It's Christmas morning, and Martha rises early, as is her habit, wrapping herself in her robe and making a cup of tea. She curls up in an armchair in her living room and watches fat white flakes of snow drift down outside her window, and she can't help but smile. They don't get white Christmases often - not real snow, anyway. She wonders if she ( Read more... )

Martha put the last of the petri dishes she'd been swabbing in the incubator, then initialed the sheets for each dish. Alien bacterial cultures were so boring, but it was certainly better than the autopsies she'd been doing last week ( Read more... )