images, she took to kicking at the rubble at her feet. 

 

“Why are we here, anyway?” Christine asked this without looking up from her excavations.  She managed to pry a full-sized book from the masonry, slightly surprised to find it wholly intact, its binding and covers still solid if a tad pitted.

 

Opening the book, she received her next surprise, seeing the tome was in fact a photo album.  There were no captions or plates to the individual photos, nor any more or name ascribed to the collection. This didn’t matter as the story they told was universal: holidays alongside birthdays, intersped with moments and scenes of no discernable import, the figures depicted as unique and commonplace as would be found anywhere and everywhen.

 

Christine felt tears prickle her eyes as she pulled a collapsible shoulder bag from her belt, unfolded it and carefully slipped the album into it.  She then shouldered the bag and began visually searching for more items that weren’t mere rubble.

 

The Doctor’s answer to her original question went unheard as she poked about the mound for a few minutes more, before moving her way down the slope to continue her hunt at what presumably was ground-level.

 

It didn’t actually prove much easier, the obstacles and clutter proving, if anything, more extensive.  Fortunately trinkets…artifacts…proved more plentiful as well. Within minutes a keepsake locket (empty and tarnished), a tattered Raggedy-Ann doll (limp and missing most of its stuffing), a ‘Get Well Soon’ card (hand-made and colored as only children can), and a pair of Beenie Baby puppies (both wearing hand-sewn jumpers bearing the legends “Larry” and “Miles”) had joined the photo album in her carry-all.  The tirillium-lattice fibers of the bag would prove more than sufficient to protect these knick-knacks…relics…until she got back to the Collection.  Heck, they might even be enough to get ‘Uncle’ Irving to forgive her about…

 

A high-pitched wail broke the silence.  Startled, Christine looked up and all around, her treasure hunt immediately forgotten.  After several frantic moments, she realized the whine – a steady, droning “ulla-ulla-ulla-ulla” – was originating in the distance, echoing off the low contours of the wrecked city and resounding through the otherwise empty air.  “What the hell…?” she wondered aloud.

 

“Early warning alarm,” the Doctor’s low voice stated beside her.  Had her daily fright quote not already been filled, Christine’s reaction to his sudden appearance would have surely been more extreme.

 

Beyond saying “Hardly think there’s anything left to warn here,” that is.

 

“Hmm,” the Doctor hummed.  “Back to the TARDIS, I think.”

 

“Wha…hold on.”

 

“Its not meant for humans,” the Doctor stated flatly, already half-turning.  “In any case, I doubt there’s anyone left…anyone human left to hear it.”

 

“Didn’t I just say…?”  Christine shook her head in irritation.  There was simply no arguing with him in such a mood.  “Okay, so, who’s it for then?”

 

“Eh?”

 

“You said this racket was an ‘early warning alarm.’”  She mimicked quotation marks with both hands.  “So, who’s it meant to warn?”

 

“Oh, it’s meant to warn them.”  The Doctor made a dismissive wave to something over her shoulder, a small, grim curve to his mouth she could quite call a smile.  Christine gave him a pre-emptive wrinkling of her nose, then turned to see what he waved at.

 

Her nose unwrinkled and her jaw dropped at the sight awaiting her.

 

Rising out of the clinging mist a good 20 metres distant was a line of strangely shaped vehicles, their chrome surfaces glinting in the diffuse afternoon light.  Along their undersides she could make out batches of metallic tentacles either whipping about or simply hanging limp.  Immediately under these limbs were three spindly, spider-like legs whose joints appeared to bend at such odd angles so to leave her wondering just how the machines managed to remain upright, never mind mobile.

 

Eyes fixed on this majestic and menacing sight, Christine fumbled about her belt for the mini-binoculars she knew she’d stowed away in one its many compartments.  Finding them, she quickly brought them to her eyes, only to curse aloud at finding the magnification was completely off and the UV filters on the wrong setting. 

 

A calming breath and two quick adjustments later, she was able to see greater detail of the tripod machines.  Their hulls were not so much chrome-colored as simply so damaged by smoke and scorch-marks their original silver luster was all but covered.  The ‘legs’ upon which they ‘walked’ did indeed bend and set themselves at strange angles, but their bodies  appeared to move along a continuously even plane, never bobbing or shifting while in motion.  At this she guessed the legs were simply for stabilization rather than actual locomotion.

 

Turning to the Doctor to ask if her thinking was correct, she nearly laughed instead at the sight of him holding an old-fashioned seaman’s telescope to his eye, this likewise directed towards the tripods.  “Hmm, never seen this model before,” she heard him muse aloud. 

 

A though occurred to her.  “Hey, we aren’t back in the Land of Fiction, are we?”

 

The Doctor frowned deeply and lowered the telescope.  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

 

She noted he didn’t immediately deny the possibility.  “Tripods?”  She quickly looked through the binoculars again, confirming suspicion.  “Three of whom are carrying what I presume are heat rays in those arms?” 

 

The Doctor looked himself, making an affirmative noise.  “Ah, yes.  You’re right.”  He lowered the telescope and collapsed it in one smooth motion, looking strangely embarrassed as he did.  “I really should have been more careful about what I said to Herbert that evening…”

 

“Excuse me?”  Christine glared at him after seeing several more tripods rising to join the march of their fellows.  “You told…what…?”  Her building diatribe was silenced by a an insistent beeping, one of different tone from the “ulla-ulla-ulla” sound echoing overhead.  This second noise was coming from within the Doctor’s coat and prompted a skeptical look from her.  “You aren’t carrying a bomb again, are you?”

The Doctor didn’t deign to reply, instead pulling out a small boxlike affair.  Christing nevertheless took a precautionary step back, just on the off-chance the device did more than simply beep.

 

For his part the Doctor quickly pocketed his telescope, pull his pocketwatch from his waistcoat, and tap a complicated-looking series of calculations into the miniature keypad set into the cover.  He then thrust the beeping box towards the still-dumbfounded Christine with an excited “Hold this, will you?”

 

She did so purely out of instinct, taking the box and turning it over in examination.  It looked like nothing more exotic or advanced than a metallic cigarette holder, albeit one with an black LCD screen set into it with the points of the compass crudely stenciled on with what looked suspiciously like white-out. 

 

There were two green-hued dots flashing on the screen, slowly moving through the northeast quadrant towards the center.  Christine had a sinking feeling she knew exactly where the ‘center’ was in real space.

 

The Doctor meanwhile was busy making the appropriate noises and muttering something like “Yes, yes.  Right on time.”  He snapped the pocket bob shut with an uncharacteristic flourish and looked over towards her.  “C’mon, time we were heading back.  Chop, chop!”  He seized her by the hand, only to pause after a single half-step, eyes on her carry-bag.  “What have you got there?”

 

“Uhm, oh, nothing much.”  She pried her hand from his and opened the bag so he could see into it.  “Just some things I picked out of the rubbish.”  There was a curious if noncommittal noise at this, which for some reason only served to irritate her further.  And an irritated Christine Summerfield was a defensive Christine Miracle Summerfield.

 

“Look,” she snarled.  “Not all of us are immortal busybodies, frelling up the natural order of the everything just so we’ll be remembered for all time!”

 

“’Frelling up the natural order…?’ What have you been watching?”

 

“Shut it!  Some of us…someone has to remember the small things, the things that…that really matter and make real history…right?”

 

The Doctor didn’t respond immediately, other than to gaze at her for several moments as he closed the bag and pressed it back to her.  She couldn’t say what was in that gaze: admiration, perhaps, or simple annoyance; maybe in a smidgen of respect?

 

“You’re right, of course,” he said at length.  “Someone should…someone must remember it.”

 

“Why are we here, Doctor?”  Christine asked this in her quite, completely reasonable tone that doubled as an ultimatum. 

 

As if in answer, a series of dull thuds sounded off like miniature thunderclaps.  Having picked her way through more than her share of battlefields and active war-zones, she instantly recognized them: anti-aircraft rounds of some sort, detonating at low altitude.  She imagined she could actually feel the concussive force carried through the open air, half-expecting to hear high-voltage energy weapons sounding off next. 

 

No energy weapons were to be heard however, only more ‘thud’ sounds.

 

“That’s why, my dear,” the Doctor stated grimly as he took the small box from her and pocketed it, then consulted his watch once more with a tight frown.  “In a little under, oh, ninety-eight minutes, what little is left of this entire city will be leveled.  Down to the bedrock.”

 

“By who?  Them?  I mean, those tripods?”

 

“Oh, heavens no.  This is their last major enclave on-planet.  No, no.  The assault is the local population rising in final battle against them.”

 

“Ah.  Big battle coming then?”

 

“One of the biggest in human history.”

 

“Ah.” Christine repeated as she chewed her lip for a moment.  “Probably should get back to the TARDIS then, right?”

 

“My thoughts exactly.”

 

“Right then.”  Heedless of the Doctor’s very patient and indulgent look, she all but ran a good five steps before realizing she had no clear recollection of which way the TARDIS was.  Turning back towards the Doctor, eyes wide and worried, she asked “Well, which way?”

 

“First, my dear, relax.  We’ve plenty of time.”  A thunderous explosion to the north, one powerful enough to shake the ground under their feet, seem to put a lie to his words.  Christine froze where she stood, agape at the Doctor’s complete lack of surprise or seeming concern.   “In answer to your unspoken question, that explosion was not the main assault.  Merely a…softening up of the main defenses.”  Another explosion rang out, this one causing the sky to turn a lingering greenish hue.  “As was that.”

 

“What’s doing it, then?  Bombs?”

 

“In a manner of speaking,” the Doctor growled, eyes narrowing and tone darkening.  “The worst kind.  The kind that keep going off.”  Christine could sense there was more to the Doctor’s words, but hadn’t a clue what the issue might be.  The prospect of bombs that reconstituted themselves after detonation, while far-fetched, wasn’t beyond the bounds of imagination for her these days. 

 

Rather than press the issue, she said “Well, just so long as we still have time to, y’know, get out of here before they go off again.” 

 

The Doctor continued to scowl at the horizon and glowing sky for a moment more before turning back to her.  “Hmm?  What?  Oh, yes, yes, yes.  Plenty of time.”

 

Three more thunderclaps echoed overhead.  Looking upwards, Christine would have sworn she saw a tripod (minus two of its legs) actually sailing upwards, looking quite worse for wear as it did so, before falling back earthwards.  She noticed the Doctor saw the same sight, his mouth actually slightly agape. 

 

“Then again…” he mused quietly. 

 

“Back to the TARDIS?”

 

“Capital idea.”  He took her hand once more and began leading her, slowly, around the wreckage.  She immediately noticed they weren’t climbing up or over it, but remaining at ground level.  His words asides, the Doctor must have been more worried  than he was letting on.  Especially given how he was unconsciously ducking as they moved. 

 

They took a winding route back to the timeship, keeping their heads down and moving cautiously.  There were more explosions heard in the distance, the ground shaking with increased frequency, strange death cries breaking through the din now and then.  Christine concentrated on her footing and clutching her bag and the Doctor’s hand; she shut out everything else.  She glanced over at the Doctor at some point, noting his look of equally intense, almost brittle concentration.  Disturbingly, she could his eyes were in no way focused on their immediate surroundings, but on some distant point or event.  He nevertheless led her true, their steps never once faltering.

 

At moments like this, Christine found herself questioning the wisdom of traveling with this enigma.   One minute he was a well heeled, name-dropping professor type in fancy dress, the next he was writing future history in his head and making it happen by just being there.   The unpredictability of it all, history itself included, made it all just a tiny bit too much; too much to take in, too much to process, too much to make sense of any longer.

 

She could only hold onto the Doctor’s hand and let him lead her onwards.

 

The ground shook again under their feet, the piles of rubble and metal themselves trembling at the explosions and thunder.  The Doctor puller her to the ground as the sky were alight with a series of explosions, everything in sight visibly shaking.  There was the sound of metal twisting and groaning.  Christine had the sense of things – debris and otherwise – flying overhead with a mighty wind.  Only the Doctor’s hand clamped over her mouth kept her from screaming her growing terror aloud.  She squeezed her eyes shut against the chaotic din.

 

When next she dared open them, she found herself looking into the empty sockets of a human skull.  This had a perversely calming effect on her nerves, as if this were the most natural thing to see in this place, weirdly reassuring in its own way.  The din of battle went otherwise unheard.

 

The Doctor slowly withdrew his hand from her mouth, the tension in him evident in that touch alone.  It was the first instance she could remember him being even the slightest bit worried at their surroundings; this one stunning realization brought her own terror back a hundred-fold.

 

Suddenly the skull before her was a lot less reassuring.

 

She nevertheless remained still and made a game effort at relaxing herself.  Hard experience had taught her the need to remain relaxed in these situations.  So she did her damnedest to relax.

 

Which didn’t accomplish a damn thing, naturally.

 

She instinctively curled into a tight ball as the ‘foot’ of a tripod stomped to the ground just a few feet from them, biting her tongue hard enough to taste blood against the scream she wanted to issue.  The Doctor simply remained where he was, providing what protection his lanky body could provide.

 

The dome-like ‘foot’ quickly marched on, the vehicle towering overhead either unaware or uncaring of their presence.  The noises of battle and destruction that raged in the near distance left little doubt in Christine’s mind which was the case.

 

Once the tripod was well away and the volume of battle had decreased a bit, only then did the Doctor rise to his feet, doing so very slowly, and gently urging Christine to stand as well.  He resumed leading her onwards, one arm kept encircled about her shoulders, not letting her stray from his side.  Not that she had any intention to do so, mind you; she’d take his more familiar creepiness over becoming surefire collateral damage anytime.

 

So they moved together through wreckage.  Tripods and other fighting machines would march or fly over their heads, causing them to immediately duck down or behind whatever cover was available.  Debris – metallic, polycarbide and otherwise – occasionally showered down from overhead, though fortunately it was never large enough to be truly threatening.

 

They were within sight of the TARDIS when a particularly large piece of wreckage less than a meter from them.  The Doctor squinted through the clouds of dust at it, surprised to see it was in fact of humanoid form.  “I say…” he murmured, the danger surrounding them momentarily forgotten.

 

“What?  What?” Christine hissed, her nerves increasingly raw.   Then she saw what fascinated her companion so.

 

“That’s a Nimrod Drone, one of the last versions of the Sentinel hunter-killers to be produced,” the Doctor said, a touch of wonder in his voice though Christine herself couldn’t see what over.  The damn thing was certainly elegant looking, its form appearing perfectly smooth and more or less wholly intact (scorch marks and dents notwithstanding).  The most surprising thing about it was what remained of its ‘head’, which was shaped more akin to a grinning skull with an outsized lower jaw.  It reminded her unpleasantly of her time residing in the Eleven-Day Empire and the bizarre masks her ‘cousins’ wore.

 

The Doctor’s voice shook her from those memories.  “You know, that looks familiar somehow…”

 

A tripod toppling over nearby interrupted his musing.  “Doctor?” Christine snarled, her hands gripping his coat lapels.  Cool eyes regarded her as he gently pried her hands from the fabric. 

 

“Sorry, my dear,” he apologized quietly.  “I really have got to get you out of here.” 

 

He helped her to her feet once more and carefully led her to the TARDIS, nimbly maneuvering over the accumulated debris and ensuring she did the same.  An almighty crash kicked up a cloud of dust and rubble behind them just as they reached the TARDIS doors.  Looking back they saw another tripod had fallen, its hull deformed by some massive impact.  The Nimrod Drone that had so fascinated the Doctor a moment ago was half-buried by the settling debris. 

 

The Doctor spared no more than a moment’s glance backwards, instead focusing upon getting the time capsule’s doors open and nearly shoving his companion inside.  He failed to notice the Drone’s remaining eye-socket slowly light up just as the TARDIS doors slammed shut.  It was fully alight as the familiar wheezing and groaning of its engines laboriously clawing through normal space-time, pulling the time capsule into the higher dimensions. 

 

Soon, the Drone was likewise gone from sight, disappearing under a virtual avalanche of metal and wreckage.

 

Within the escaping TARDIS, the Doctor worked the controls while Christine sat in nearby chair, her knees drawn up to her chin and arms wrapped about her legs.  Her carrybag sat close at hand.  Swallowing hard, she called to the Doctor “So, what’s going to happen next?”

 

“I thought a quick visit to the Collection was in order.”

 

“I meant on Earth.”

 

“Oh.  Ah, well, humanity will dig itself out of the rubble over the rest of the century.  Unfortunately there’s to be a resurgent nationalism that will fracture the planetary government by the turn of the century, leaving the planet ripe for another invasion.”

 

Christine let out a dry chuckle.  “Anyone we know?”

 

“Think polycarbide pepper-pots.”

 

“Wonderful.  I’m off to take a nap, ‘kay?”

 

“Of course, my dear.”  The Doctor watched her go, then turned back to the controls, seemingly concentrated upon the bewildering array of levers and dials at his fingertips.

 

His eyes alone told a different story.

 

 

End.

 

Note: the illustration above courtesy of Alvim Corréa from the 1906 Vandamme edition of HG Well’s “War of the Worlrds”.  They can be found at http://drzeus.best.vwh.net/wotw/illus/interior.html and is used here without the artist’s permission.