Fic: There Was a Master in a Game (16/25)
Title: There Was a Master in a Game
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master mostly. This week’s guest stars are Malcolm Taylor and Erisa Magambo.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.
Betas: runriggers and earlgreytea68
Summary: Gallifrey wasn’t entirely lost when it went back into the Time Lock; it just got stuck. The Master wants out. Isn’t he lucky that the Doctor left him a way?
Chapters One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve ~ Thirteen ~ Fourteen ~ Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen: Horizontal G
Magambo was not happy. Malcolm would have worried more, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing Magambo happy in the first place, so he chose to worry about something else instead, namely the curious temperature fluctuation in his laboratory.
“I should be getting back,” he said, not that anyone paid him the least bit of attention. The soldiers surrounding the excavation site still wore their sterile suits, although Magambo had taken her own mask off. Malcolm wasn’t sure if she considered him to be the canary down the mine shaft, or if she simply didn’t care for sterile protocol. He couldn’t see Magambo disregarding protocol. He could very easily see her dismissing him as a canary. He felt about as useful. Never mind that scientist slumped over in the corner, there’s a gas leak and we should all vacate immediately.
“There’s work waiting for me in my laboratory,” Malcolm continued to explain, and everyone continued to ignore him.
“Mr. Taylor,” said Magambo, “as you’re here, you can give us an initial readout of the item.”
“Metal,” said Malcolm. “That’s my initial readout. I really should get back-“
Magambo’s expression did not change. “Metal? That’s all you can give me? I expect more from U.N.I.T.’s scientific advisor.”
“I don’t have any of my instruments-“
“Mr. Taylor, if you cannot be of use to me in the field, perhaps there is another scientist who can be,” said Magambo tersely.
Malcolm was half tempted to recommend Emery, and then he remembered the way the secretary’s - Pam’s - eyes had grown when she talked about his going into the field. She hadn’t been especially pretty, but she had nice eyes, Malcolm supposed. Oh, Mr. Taylor, the Captain has requested your presence in the field for a fourth time this week - you must be very terribly important and a valued employee of U.N.I.T., and is that a new tie you’re wearing today, sir?
Without quite knowing why, Malcolm knelt down next to the hole in the ground.
“Metal, although it appears newer than the century it’s been buried, which makes me question its composition. I wouldn’t be able to give you an exact readout without having run some initial tests, on equipment in my laboratory, but I would think that if it were not for the age which you have given it, that there would be some kind of anti-oxidation element to the structure.”
“If not for the age?” questioned Magambo.
“Anti-oxidation metals weren’t common in Victorian England,” said Malcolm. He leaned over to press his palm to the surface. “Not smooth - clearly, it was hammered into shape originally.”
“Or the dents are the pressure from being buried for a century,” said Magambo.
“No,” said Malcolm, barely aware that he was disagreeing with Magambo. “The slab would have crushed the casing, not dented it. No, this is the original metalwork we’re seeing here, not something a hundred years of sitting under a slab have done, and that’s the curious bit, how sitting under a slab for a hundred years wouldn’t have damaged the casing.”
“Casing?” repeated Magambo.
“The curvature,” said Malcolm, running his hands over the metal. “Flat in the center, curving at the edges. You’ve got yourself a container here, the only question is - what’s inside?”
Magambo nodded briskly. “Please step aside, Mr. Taylor. If we’re to finish our dig, we may inadvertently open the container, and I cannot say what might come out.”
“Oh,” said Malcolm, quickly getting to his feet. All the bravado drained away, and he became instantly aware of exactly how large the sky was over his head, and how the snow was beginning to fall again. “Ah - yes - I should get back to-“
“Your laboratory,” said Magambo. “You said there was something-“
“Nothing,” said Malcolm quickly. Where there had been bravery was now a quivering realization that he was in the field, and the soldiers were about to open an extremely sensitive and dangerous casing with his person entirely too close for comfort. “A joke. Ha-ha. I’ll prepare to receive the casing. Make some space.”
“Don’t move, Mr. Taylor,” ordered Magambo, and Malcolm froze, one leg in the air. “You’ll wait until the excavation has been completed, and when I say, you will accompany the casing back to your laboratory. Understood?”
“Yes,” squeaked Malcolm.
The excavation didn’t take very much longer. Malcolm huddled near one of the nearby trucks, holding a cup of tea someone had handed him. Every so often, someone would go rushing by, a brisk jog in combat boots, and Malcolm tried to sit up and look important, only to slump back down the moment they had passed.
He was not overly fond of field work, as of yet. It was cold and apart from the very real chance that something would explode, rendering him a steaming pile of ash (and even then, Malcolm was sure his mother would question the ash about its plans to marry and move into a nice house somewhere), he was, quite frankly, bored. Even the thrill of not knowing what was going on wasn’t enough to entice him to look interested. The only good thing, so far, was that he was allowed to sit and think about the strange cold shape of air in the laboratory, what it might mean, how it might have arrived, and - worse - if it was changing shape or size the longer he was gone.
“Mr. Taylor!” Magambo’s voice carried through the snow. Malcolm had no doubt that Magambo’s voice could carry through mountains, if she deemed it necessary. Malcolm, still clutching his tea, trotted back over to the excavation, and when he saw what had been unearthed, his mouth dropped open.
“Oh my,” he said, and stared at the torso of a robot, gleaming faintly in the snow.
*
There were other spare bits of robot still buried beneath the concrete, according to the excavation crew who of course knew about these things, but Magambo didn’t hold much hope for freeing the objects of their concrete prisons that day. “Half my troops in Cornwall, collecting bits of Sycorax ship - bloody fools, Torchwood, don’t know what they were thinking, certainly can’t be bothered to clear their own mess. It’ll take a week to clear this site. Andrews! I need transport here, on the double. Mr. Taylor, why are you still here?”
Malcolm stuttered a reply, but Magambo had already waved him away, out of her sight and no longer her concern. Andrews, a short, squabby-looking man who looked so accustomed to being shouted at by Magambo that he had started to respond only to a raised voice, jerked his head at Malcolm and towards the transport, and Malcolm scrambled aboard, barely keeping his tea from spilling out over his trousers.
“I say, what do you think of this snow, mate?” asked the driver cheerfully. “Not a bit cold.”
“Ash,” mumbled Malcolm, still lost in thought about his laboratory, only now it was mixed up with the strange robotic torso in the back of the transport. Something there….there was something there. If only Malcolm could think of it… “It’s not snow, it’s ash. Metallic on the tongue.”
“Oh,” said the driver, wonderingly. “Wondered why it tasted hot. Think it’s from that ship yesterday?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Malcolm, not one bit interested. Why was he suddenly so distracted that he couldn’t fix his mind on the singular problem of the cold spot in his laboratory? Or the singular problem of the torso in the back of the transport?
Or was it…that they were related? And how?
“Great stuff,” continued the driver, delightedly. “Things I’ve learned since joining up. You should read the back files. They’d make for great Saturday night telly, if anyone believed them. And even if they didn’t!”
Malcolm perked up. “Back files?”
The driver barked a laugh. “What, you never went into the library? Every incident on every alien U.N.I.T.’s ever dealt with is in there. Plus a few who worked for us. Sometimes during my lunch I go and sit and read one for fun. Really comes in handy in the field, gives you that edge knowing what’s possible.”
“Back files,” mused Malcolm, and for the next ten minutes, until the transport truck started on the underground passageway to Headquarters, ducking under a bit of the old London Wall, he breathed in the scent of ignorance, and relished every note.
*
It took him exactly twenty-three minutes to discover the file.
It took him exactly ten minutes to read it.
It took him 90 seconds to realize what it meant.
It took him an unaccountably long three minutes and 42 seconds to race back to his laboratory, clutching the photograph nicked from the file (and dodging the extremely angry and possessive librarian).
It didn’t matter. By the time he’d returned to his laboratory, the damage was done.
The torso of the Cyberman had been left on his laboratory table - directly in the center of the strange cold spot. It had obviously been sitting there for quite some time, long enough for a thin layer of frost to accumulate on its metallic surface - which only made the lettering etched on the underside of the torso stand out all the more.
Danger. Do not crack the code. Love, Lynda and Caan.
Malcolm swallowed. He was still sitting on the stool near the doorway, staring at the torso, when Magambo came in.
“What code?” she said, examining the torso. Malcolm hadn’t even realized she was there, and he quickly jumped off the stool.
“I wouldn’t - ah - touch it,” he said, cautious. “I don’t know what code. It might be it only needs a genetic marker.”
“Blood type,” said Magambo with a sage nod, and Malcolm wondered if she’d been one of those on the rooftop the day before. “Who are Lynda and Caan?”
“They weren’t mentioned in the files,” said Malcolm. “At least, I can’t find mention of a Lynda with that spelling. I’ve done some preliminary research, and there is a Caan - but not in reference to the Victorian invasion of the Cybermen, so I’m not sure-“
“A Cyberman?” echoed Magambo, looking askance at the thing on the table. “Is that what it is?”
“I think so, yes.”
“And this Lynda and Caan are associated with them?”
“I don’t think so,” said Malcolm. “They aren’t mentioned in the Cyberman files, and where Caan is mentioned, there are no Cybermen. Clearly - they had some sort of contact, if they left the message. And what’s more-“ He paused. “I think the message was intended for me.”
Magambo flashed him an irritated look. “You?”
Malcolm grabbed the digital spacial thermometer from the counter, and held it up to Magambo. “Ambient room temperature, twenty-two degrees Celsius.”
He moved to the table, and held the thermometer over it. “Ambient room temperature over the table: negative ten degrees Celsius.”
Magambo blinked, and her lips grew thinner.
“I don’t think this is a coincidence, nor is the cold being generated by the torso itself,” continued Malcolm, dashing to his computer to type frantically. “Before I went to the site, I noticed the change in temperature. And here’s the odd thing: it’s of a very specific shape over the table, unrelated to the ventilation system or any other air flow. The shape is exactly one inch larger than the dimensions of the Cyberman torso. Meaning that had the torso been set anywhere else: the message would never have appeared.”
“But when brought to you, the message became visible,” said Magambo, nodding. “What created the air pocket?”
“That’s why I came to you, because you had said you were bringing me something in the morning. All I found was the temperature fluxuation. But there’s something else. Do you see anything else - anything else at all on the table?”
Magambo squinted, scanning the table’s surface. “No,” she said finally. “Should I?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Another one of the scientists came in this morning and claimed to see something. I wasn’t able to determine what before he left again.” Malcolm paused. “There’s something else.”
“Why am I not surprised,” said Magambo, deadpan. Malcolm typed a few more keys into the computer, and then spun the screen so that Magambo could see. She leaned over to give the screen a closer look.
“The Victorian Invasion of the Cyberman took place in 1851. Well before either U.N.I.T. or Torchwood were founded, and so details about the event are flimsy at best, and rumors at worst. But the one story that remains consistent is of a man, a single man, who managed to stop the Invasion and destroy the robot leader-“
Magambo straightened and stared Malcolm in the eye. “The Doctor.”
“Who?” asked Malcolm.
“That’s the Doctor,” said Magambo coolly. “You are acquainted with our library, it seems. Look him up.”
She turned on her heel and headed straight for the door. Malcolm took a step as if to follow her, but stalled. “I -ah - but-“
Magambo barely turned around. “If the Doctor was associated with this Cyberman, it stands to reason he may have been associated with Lynda and Caan. He has a long history with U.N.I.T., Mr. Taylor, including within your own position. I would suggest that it may be that this message is either from or intended for him, and not you at all.”
Malcolm swallowed, and wondered if this was how regular folk felt: insignificant and about the size of a flea. Do you mean to say that there is information which you do not possess? Off with you, and be quick about it.
“The Doctor. Yes, of course,” stammered Malcolm. “I’ll look him up. Immediately.”
“It would be best,” said Magambo, and glanced at the torso again. “I had brought this here because you were the best, Mr. Taylor.”
The were hung heavily around Malcolm’s ears. But before he could defend himself, or stammer something about how he would not disappoint, Magambo was gone.
*
Don’t break the code.
Malcolm Taylor spent his lunch hour and most of the afternoon in the library, reading every file the librarian brought him. Most were incredibly dusty, some were smeared with jam, and not a single one was complete. Each one was missing a vital piece of information: namely, the first-hand report from one of the key players, who went only by the title “Doctor”.
Malcolm was hooked. It was better than any scientific journal he’d ever had the pleasure of reading in the dead of night, under his covers with a torch for light, while his mother railed about ruining his eyesight.
By the time he’d finished the last report, the sun had set and the librarians were giving him cursory looks as they turned off the desk lamps, clearly anxious for him to be gone so that they could go home themselves, to serve beans on toast for tea to recalcitrant husbands and packs of grubby, sugar-sweetened children, he had no doubt.
Malcolm had no such persons waiting for him. He gathered the files in his arms, and left the library, determined to ignore any librarian who tried to stop him. None of them did.
He met Martin Emery, once again tapping his umbrella on the ground as he headed out into the night. “G’night, Malcolm,” said Emery cheerfully. “Fancy a pint before home?”
“No, ta, busy,” said Malcolm, trying not to drop the slippery files. “Work.”
“Ah, yes, the robot,” said Emery with a nod. “Don’t stay too late, Malcolm - those things come alive if you stare at them too long. Nasty bit of business, them, you wouldn’t want to meet them down a dark alley. So I’ve heard,” he added lamely, and then continued on his way, tap tap tap.
“Right, no, of course,” said Malcolm, trying to catch a slipping file, only to drop three more from under his arm. One of the files slid across the laminated floor, and came to a stop under Emery’s umbrella point.
Emery leaned over to look at it. “Oh, this was a good one,” he said approvingly.
“You’ve read them?” asked Malcolm.
“Everyone’s read them,” said Emery with a wave of his hand. “Try the appendix, you’ll find a puzzle there that’s had everyone hopping for decades. Maybe you’ll be the first person to break the code.”
Tap-tap-tap went Emery’s umbrella, echoing down the hall.
“Code?” repeated Malcolm. He scrambled to his feet, dropping half the files he’s only just picked up. “Code?” he shouted louder, and Emery turned around, a half smile on his face.
“They say,” he said carefully, “the first person who solves the riddle, unlocks the code.” He gave Malcolm a grin, and whistling, turned to go again.
Malcolm picked up the file Emery had caught for him, and put it on the top of his pile. Of course Emery had read the files. Of course everyone else had read the files. He wondered why no one had mentioned them to him before this.
Don’t break the code.
But…the first person in decades. Malcolm could smell the mystery encased in the file, and his fingers twitched. Congratulations, Mr. Taylor, do you know how many scientists have been unable to determine - certainly glad we have found you - this is quite an achievement - here, Pam, give Mr. Taylor another glass of wine….
Back in the safe confines of his laboratory, Malcolm busied himself, setting up a dinner of noodles and tea, all the while keeping a half eye on the file Emery had pointed out to him. Malcolm vaguely remembered reading it in the library several hours before - it wasn’t especially notable, except that it had also mentioned robots, hence why Malcolm had brought it with him for further study, wondering if there was a connection between the Cyberman and the K-1. After all, the CyberKing had been a large robot - as had the K-1. And both had been defeated by the Doctor, who may very well have either left the message in the guise of Lynda and Caan - or had been their intended recipient. Oh, sorry, did we get you? We really wanted the other scientific advisor for U.N.I.T.
It was only once the noodles and tea leaves were both steeping that Malcolm reached for the file, and flipped straight back to the appendix.
What he found made him forget both noodles and tea until long after they were both cold.
Chapter Seventeen
Author: azriona
Characters: The Master mostly. This week’s guest stars are Malcolm Taylor and Erisa Magambo.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Everything. The majority takes place after The End of Time, but there are references to events through the end of Season Five.
Betas: runriggers and earlgreytea68
Summary: Gallifrey wasn’t entirely lost when it went back into the Time Lock; it just got stuck. The Master wants out. Isn’t he lucky that the Doctor left him a way?
Chapters One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve ~ Thirteen ~ Fourteen ~ Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen: Horizontal G
Magambo was not happy. Malcolm would have worried more, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing Magambo happy in the first place, so he chose to worry about something else instead, namely the curious temperature fluctuation in his laboratory.
“I should be getting back,” he said, not that anyone paid him the least bit of attention. The soldiers surrounding the excavation site still wore their sterile suits, although Magambo had taken her own mask off. Malcolm wasn’t sure if she considered him to be the canary down the mine shaft, or if she simply didn’t care for sterile protocol. He couldn’t see Magambo disregarding protocol. He could very easily see her dismissing him as a canary. He felt about as useful. Never mind that scientist slumped over in the corner, there’s a gas leak and we should all vacate immediately.
“There’s work waiting for me in my laboratory,” Malcolm continued to explain, and everyone continued to ignore him.
“Mr. Taylor,” said Magambo, “as you’re here, you can give us an initial readout of the item.”
“Metal,” said Malcolm. “That’s my initial readout. I really should get back-“
Magambo’s expression did not change. “Metal? That’s all you can give me? I expect more from U.N.I.T.’s scientific advisor.”
“I don’t have any of my instruments-“
“Mr. Taylor, if you cannot be of use to me in the field, perhaps there is another scientist who can be,” said Magambo tersely.
Malcolm was half tempted to recommend Emery, and then he remembered the way the secretary’s - Pam’s - eyes had grown when she talked about his going into the field. She hadn’t been especially pretty, but she had nice eyes, Malcolm supposed. Oh, Mr. Taylor, the Captain has requested your presence in the field for a fourth time this week - you must be very terribly important and a valued employee of U.N.I.T., and is that a new tie you’re wearing today, sir?
Without quite knowing why, Malcolm knelt down next to the hole in the ground.
“Metal, although it appears newer than the century it’s been buried, which makes me question its composition. I wouldn’t be able to give you an exact readout without having run some initial tests, on equipment in my laboratory, but I would think that if it were not for the age which you have given it, that there would be some kind of anti-oxidation element to the structure.”
“If not for the age?” questioned Magambo.
“Anti-oxidation metals weren’t common in Victorian England,” said Malcolm. He leaned over to press his palm to the surface. “Not smooth - clearly, it was hammered into shape originally.”
“Or the dents are the pressure from being buried for a century,” said Magambo.
“No,” said Malcolm, barely aware that he was disagreeing with Magambo. “The slab would have crushed the casing, not dented it. No, this is the original metalwork we’re seeing here, not something a hundred years of sitting under a slab have done, and that’s the curious bit, how sitting under a slab for a hundred years wouldn’t have damaged the casing.”
“Casing?” repeated Magambo.
“The curvature,” said Malcolm, running his hands over the metal. “Flat in the center, curving at the edges. You’ve got yourself a container here, the only question is - what’s inside?”
Magambo nodded briskly. “Please step aside, Mr. Taylor. If we’re to finish our dig, we may inadvertently open the container, and I cannot say what might come out.”
“Oh,” said Malcolm, quickly getting to his feet. All the bravado drained away, and he became instantly aware of exactly how large the sky was over his head, and how the snow was beginning to fall again. “Ah - yes - I should get back to-“
“Your laboratory,” said Magambo. “You said there was something-“
“Nothing,” said Malcolm quickly. Where there had been bravery was now a quivering realization that he was in the field, and the soldiers were about to open an extremely sensitive and dangerous casing with his person entirely too close for comfort. “A joke. Ha-ha. I’ll prepare to receive the casing. Make some space.”
“Don’t move, Mr. Taylor,” ordered Magambo, and Malcolm froze, one leg in the air. “You’ll wait until the excavation has been completed, and when I say, you will accompany the casing back to your laboratory. Understood?”
“Yes,” squeaked Malcolm.
The excavation didn’t take very much longer. Malcolm huddled near one of the nearby trucks, holding a cup of tea someone had handed him. Every so often, someone would go rushing by, a brisk jog in combat boots, and Malcolm tried to sit up and look important, only to slump back down the moment they had passed.
He was not overly fond of field work, as of yet. It was cold and apart from the very real chance that something would explode, rendering him a steaming pile of ash (and even then, Malcolm was sure his mother would question the ash about its plans to marry and move into a nice house somewhere), he was, quite frankly, bored. Even the thrill of not knowing what was going on wasn’t enough to entice him to look interested. The only good thing, so far, was that he was allowed to sit and think about the strange cold shape of air in the laboratory, what it might mean, how it might have arrived, and - worse - if it was changing shape or size the longer he was gone.
“Mr. Taylor!” Magambo’s voice carried through the snow. Malcolm had no doubt that Magambo’s voice could carry through mountains, if she deemed it necessary. Malcolm, still clutching his tea, trotted back over to the excavation, and when he saw what had been unearthed, his mouth dropped open.
“Oh my,” he said, and stared at the torso of a robot, gleaming faintly in the snow.
*
There were other spare bits of robot still buried beneath the concrete, according to the excavation crew who of course knew about these things, but Magambo didn’t hold much hope for freeing the objects of their concrete prisons that day. “Half my troops in Cornwall, collecting bits of Sycorax ship - bloody fools, Torchwood, don’t know what they were thinking, certainly can’t be bothered to clear their own mess. It’ll take a week to clear this site. Andrews! I need transport here, on the double. Mr. Taylor, why are you still here?”
Malcolm stuttered a reply, but Magambo had already waved him away, out of her sight and no longer her concern. Andrews, a short, squabby-looking man who looked so accustomed to being shouted at by Magambo that he had started to respond only to a raised voice, jerked his head at Malcolm and towards the transport, and Malcolm scrambled aboard, barely keeping his tea from spilling out over his trousers.
“I say, what do you think of this snow, mate?” asked the driver cheerfully. “Not a bit cold.”
“Ash,” mumbled Malcolm, still lost in thought about his laboratory, only now it was mixed up with the strange robotic torso in the back of the transport. Something there….there was something there. If only Malcolm could think of it… “It’s not snow, it’s ash. Metallic on the tongue.”
“Oh,” said the driver, wonderingly. “Wondered why it tasted hot. Think it’s from that ship yesterday?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Malcolm, not one bit interested. Why was he suddenly so distracted that he couldn’t fix his mind on the singular problem of the cold spot in his laboratory? Or the singular problem of the torso in the back of the transport?
Or was it…that they were related? And how?
“Great stuff,” continued the driver, delightedly. “Things I’ve learned since joining up. You should read the back files. They’d make for great Saturday night telly, if anyone believed them. And even if they didn’t!”
Malcolm perked up. “Back files?”
The driver barked a laugh. “What, you never went into the library? Every incident on every alien U.N.I.T.’s ever dealt with is in there. Plus a few who worked for us. Sometimes during my lunch I go and sit and read one for fun. Really comes in handy in the field, gives you that edge knowing what’s possible.”
“Back files,” mused Malcolm, and for the next ten minutes, until the transport truck started on the underground passageway to Headquarters, ducking under a bit of the old London Wall, he breathed in the scent of ignorance, and relished every note.
*
It took him exactly twenty-three minutes to discover the file.
It took him exactly ten minutes to read it.
It took him 90 seconds to realize what it meant.
It took him an unaccountably long three minutes and 42 seconds to race back to his laboratory, clutching the photograph nicked from the file (and dodging the extremely angry and possessive librarian).
It didn’t matter. By the time he’d returned to his laboratory, the damage was done.
The torso of the Cyberman had been left on his laboratory table - directly in the center of the strange cold spot. It had obviously been sitting there for quite some time, long enough for a thin layer of frost to accumulate on its metallic surface - which only made the lettering etched on the underside of the torso stand out all the more.
Danger. Do not crack the code. Love, Lynda and Caan.
Malcolm swallowed. He was still sitting on the stool near the doorway, staring at the torso, when Magambo came in.
“What code?” she said, examining the torso. Malcolm hadn’t even realized she was there, and he quickly jumped off the stool.
“I wouldn’t - ah - touch it,” he said, cautious. “I don’t know what code. It might be it only needs a genetic marker.”
“Blood type,” said Magambo with a sage nod, and Malcolm wondered if she’d been one of those on the rooftop the day before. “Who are Lynda and Caan?”
“They weren’t mentioned in the files,” said Malcolm. “At least, I can’t find mention of a Lynda with that spelling. I’ve done some preliminary research, and there is a Caan - but not in reference to the Victorian invasion of the Cybermen, so I’m not sure-“
“A Cyberman?” echoed Magambo, looking askance at the thing on the table. “Is that what it is?”
“I think so, yes.”
“And this Lynda and Caan are associated with them?”
“I don’t think so,” said Malcolm. “They aren’t mentioned in the Cyberman files, and where Caan is mentioned, there are no Cybermen. Clearly - they had some sort of contact, if they left the message. And what’s more-“ He paused. “I think the message was intended for me.”
Magambo flashed him an irritated look. “You?”
Malcolm grabbed the digital spacial thermometer from the counter, and held it up to Magambo. “Ambient room temperature, twenty-two degrees Celsius.”
He moved to the table, and held the thermometer over it. “Ambient room temperature over the table: negative ten degrees Celsius.”
Magambo blinked, and her lips grew thinner.
“I don’t think this is a coincidence, nor is the cold being generated by the torso itself,” continued Malcolm, dashing to his computer to type frantically. “Before I went to the site, I noticed the change in temperature. And here’s the odd thing: it’s of a very specific shape over the table, unrelated to the ventilation system or any other air flow. The shape is exactly one inch larger than the dimensions of the Cyberman torso. Meaning that had the torso been set anywhere else: the message would never have appeared.”
“But when brought to you, the message became visible,” said Magambo, nodding. “What created the air pocket?”
“That’s why I came to you, because you had said you were bringing me something in the morning. All I found was the temperature fluxuation. But there’s something else. Do you see anything else - anything else at all on the table?”
Magambo squinted, scanning the table’s surface. “No,” she said finally. “Should I?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Another one of the scientists came in this morning and claimed to see something. I wasn’t able to determine what before he left again.” Malcolm paused. “There’s something else.”
“Why am I not surprised,” said Magambo, deadpan. Malcolm typed a few more keys into the computer, and then spun the screen so that Magambo could see. She leaned over to give the screen a closer look.
“The Victorian Invasion of the Cyberman took place in 1851. Well before either U.N.I.T. or Torchwood were founded, and so details about the event are flimsy at best, and rumors at worst. But the one story that remains consistent is of a man, a single man, who managed to stop the Invasion and destroy the robot leader-“
Magambo straightened and stared Malcolm in the eye. “The Doctor.”
“Who?” asked Malcolm.
“That’s the Doctor,” said Magambo coolly. “You are acquainted with our library, it seems. Look him up.”
She turned on her heel and headed straight for the door. Malcolm took a step as if to follow her, but stalled. “I -ah - but-“
Magambo barely turned around. “If the Doctor was associated with this Cyberman, it stands to reason he may have been associated with Lynda and Caan. He has a long history with U.N.I.T., Mr. Taylor, including within your own position. I would suggest that it may be that this message is either from or intended for him, and not you at all.”
Malcolm swallowed, and wondered if this was how regular folk felt: insignificant and about the size of a flea. Do you mean to say that there is information which you do not possess? Off with you, and be quick about it.
“The Doctor. Yes, of course,” stammered Malcolm. “I’ll look him up. Immediately.”
“It would be best,” said Magambo, and glanced at the torso again. “I had brought this here because you were the best, Mr. Taylor.”
The were hung heavily around Malcolm’s ears. But before he could defend himself, or stammer something about how he would not disappoint, Magambo was gone.
*
Don’t break the code.
Malcolm Taylor spent his lunch hour and most of the afternoon in the library, reading every file the librarian brought him. Most were incredibly dusty, some were smeared with jam, and not a single one was complete. Each one was missing a vital piece of information: namely, the first-hand report from one of the key players, who went only by the title “Doctor”.
Malcolm was hooked. It was better than any scientific journal he’d ever had the pleasure of reading in the dead of night, under his covers with a torch for light, while his mother railed about ruining his eyesight.
By the time he’d finished the last report, the sun had set and the librarians were giving him cursory looks as they turned off the desk lamps, clearly anxious for him to be gone so that they could go home themselves, to serve beans on toast for tea to recalcitrant husbands and packs of grubby, sugar-sweetened children, he had no doubt.
Malcolm had no such persons waiting for him. He gathered the files in his arms, and left the library, determined to ignore any librarian who tried to stop him. None of them did.
He met Martin Emery, once again tapping his umbrella on the ground as he headed out into the night. “G’night, Malcolm,” said Emery cheerfully. “Fancy a pint before home?”
“No, ta, busy,” said Malcolm, trying not to drop the slippery files. “Work.”
“Ah, yes, the robot,” said Emery with a nod. “Don’t stay too late, Malcolm - those things come alive if you stare at them too long. Nasty bit of business, them, you wouldn’t want to meet them down a dark alley. So I’ve heard,” he added lamely, and then continued on his way, tap tap tap.
“Right, no, of course,” said Malcolm, trying to catch a slipping file, only to drop three more from under his arm. One of the files slid across the laminated floor, and came to a stop under Emery’s umbrella point.
Emery leaned over to look at it. “Oh, this was a good one,” he said approvingly.
“You’ve read them?” asked Malcolm.
“Everyone’s read them,” said Emery with a wave of his hand. “Try the appendix, you’ll find a puzzle there that’s had everyone hopping for decades. Maybe you’ll be the first person to break the code.”
Tap-tap-tap went Emery’s umbrella, echoing down the hall.
“Code?” repeated Malcolm. He scrambled to his feet, dropping half the files he’s only just picked up. “Code?” he shouted louder, and Emery turned around, a half smile on his face.
“They say,” he said carefully, “the first person who solves the riddle, unlocks the code.” He gave Malcolm a grin, and whistling, turned to go again.
Malcolm picked up the file Emery had caught for him, and put it on the top of his pile. Of course Emery had read the files. Of course everyone else had read the files. He wondered why no one had mentioned them to him before this.
Don’t break the code.
But…the first person in decades. Malcolm could smell the mystery encased in the file, and his fingers twitched. Congratulations, Mr. Taylor, do you know how many scientists have been unable to determine - certainly glad we have found you - this is quite an achievement - here, Pam, give Mr. Taylor another glass of wine….
Back in the safe confines of his laboratory, Malcolm busied himself, setting up a dinner of noodles and tea, all the while keeping a half eye on the file Emery had pointed out to him. Malcolm vaguely remembered reading it in the library several hours before - it wasn’t especially notable, except that it had also mentioned robots, hence why Malcolm had brought it with him for further study, wondering if there was a connection between the Cyberman and the K-1. After all, the CyberKing had been a large robot - as had the K-1. And both had been defeated by the Doctor, who may very well have either left the message in the guise of Lynda and Caan - or had been their intended recipient. Oh, sorry, did we get you? We really wanted the other scientific advisor for U.N.I.T.
It was only once the noodles and tea leaves were both steeping that Malcolm reached for the file, and flipped straight back to the appendix.
What he found made him forget both noodles and tea until long after they were both cold.
Chapter Seventeen