The Time of Change

Here

The dalek's voice is much lower than the shrieks from before, but the electric buzz is the same, feeling as if it's causing my insides to vibrate. My husband sighs with his gaze locked firmly on the unfeeling eyestalk. "Yep," he answers in a fake-cheery way. "Here I am. Hello."

"Doc...tor..." the dalek repeats as if in disbelief. "Doc...tor... Doc...tor..." It pauses, perfectly still, and the Doctor, Van Staten, Johnson the scientist, and I watch on in chary anticipation. After a moment, it speaks once more, but this time, the words are not an observation. They are a threat.

"Ex...ter...min...ate... Ex...ter...min...aaaate... Ex...terminate! EXTERMINATE!"

The final four syllables are spoken at such a volume that the room itself quakes, and everyone jolts backward as it begins to struggle against the chains again. This time, however, its resistance is much more violent, full of desperation to be free.

Staring wide-eyed at the dalek, Van Staten bellows at me, "What did you do?"

I grab the Doctor's hand as I quickly stride to the door, which stands open. Half-turned toward the American, I reply, "Nothing you can't handle."

Van Staten watches, stunned, as I rush the Doctor and myself out the door and into the control room. When the door shuts behind me, the dalek's frantic howling rises again in decibel. Legs wobbly from fear and my stomach in knots, I turn at the door leading back into the showroom. Through the viewing window, I see a weak blue beam shoot from the dalek's eye and hit Johnson square in the chest, disintegrating him instantly. I try to block out Van Staten's horrified shouts as the heavy door swings shut behind us, and we bolt from the room, starting off at a sprint down the crowded aisle.

"What did I do?" I huff. In my peripheral vision, I see a few display cases rocking on their pedestals as our footfalls pound on the floor.

"Wish I knew," he says, dragging me along by the hand. "All you did was touch it, and that should have never provoked such a response. The fact that it was awakened by your touch—" He stops so suddenly that I almost faceplant on the tiles. "It can't be," he breathes. When he rights me again, I feel a pang of discomfort in my stomach. To alleviate it, I take a long, deep breath, gazing at him levelly. The expression on his face fills me with dread.

"What?"

"Your power," he begins, "or your energy or whatever—the stuff that brings you back. You might have used that."

"But I gave you the last of it."

"Well, yes, you did. You did, but you may have had some left over or produced a bit more in this life, enough to heal a wound or broken bone while not entirely reanimating you."

I consider this—and him—for a moment. "So you think I accidentally caused it to regenerate?"

"That's the only conclusion I can settle on," he replies. "It isn't likely, but it makes sense. Also, it insinuates that you"—He angles himself toward me, suddenly struck by a new idea—"may still have the potential to return after this life."

A sense of excitement floods my chest at the thought, but it's cut short by the sound of a muted explosion behind the metal door about thirty yards off. Both of us whip around to face it, filled with terror, as another sharp stab of pain rips through my lower abdomen. The child in my stomach shifts around uncomfortably, as if bracing for impact.

"But—" he starts.

"We have bigger problems," I finish for him, once again taking his hand. I pull him down an adjacent aisle to our left, and we cut through row after row of glass displays. My eyes search around in desperation; they find salvation in the form of a fire escape embedded in the wall. Our synchronized pace increases as we both notice the door. Just before we reach it, I dimly recognize a Cyberman's head resting beneath one of the cases, propped up on a black velvet pillow that allows the yellow light to shine into its empty, soulless eyes.