We stood in the TARDIS.
Rose was still pale from what I told her about our hospital adventure.
"So that thing," she said quietly. "The pig. They took some poor animal, messed with its head, stuck it in a spaceship and threw it at London just for a laugh?"
"Not for a laugh," the Doctor said. He was staring at the monitor, jaw tight. "For effect. It's a show. Big spectacle. 'Look at the scary alien.'"
"And everyone believes it," she muttered.
"Everyone's meant to," I said. "That's the point. You get people scared, they'll beg whoever's in charge to save them. And whoever's in charge right now is very interested in aliens."
"Well," he said, "let's not keep them waiting."
"In our home?" Rose asked.
"Front row seat for the end of the world," the Doctor said. "And there's nothing more front-row than Earth telly."
He grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
In Jackie's flat the television was already on. Headlines were scrolling along the bottom of the screens:
ALIEN CRISIS DEEPENS
GOVERNMENT IN EMERGENCY SESSION
WHO ARE OUR VISITORS?
Every channel had a looping clip of the crash: the ship skimming low over the city, clipping the clock tower, then slamming into the river in a spray of water and debris. On one of the channels, somebody had already animated little speculative diagrams of the "alien craft's flight path".
Jackie sat on the sofa with her arms wrapped around herself, a mug of tea untouched in front of her. Mickey hovered near the window, phone in one hand, like he was expecting the sky to answer him personally.
Rose squeezed past me and dropped onto the arm of the sofa.
"Any more news?" she asked.
Jackie didn't look away from the screen.
"They've been on about it solid," she said. "Spaceship this, aliens that. Government's shut down the river, they've sealed off the crash site, they keep wheeling out these experts—"
"Experts?" the Doctor echoed, perking up.
"Men in suits," Mickey said. "One lot says it's definitely aliens, another lot says it's definitely not aliens, and another says 'no comment' which I think means 'aliens'."
"And now," Jackie cut in, pointing at the screen, "they're saying they've got someone. Some bloke at the hospital, saw something, he's being taken to Downing Street."
On one of the channels, grainy CCTV footage showed a tall, leather-jacketed figure sprinting down a corridor. The angle made his ears look even bigger.
"Look familiar?" I asked.
The Doctor winced.
"Ah," he said. "Right. Yes. That would be me."
The reporter's voiceover continued, breathless.
"…unidentified man believed to have specialist knowledge of extraterrestrial life, now in the custody of military intelligence…"
"Custody?" Rose repeated. "You didn't get into any trouble while we were gone, did you?"
"Only with the décor," I said. "We shouted at a pig."
Mickey tore his gaze from the screen long enough to glare.
"Of course they've got you on file," he said to the Doctor. "You swan in, blow up shops, drag people off, and leave the rest of us to explain it."
The Doctor opened his mouth, probably to say something defensive, then froze. A new headline had just appeared.
ALIEN EXPERTS SUMMONED TO DOWNING STREET
GLOBAL RESPONSE PLANNED
Faces flashed past: generals, scientists, a couple of very confused astrophysicists I recognised from old documentaries.
Then, for half a second, the CCTV still from the hospital. The Doctor, blurry, mid-run. And just behind him—me.
"Look at that," I murmured. "We're famous."
Rose glanced at me, then back at the screen.
"They really are looking for you," she said. "Both of you."
"Oh, they can look all they like," Jackie snapped. "You are not going anywhere near that spaceship. Rose, you stay here. Lock the doors. Turn the telly down, it's giving me a headache."
"Mum—"
"No," Jackie said. "They said on the news, there's going to be a full alert, soldiers on the streets, everything. If they find out you've been running around with aliens—" she jerked her head at the Doctor, "—they'll drag you off too."
The Doctor gave her a winning smile.
"Tell you what," he said. "I'll just pop down to London, save the world, and be back in time for EastEnders."
Jackie stared at him.
"Do you think this is a joke?" she demanded.
His smile faltered.
"No," he said quietly. "I don't."
She turned away from him, focusing on Rose instead.
"I lost you once," she said. "I'm not losing you again just because some… some thing fell out of the sky and your space boyfriend wants to go look at it."
Rose flushed.
"He's not—" she started, then gave up. "Mum, I can't just sit here while—"
"Yes, you can," Jackie cut across. "You owe me that much."
The room tightened. The Doctor suddenly found something very interesting to look at on the carpet.
I stepped in before the silence set solid.
"How about a compromise," I said. "Doctor goes. I go. Rose stays. We sort out whoever's pulling strings, and if we need you—" I looked at Rose "—we call."
She looked torn, but Jackie seized on the idea like a lifeline.
"Yes," she said firmly. "That. You two do your alien nonsense, while we talk. A lot has happened since you left, Rose."
Rose wanted to say something, but the Doctor interrupted her.
"All right," he said. "Stay with your mum. Watch the news. And if you hear anything about me that sounds terribly heroic, believe every word."
She snorted.
"Just go," she said.
He headed for the door. I followed.
"Try not to blow up anything we can't edit out of the history books," I told Rose as I left them behind.
"No promises," she said.
***
We didn't have to find Downing Street.
Downing Street found us.
We'd barely reached the main road when a dark car with tinted windows pulled up alongside the TARDIS, tyres squealing. The back door opened before it had even stopped.
A man in a cheap suit leaned out.
"Doctor?" he called. "Engineer? You're to come with us."
Do they know me too? Although that probably makes sense. After all, I'm a time traveller, so if I go back to the past in the future, that will already have an effect on the present day.
The Doctor grinned.
"See?" he said. "Summons."
He hopped into the car without waiting for an invitation. I climbed in beside him.
The door slammed. Locks clicked. The car pulled away fast enough to throw us back against the seats.
"Who are you lot, then?" the Doctor asked cheerfully.
"UNIT liaison, sir," the man in the suit said. He looked like he'd been awake for twenty hours and was powered entirely by coffee and panic. "You're on every alert list we've got. 'In case of alien incursion, contact the Doctor.' And now the Engineer." He nodded at me.
"Terrifying, isn't it?" I said.
The car sped through London, siren blaring. The city blurred past: people clustered around shop windows, traffic halted, police everywhere. Every few seconds, another television in another pub window showed the same footage of the crash on a loop.
The Doctor watched it all with that distant look he got when he was thinking four moves ahead.
"You realise this means someone's been keeping tabs on us," I said quietly.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "Humans love a good file. Never met a government that didn't think it could put the universe in a cabinet somewhere."
"Do you mind?" I asked.
He considered it.
"A bit," he said. "But it's useful, now. Saves us queuing."
The car turned into Whitehall. Barricades, soldiers, police. Security everywhere. The sort of lockdown that says "we are in control" to everyone watching and "we are absolutely not in control" to anyone who understands logistics.
We passed through checkpoint after checkpoint. Every time, someone checked a clipboard, looked at the car, and waved us through.
By the time we pulled up outside Number 10, the air practically crackled with tension.
News crews were penned behind barriers. Camera flashes strobed against the black door. Uniformed officers kept them back while a steady stream of Important People went in and out.
The car door opened.
"Doctor, Engineer," our escort said. "Welcome to Downing Street."
The Doctor stepped out first, hands in his pockets, chin up, looking like he owned the place.
I followed, adjusting my tool belt out of habit.
From somewhere near the press pen, a voice called, "Who's that?" and another replied, "Dunno, must be one of the experts."
For once, I didn't correct them.
We were hustled through the iconic front door, past the famous hallway—the portraits all watching, because of course they were—and into a busy sort of waiting room full of people in suits, uniforms and expressions that said "I am very important and very confused."
A harassed woman with a clipboard intercepted us.
"Name?" she demanded.
"The Doctor," he said.
"The Engineer," I added.
She scanned her list.
"Right," she said, ticking two boxes. "Experts. You're in the conference room with the others. This way, please. Don't touch anything, don't wander off, and don't talk to the press."
The Doctor flashed her a grin.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.
We followed her down a corridor lined with more portraits and more security.
Behind us, someone called out, "Excuse me! Excuse me!"
A woman in a sensible coat hurried up, waving an ID card.
"Harriet Jones, MP for Flydale North," she said breathlessly. "I was told my presence is required—"
"Later, Ms Jones," Clipboard Woman said briskly. "They're only seeing senior advisors and experts for now."
"But I have information," Harriet insisted. "From Albion Hospital—"
Her eyes widened as she recognised us.
"You!" she said. "You were there. You saw the—"
"Hello again," the Doctor said. "Love the democracy."
Clipboard Woman sighed.
"Fine," she said. "You can sit at the back and not interrupt. We're on a schedule."
She herded all three of us into the conference room before Harriet could protest further.
Was she really there? To be fair, though, I didn't really look at the other people, so I probably shouldn't comment on who was and who wasn't in the hospital with us.
***
The conference room looked exactly like the inside of every boring government meeting in the history of boredom. Long table, terrible coffee, water jugs, folders everywhere. A big flatscreen at one end showed live news feeds mutely flickering between crash coverage and pundits.
At the head of the table sat the Acting Prime Minister, trying very hard not to look terrified. Around him: generals, ministers, intelligence chiefs. The atmosphere was a mix of adrenaline, ego and fear.
As we slipped in at the far end, Harriet slid into a chair beside us, clutching her notes like a lifeline.
"You were right," she whispered to me. "About the ship. It was from Earth. I heard you at the hospital."
"Shh," Clipboard Woman hissed.
The PM cleared his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "thank you for coming on such short notice. As you know, Earth has today experienced first contact—"
"No it hasn't," the Doctor said mildly.
Heads turned.
The PM blinked.
"…sorry?" he said.
The Doctor smiled, all teeth.
"That wasn't first contact," he said. "That was someone throwing a brick through your window and running away."
Uh. I get that he enjoys being the smartest person in the room, but can we not antagonise the entire chain of command in the first thirty seconds? I decided to at least try damage control.
"What the Doctor means," I said, "is that what hit London was built here. Your own materials, your own engine design. Someone on Earth built a vessel, lobbed it at your city, then dressed up livestock to make you think it came from the stars."
Murmurs around the table. Some disbelieving, some angry, some deeply, deeply worried.
"That's ridiculous," one of the generals snapped. "You expect us to believe this was some sort of… student prank?"
"More like a hostile demonstration," I said. "Think less 'teenagers' and more 'terrorists with access to very good engineering'."
Harriet put her hand up tentatively.
"If I may," she said, "I heard—at the hospital—they said the hull was of terrestrial origin. The welding, the alloys, all consistent with Earth manufacture. They were quite excited about it."
"And did you report that, Ms Jones?" someone asked.
"I tried," she said, cheeks colouring. "But I'm only backbench."
The PM rubbed his temples.
"If this was a fake," he said slowly, "then why? Why go to all this trouble?"
"Because," the Doctor said, suddenly serious, "you're scared."
He looked around the room, meeting eyes one by one.
"You've got the world watching," he went on. "Cameras, news feeds, every leader from here to Washington on speed dial. And now you're thinking, 'we need help'. You're ready to hand the planet over to anyone who walks in here and says the right words."
"Is that what you're doing?" a minister asked tightly. "Offering to take charge?"
He actually laughed.
"No," he said. "Trust me, you don't want me in charge of anything with a budget. But whoever set this up? They're going to offer. Very soon. Give it another hour and someone will be standing where you're sitting—" he nodded at the PM "—saying they speak for the whole universe."
"And you're saying we shouldn't listen?" the PM said.
"I'm saying," the Doctor replied, "you should ask what they gain if you do."
Before anyone could answer, the door at the far end opened.
Three very large people in dark suits walked in.
I say "people". The proportions were wrong. Too big in the shoulders. Too heavy in the steps. Too… compressed. My Time Lord senses prickled.
Pressure fields.
Inside those suits, something that did not fit was being squeezed down to a human shape. The skin of reality around them wobbled faintly like badly set jelly.
"Who are they?" Harriet whispered.
"Trouble," I murmured.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Clipboard Woman announced, a little too brightly. "Allow me to introduce you to senior members of the government's alien liaison team. They've been… working behind the scenes."
The tallest of the newcomers gave the room a wide, oily smile.
"Hello," he said. "We apologise for the delay. We've been… digesting events."
Behind me, the Doctor's hand tightened on the back of his chair.
"Smell that?" he whispered.
I caught it a second later. A faint, acrid tang under the aroma of coffee and fear. Like something had overcooked in a sealed space. The unquestionable characteristics of the Raxacoricofallapatorians.
"Oh," I said quietly. "Oh, of course."
He glanced at me.
"Recognise them?" he asked.
"Not personally," I said. "But I know a compression field when I feel one. And I know when something's wearing the wrong skin."
The newcomers took seats at the table, their chairs creaking ominously. One of them shifted, and the air filled with a soft, unmistakable sound.
Rose would later call it "the fart episode". Right now, nobody was laughing.
The PM blinked.
"…right," he said, trying to recover. "Perhaps you could introduce yourselves?"
"Oh, with pleasure," the tall one said, smiling too wide. "On behalf of the alien community… allow me to welcome you to a new age."
The Doctor and I exchanged a look.
So much for staying in the background.
Showtime.