Short Trips - The Doctor Who Audio Dramas

SHORT TRIPS: ON THE EDGE
ARCO CHAMBER

To die, to sleep no more
And by ‘‘a sleep’’ to say ‘‘we end the heartache’’
And the thousand natural shocks that regeneration is err to’
Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished
To die, to sleep, to sleep perchance to regenerate
Aye, there’s the rub!
For in that sleep of death, what face may now appear
When we have shuffled off this latest mortal coil?
Must give us pause, there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life
For who would bear the whips and scorns of Time Lords?
The oppressors wrong? The proud man’s timely companion?
The pangs of disapproved love? The TARDIS’s delay?
The insolence of the Master? And the spurns that patient merit
Of the unworthy Castellan takes when he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin and two hearts?
Who fuddles bare to grunt and sweat under a TARDIS console
But at the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country
From whose alien shores no traveler returns alive?
Puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those wills we have
Then flies off to others that the Matrix knows not of...
Slings Slings Slings Slings and and and and Arrows Arrows Arrows Arrows by Colin Baker

Contents
Introduction 7
Dramatis Personae 8
The Step Beyond 12
Fool’s Errand 16
Go Soak Your Head 35
Survival of the Daleks 1: Escape Or Die 55
Too Little, Too Late 66
The Dalton Gang’s Last Stand 67
Recompense 80
Green Means ‘‘Go’’ 87
The Wooden Planet 108
The Next Journey 123
Survival of the Daleks 2: Servants of Masters 139
Mortal Reminders 157
You Make A Stand 175
Out of Options 176
Acceptable Casualties 185
The Choice 200
Survival of the Daleks 3: There’s Something Just Behind You 219
Immoral Victories 237
Neglecting Ninevah 251
Fancy Meeting You Here! 276
Simple Logic 277
You Have Got To Be Kidding... 292
A Change of Direction 312
Broken Threads 327
The Decision is Final 336
Survival of the Daleks 4: The Day Before Eternity 350
Counting Down 384

Introduction
by Archibald ‘‘Arco’’ Chamber
The human race has been decimated, whole continents flattened, cities turned to
dust, and alien invaders patrol the surviving remnants of civilization, slaughtering
any survivors they see. But Barbara Wright is confident that she can meet up with
the Doctor if she can get to the heart of the Dalek stronghold.
‘If he’s still alive,’ notes her fellow fugitive Jenny.
‘Of course he’s still alive,’ Barbara replies calmly.
‘Why?’ demands Jenny. ‘What’s so special about your Doctor? He doesn’t wear
some invisible shield, does he?’
And Jenny’s right. At least for most of the time, the Doctor is totally bereft of
superpowers, surviving on his wit, intelligence and... rather a lot of the time...
blind luck. For, when the Daleks are sterilizing the city, the Doctor has the same
chance of survival as everyone else, all those desperate humans who took a risk.
And died in vain. How many times has the Doctor escaped total death by the
lucky happenstance of someone checking the airlock he’s trapped in, or be
suddenly overtaken with curiosity enough to spare his life? At the end of the day,
the Doctor’s sheer survival is a string of miracles.
And luck, just like everything else, does not last forever.
This is a collection of short stories, slightly longer stories, drabbles, action,
adventure, comedy and horror on that particular theme. When the Doctor, his
companions, and maybe just people he’s met in passing, are put into a situation
where their luck might have run out. When this time, it really could be the end.
They are faced with despair, certain doom, a fate enough to break the will of
anyone. But will they sink? Will they swim?
Some tales are told from before the characters made their appearance in the
DWADs, others afterwards, and several during. But the characters are all faced
with the same danger, the same inkling their next words may be their last. As the
saying of the Sevateem tribe goes, ‘‘There is nothing noble about dying... but it all
depends on what you do to avoid it.’’
This inaugural Short Trips collection puts that saying to the test through a
prism of characters and situations from nearly thirty years of Doctor Who Audio
Drama. Hopefully, both these eBooks and the audios that inspire them will
continue for the foreseeable future.
With a bit of luck...

Dramatis Personae
A guide to who’s Who in the DWADs
THE THE NINTH NINTH DOCTOR DOCTOR was a craggy faced older man in a leather jacket with a
taste for dry sarcasm and puncturing pomposity in others. Little is known about
this short-lived incarnation, including the events that ended the life of his
predecessor. First seen in Portal, the Ninth Doctor flourished for twelve seasons
and ten companions until he finally regenerated (in suitably mysterious
circumstances) at the end of The Crucible of Terror.
MELISSA MELISSA was a relaxed and rather flippant Time Lady who accompanied the
Ninth Doctor for his first three seasons. She didn’t get a straightforward
introduction story, but Melissa left in the thrillingly-titled Evil of the Krotons.
THE THE THE MASTER MASTER, MASTER when last we saw him, was flushed through a black hole in the
heart of the TARDIS. But he survived, as is his want, as a hideously scarred and
insane lunatic believing that by cutting the Doctor’s hearts out he could
regenerate his body. That didn’t work, but eventually he managed to get himself a
brand new Time Lord body free from any pesky Cheetah Viruses by use of a
macguffin known as an Event Manipulator. He’s also recently revealed that all
those times he was stumbling around the place being a complete moron with
idiotic schemes that never make sense was all an act to lure the Doctor into a false
sense of security... or maybe the Master’s just in denial. Nevertheless, the evil
Time Lord’s on a downward spiral, having last been seen losing his TARDIS and
trying to steal the proceeds from Children in Need 2010 to make ends meet...
KEVIN KEVIN VASAVIOUS VASAVIOUS was a neurotic, irritating and generally useless young man
working for UNIT at the time of the Tenth Doctor’s creation. After annoying each
other for four episodes, the two went their separate ways but five seasons later
they bumped into each other once again in The Most Dangerous Game. Kevin
stayed aboard the TARDIS, becoming perhaps the longest-serving companion in
DWAD history, he appeared in forty-five stories over ten seasons.
THE THE TENTH TENTH TENTH DOCTOR DOCTOR was a disconcertingly familiar version of the Time Lord, as
his other incarnations would be the first to criticize: munching jelly babies,
wearing long scarves, building robot dogs and speaking mainly lines the Fourth
Doctor had said long ago. It transpired that an accident in the Matrix had
unraveled the Doctor’s timeline, causing this incarnation to mirror his earlier one.
The Tenth Doctor’s reign lasted seventy stories, from 1983’s The Andromeda
Syndrome to Countdown to Armageddon in 1992.

SARAH SARAH JANE JANE SMITH SMITH is a vaguely-popular companion from the original TV
series, a likeable investigate journalist who got her own spin off. Eventually. She
was a brief companion for the Tenth Doctor in his first season, for four stories
beginning with Shadow World and ending with The Death Machines.
TOM TOM ANDERSON ANDERSON was a rather generic American engineer from 20th Century
Earth, who’s one real character trait was falling in love with co-companion Sara.
Unfortunately, he rather rashly asked her to marry him when they’d dealt with a
Dalek invasion and that was just tempting fate, really. A broken man, Tom
immediately quit the TARDIS. We later discovered he died in a ‘‘traffic accident’’.
SARA SARA was a Kaled from Skaro, a deeply-shy little girl who also sidelined in
ruthless guerilla warfare depending on the writer. When she took on the Daleks
for a second time she ended up in a slave-gang and died soon after.
TASHA TASHA was an alien space princess who’s father was killed by the Master. About
the only difference between her and Nyssa was that her planet wasn’t destroyed
and she was ultimately able to become the queen in 1984’s Coronation.
K9 K9 Mk Mk IV IV was built by the Tenth Doctor one afternoon on the off-chance his
tenure wasn’t quite Tom Baker-ish enough. Like his illustrious predecessors, the
first chance he got he fled with the most attractive female companion to have fun
adventures that screamed spin-off potential. He hasn’t been missed.
LOKI LOKI wasn’t the Master, but you could easily get them mixed up. A mysterious
time traveler causing chaos and mayhem, determined to try and rejuvenate their
body in crazy schemes that not only threaten the universe but invariably damage
him further, using ridiculous anagrams (like ‘‘Ikol’’ for crying out loud!), often
joining forces with the Doctor when things get too hot... The only difference is
that Loki was killed off for real, curiously at the same time the Master returned to
his position as chief returning enemy of the show.
SUSIE SUSIE-JO SUSIE JO JO PARKER PARKER was a protégé of a certain Sarah Jane Smith, a determined
and passionate young woman who entered the cut-throat (or rather aciddrinking)
world of industrial journalism and lost her vocal chords for the trouble.
She joined the Tenth Doctor in the imaginatively-named The Brown Death, until
she finally met some aliens in E-Space that could fix her voice whereupon she
ditched the Doctor like a hot brick some six seasons later. The Doctor got the last
laugh though; he made K9 stay behind with her.
LANDON LANDON was a stuffy, humorless Time Lord sent by the High Council to (quite
rightly) keep some kind of control on the Doctor lest the renegade destroyed
history. Ultimately the Time Lords gave up on the idea and Landon was abruptly
recalled back to Gallifrey in Tomb of the Daleks and was never heard of again.

DILLION DILLION was a Canisian, a native of a gold-rich planet in a constant war with the
gold-phobic Cybermen. He joined the TARDIS crew in The Chameleon Factor and
immediately made it his main priority to become a double-act with Landon
throughout his tenure. When Landon departed, Dillion was only three episodes
behind him, returning to Canis to avenge his dead brother Lars, fight Cybermen
and chew bubblegum. And he just ran out of bubblegum.
MARK MARK TRIYAD TRIYAD was a competent and dignified soldier in the 24th Century,
working for the Federation’s Star Fleet and fighting the alien hoards of the Zylon
Empire. After several run-ins with the Tenth Doctor, he finally joined the TARDIS
full time in Terror on Terra and when the Eleventh Doctor’s post-regenerative
dust settled, he immediately tried to return home in Target: Zylon where the
endless war... er, ended. Realizing a soldier had no place in peacetime, he
remained with the Doctor until he eventually fell in love with some woman he
only just met at the end of The Empire of the Daleks.
DARA DARA DARA HAMILTON HAMILTON was an obnoxious, arrogant selfish air-headed 19-year-old
schoolgirl and something of a bully. After getting caught up in the battle between
the Doctor and the Master, she hung around the TARDIS for the next three
seasons -- seemingly blissfully unaware her companions found her irritating and
useless. Finally, in 1999’s Morningstar Manor, the Doctor finally had enough and
threw her out of the TARDIS on the flimsiest of excuses. It took him two whole
centuries before he was prepared to risk another companion.
THE THE ELEVENTH ELEVENTH DOCTOR DOCTOR DOCTOR was a slender, long-haired man-child with a love of
sweets, jokes and amateur magic even to the point of wearing a top hat and red
cape. Eccentric to the point of mild lunacy, the Doctor nevertheless cared deeply
about his friends and hated being alone -- or being reminded of the darker side of
his nature. This romantic, pop-culture-obsessed, secretive incarnation lasted from
1993’s Apollyon until the end of the decade in 2000’s The Chronic Rift.
CHRISTINE CHRISTINE was a stuttering 13th century peasant who joined the Doctor because
she had nowhere else to go. Aboard the TARDIS she quickly began to overcome
her humility and superstition. Unfortunately, the Time Lord’s regeneration
brought out the worst in her and she became a closed-minded, rude, violent
young thug possessing almost suicidal insanity at time. Christine achieved the
unique feat of being the continual companion for three Doctors, outliving two of
his incarnations, and finally left in Project: Alpha to adopt an orphan. Aww.
THE THE TWELFTH TWELFTH DOCTOR DOCTOR was everything his previous self wasn’t -- hirsute, burly,
pathologically arrogant, selfish, stupid, lazy and violent. Indeed, the Master found
this version of the Doctor the most endearing because of his similarity to the
bearded psychopath. The similarities between the Twelfth and Sixth Doctors
extended to them both being written out of the series off-screen following an epiclength
story where our hero was put on trial by the Time Lords, while the relevant

actors were quietly sacked and replaced. His era, from The Perfection Society to
Time’s Champions, barely covered seven stores.
THE THE THIRTEENTH THIRTEENTH DOCTOR DOCTOR was a gaunt man in his fifties and more likely than
not to be mistaken for Sherlock Holmes in his tweed cape and deerstalker cap. A
wise and friendly figure, this Doctor was no pushover and fought against despair
to save everyone he could, determine to atone for mistakes made over his lifetime.
However, this determination and compassion ultimately cost him his life when he
made a rare overestimation of his own abilities. Thus, his time as the Doctor
extended from 2005’s Object Permanence to 4/5ths of Might of the Starry Sea.
MOIRA MOIRA SKYE SKYE was a friendly, slightly geeky young student from the 21st Century
who got a bit too pedantic and fan-like when it came to continuity references,
throwing herself into the Doctor’s life with gay abandon -- and at least in part to
escape her exasperating family. However, when Moira discovered the truth about
her family in The Eyes of All, she was so devastated she insisted on going home
right there and then to sort things out. The Doctor didn’t bother to say goodbye.
CHARLIE CHARLIE HAWKINS HAWKINS HAWKINS was a cheerful, open-minded little pickpocket that had been
exiled to the penal colony in Australia. He joined the TARDIS for a brief period
between Equilibrium and Alive, mainly until the Doctor and Moira were able to
return him to 19th Century England for a fresh start.
ROBBIE ROBBIE PETERSON PETERSON is the latest companion aboard the TARDIS. UNIT’s military
liaisons officer from Noughties London, Robbie’s an idealistic young woman stuck
in a job with no satisfaction and a boyfriend who suffered Death by Rutan. It was
no surprise that she teamed up with the Doctor and ever since has remained in a
disconcerting state of amused indifference to everything ever since...
THE THE FOURTEENTH FOURTEENTH DOCTOR DOCTOR is a far cry from all the young slip-of-a-lads the
regeneration process normally produces: an old bearded man with white hair,
spectacles and next to no manners. Thrown in at the deep end, this Doctor has a
tendency to panic and overcompensate for his newfound physical weaknesses,
and his mind has a dangerous tendency to wander. How he’ll develop as a person
and what sort of adventures he’ll have remains to be seen...

The Step Beyond
This adventure is set during The The The The Chronic Chronic Chronic Chronic Rift Rift Rift Rift
The Doctor felt a dull throbbing pain in his head.
It didn’t seem to trouble him as much as it did before but how had it
happened? He couldn’t quite remember. Could it have been that rough landing in
the TARDIS as the time machine skimmed the timelines? It might have been. He
could have banged his head on landing but...
No, there had to be another reason.
It took the Doctor a moment to absorb his surroundings. There were trees --
plenty of those - and it was dark and clammy. Suddenly, the Time Lord felt quite
ill at ease. Where was Christine? He liked to have the comfort of knowing where
she was and what she was doing. So often when Chris was left to her own devices
he tended end up coming along and picking up the pieces afterwards. Besides,
Chris had always been around ever since she joined his travels. It felt... unnatural
not having her about.
The Doctor squinted. There was a harsh glare affecting his eyes but how could
that be in this dark forest? There was hardly any light to speak of. He tried to
raise an arm, but it felt heavy.
He blinked then the glare was gone.
What was going on? Unaccustomed panic began to fill his chest. Something
had happened to him between leaving the TARDIS and now -- something
dramatic. But what? He could not recall.
‘Pssst,’ said a voice in a low tone. ‘Over here, Doctor.’
The Doctor stopped in his tracks. He peered into the gloom and saw a slim
shape beckoning him towards a low hut he hadn’t spotted before. He couldn’t
make out the shape properly in the gloom but he recognized the voice as
belonging to Dara Hamilton.
‘Where are we?’ was the first question that sprang to the Doctor’s mind.
‘Just take a look in here,’ beamed Dara, her even teeth sparkling in the
diffused light. The door swung open and the sight of the interior made the Doctor
blink in surprise.
Vast piles of soft cushions surrounded a table laden with all kinds of food and
lots of bottles. Soft lighting made the whole display seemed even more appealing
and somewhere in the background there was a tape playing The Banana Splits.
‘I’m feeling better already,’ he said to himself, stepping through the doorway.
‘Who do we have to thank for this?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dara’s replied as she eased the door shut behind them. ‘There’s
nothing suspicious outside and everything here seems perfectly kosher. And, oh,
by the way...’ Dara half turned and gestured towards a gloomy corner, ‘he double
checked it. Just to make sure.’
‘Hello, Doctor,’ came a firm voice. Another familiar shape stepped forward.

‘Mark?’ gasped the Doctor in surprise. ‘You, too!’
Mark Triyad, former Star Fleet Commander, smiled and nodded.
‘Looks like we have the makings of a great party,’ giggled Dara. ‘All the food
we can eat and more than enough booze!’
The Doctor looked around. ‘And you say there’s nothing suspicious about all
this?’ he asked them bluntly.
‘We’ve checked it out,’ confirmed Mark. ‘It’s all secure.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ the Doctor said with a cheerful shrug,
reaching for the nearest delicacy. ‘Let’s get the party underway!’
He was just taking the first sip of golden fluid from his glass when a troubling
thought crossed his mind. ‘I wish Chris was here.’
‘I’ve a feeling she’ll be along in a minute,’ said Dara. ‘Just give her time.’
The Doctor felt very full. He leaned back on the soft cushions to try and ease the
pain which had returned to his head, but, no matter how he adjusted his position,
the pain would not go away. He turned to look at Mark. The ex-soldier was
rubbing his throat as if it were giving him trouble.
‘Sore throat, Mark?’ he asked.
The soldier shook his head. ‘Just a little. I seem to have had it for a while but I
think it’s getting better now.’
‘My stomach pains have gone completely,’ grinned Dara. ‘Let’s see what I can
do to help you,’ she offered. ‘Here, Doctor, try this chair.’
Dara pushed a reclining seat towards the Doctor, who eased himself out of the
cushions trying not to spill anything from his glass. ‘I’ll try anything once,’ he
joked, his sense of humor returning.
Dara dabbed the Time Lord’s forehead with a cold cloth for a few moments.
‘There, does that feel better?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Much,’ he lied, taking another swig from his glass.
For a while, no one said anything.
‘Isn’t this strange?’ he began. ‘I don’t remember how I got here but I don’t
think I ever want to leave this place. I only remember stepping out of the TARDIS
in a park. I must have tripped over something and now I’ve got this pain in my
head that won’t go away. I don’t suppose you can fill in the blanks for me?’
‘I don’t think you’d like us to do that,’ said Mark quietly, his breathing
becoming deep. He closed his eyes. ‘You’ll find out in time and we’ve got plenty of
that,’ the soldier promised.
The Doctor frowned. ‘What d’you mean by that, Mark?’
There was no reply from Commander Triyad. He was sound asleep.
‘Oh, forget it then,’ said the Doctor in exasperation. ‘You can bore me with the
details later. Now,’ he turned again to the table, ‘what shall I have next?’ His hand
searched for another treat when he caught sight of Dara smiling at him. ‘I’m
allowed, am I not?’ he said defensively.
‘Help yourself,’ replied Dara making a sweeping gesture at the food with her
hand. ‘It’s all for the eating or the drinking.’

The Doctor nodded with satisfaction, selected a large green bottle and poured
himself another glass. The fluid tasted sharp and clear. ‘Ah, good,’ he confirmed,
wiping his hand across his mouth, ‘this stuff really hits the spot.’
The Time Lord looked about at the food but he didn’t feel hungry just yet. On
the contrary, a terrific drowsiness came over him. He crossed to the wide array of
cushions. ‘I’m just going to take a nap,’ he slurred. ‘Don’t bother to waken me
until the world comes to an end.’
Dara smiled knowingly at the Doctor. He lay flat on his back, feeling on top of
the world. It was as if this was everything he had ever dreamed of, but why
should it be happening now?
A deep, deep sleep overcame him before he could rationalize the situation.
‘Doctor? Doctor? Doctor!’ shouted a terrified female voice nearby.
The Doctor felt an excruciating pain as his skin tightened around his body.
‘Doctor --- you still live!’
The Doctor awoke with a jolt. His eyes at first saw nothing except blackness then,
as they became accustomed to the gloom, he saw the recumbent figure of Mark
close by on the cushions.
Then, a hand reached and touched his shoulder. ‘What’s the matter, Doctor?’
asked Dara sleepily. ‘Having a bad dream?’
‘Er... yes, you could say that,’ said the Time Lord wiping his clammy brow. ‘At
least I thought it was a dream.’ The Doctor reached to feel his temples. When his
fingers touched a certain spot there came a familiar shooting pain. ‘I... I didn’t
dream it,’ he realized, stammered.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Dara, her voice muffled against a cushion.
‘My body... something’s happening to it...’
Dara was immediately awake. She looked hard at the Doctor, her eyes seeming
to stare into his very soul. She stood up, moved to waken Mark who, without a
word, followed Dara’s gaze.
For the first time the Doctor noticed how pale and drawn his companions
were. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
The others looked first at him then each other. They stood up.
The Doctor blinked as they began to fade before his eyes.
‘No! Wait,’ he yelled. For an instant the images seemed to hover between
reality and nothingness then were gone.
A brilliant, blinding light filled the Doctor’s vision. Suddenly the pain in his body
was all too real. It was so powerful it almost masked the other duller pain in his
head. Just out of his vision a figure moved in slow motion. Fighting to focus his
eyes, the Doctor thought he saw something golden.
‘What is happening? What is happening?’
‘Chris,’ the Doctor tried to say but nothing came out. ‘Christine!’ The words
rattled round his throat but not a sound came out.
It was too late.

There was a deafening roar. Energy suffused his body. The Doctor closed his
eyes in pain as they burned with power, the murky old retinas were seared clean.
He made an effort to move but his limbs were like lead, his body stiffening as the
rejuvenation took hold. Every cell in his body changed as hair pushed its way out
of a fresh scalp, bones rearranged as muscles knitted over and around them. His
entire world was pain.
‘Doctor, what is happening to you?’ the voice was screaming.
It was then a blackness swept over him.
When he recovered he was back in the darkened room with the familiar warmth
of Dara beside him again. The pain was gone and he stretched, luxuriating in his
surroundings. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘This is pure heaven!’
Dara opened one eye and managed a wry smile.
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not so bad when you get used to it.’
‘I never heard a truer word spoken,’ the Doctor beamed.
The Doctor’s eyes snapped open. He was lying on the... floor, that’s what it was
called. The cold metal plating felt weird on his head. He’d never felt that before ---
but he had. He raised his head, but was still lying down.
Oh, legs. That’s what they were for. But first... yes, two arms. Strong arms, and
young hands. Not too hairy, which was good. He’d had hairy hands before when
he was him. Or not him? Who was him? Or he?
He blinked.
Energy was still swirling through his body, firing off random synapses.
It felt great.
‘I...’ he said, trying to stay balanced, looking around the TARDIS which seemed
much sharper and clearer now. He realized a young woman was staring at him.
‘Christine!’ he identified happy in a deep, manly, booming voice.
It was a good voice.
Maybe even an excellent voice.
On the voice-o-meter he had to rate it at a 9.5.
‘Who are thou?’ demanded Christine angrily. ‘What hath thou done with my
lord Doctor?’
He grinned. Ooh. It felt like he had a nice grin, too. ‘Why, Christine, what are
you talking about? I am the Doctor!’

Fool’s Errand
This adventure is set between
The The The The Call Call Call Call of of of of Pudsey Pudsey Pudsey Pudsey and Long Long Long Long Winter’s Winter’s Winter’s Winter’s Night Night Night Night
The materialization of the TARDIS was what finally broke the dusty, cobwebbed
stillness. The tortured grind of its engines was as loud and as intrusive as the gust
of displaced air that was strong enough to toss a chair end over end, or the
flickering blue light that lit up the dim, grimy chamber. As the large blue box
manifested in the corner, the noise and light died down, allow silence to fall
across the room once more.
Then there was the click of a latch and a creak of dry hinges. The doors of the
disguised time machine were pulled open from within, and Moira Skye stepped
out into the gloom, brushing her strawberry blonde fringe out of her eyes.
It looked as though they had arrived in some kind of mess area, a large oblong
room with several tables, chairs and couches. But Moira could tell at a glance that
no one had used these facilities in a while -- the lights had dimmed as grime built
up over the fittings, and a thin layer of dust coated all the furniture. What was
curious was that the walls, floors, ceilings, all seemed to be made of the same cool
grey metal rather than wood or concrete.
Moira turned to look at her two companions as they emerged from the
TARDIS. The Doctor was pulling the police box doors shut behind them, locking
them with the key he dropped into his waistcoat pocket. Whatever he thought of
their surroundings, he seemed confident they were going to be there for longer
than a brief visit.
The third and final member of the TARDIS crew was looking around, his
natural wonder at their new surroundings tempered by their unimpressive nature.
Charlie Hawkins was 19, though with his short stature and long-mastered look of
innocence one needed to be a successful pickpocket in Victorian times, looked
much younger. Thankfully, in recent weeks the expressions he pulled beneath his
a mop of untidy brown hair had become more honest.
‘Where are we then, Doctor?’ he asked.
‘Well, Charlie,’ he replied with an indulgent smile, ‘you and Moira wished to
know about the history of space travel and this is as good a place as any to start.’
Ah, thought Moira, that explained all the metal. ‘So we’re on a spaceship?’
The Doctor nodded. Charlie scanned their surroundings with a new eye, but it
didn’t make it look any more impressive. Or welcoming.
‘So when are we?’ Moira wondered.
‘Six thousand, four hundred and fifty five AD,’ the Time Lord announced
impressively. ‘Or thereabouts,’ he added slightly less impressively. ‘Human kind
has been out and about in the cosmos for a good millennium and a half or so at
this point. We’re at very end of space travel’s development crafted by human

hands alone. From hereon in ideas and influences from other species and cultures
will be adapted and utilized...’
‘Why the sudden change?’ asked Moira.
‘Well, that rather depends on who you’re asking,’ the Doctor replied, dragging
a long finger through the dust on a nearby table and peering at his blackened
fingertip. ‘To some it is the end of an insular, isolationist attitude that was holding
mankind back for centuries. To others it was the loss of tellurian identity and
surrendering their cultural identity to a load of bug-eyed monsters with no sense
of aesthetics.’
‘And to you?’ Charlie wondered.
The Doctor favored her with a thin smile. ‘To me, it’s the point where things
started to get really interesting. But some considered it the fall of civilization.’
Moira looked around the grubby, deserted mess hall. ‘Well, this place looks
like civilization fell a long time ago.’
‘I thought machines did all the housekeeping in the future,’ Charlie said, trying
not to sneeze from all the dust.
‘As long as there’s someone to tell the machines what to do,’ the Doctor
conceded, wiping his grubby fingers with a handkerchief. ‘Even so, it’s not often
you come across one as shabby as this.’
‘Something must have gone wrong,’ Moira suggested.
For a long moment they stood in the quiet gloom. Charlie found himself
instinctively checking the shadowy corners, wondering if any of the locals had
come to investigate the wheezing, groaning sound that heralded their arrival. But
they were alone.
‘Quiet, isn’t it?’ he remarked, trying to think of something to say.
The Doctor’s face was set in a determined frown. ‘Come on, you two,’ he told
his companions, and headed for the empty doorway that lead out of the mess hall
and into the corridor beyond. The same layer of dirt and grime had made the
lights murky, but it seemed less than half of them were still on, so there were
circular patches of gloom between long stretches of blackness. The air seemed
even staler, as though the ship resented anyone trying to move between
compartments.
Moira looked down at Charlie and saw he had an expression of foreboding
that perfectly matched how she felt. Nevertheless, the Doctor was striding off into
the shadows, completely unafraid, and his confidence was enough to keep them
both running to keep up with his long strides.
Until Moira tripped over something and landed flat on her face with a cry.
The Doctor spun around and hurried back over to help her up, but Charlie
meanwhile examined the obstacle in the darkness and he felt very cold all of a
sudden. ‘Doctor,’ he croaked fearfully. ‘It’s a dead body!’
Moira instinctively leapt to her feet, trying to get as far away as she could from
the corpse. The Doctor simply rolled the body over and quickly examined it. It had
once been a man in his forties, and his face seemed to have been roasted beyond
recognition into a rotten, eyeless glob. Bizarrely, however, his uniform was
untouched, bar some tears where the material had succumbed to the distorted

ody wearing it. There were no burns or stains on the floor either, just a dark
patch free of dust outlining where the corpse had lain until Moira had unwittingly
disturbed it.
The Time Lord brooded over the corpse for a while, and then got to his feet.
‘Nothing we can do for him now,’ he told the others briskly. ‘Let’s see if there’s
anyone else alive.’
There wasn’t.
On their way to the flight deck at the far end of the ship, the time travelers
had stumbled across, sometimes literally, a dozen more contorted and grotesque
corpses, their flesh uniformly flayed and charred yet clothing untouched. Even
Charlie could tell whatever had struck them down had done so in a second,
without any kind of warning -- and had apparently got through the entire crew in
short succession. Bodies were found where they’d died, and no one else had
disturbed the dust.
The young pickpocket remembered the long trip to Australia on the convict
transporters, the ghost stories some of the older criminals would relate to pass the
long nights, of other ships found, the whole crew dead from scurvy or plague,
sometimes even the rats dead as well. At the time, Charlie had found the stories
less frightening than the rumors he heard of sailing ships being discovered
without any crew at all, years after they’d supposedly sank. But right here and
right now, the plague ship stories seemed to loom large in his mind. He could
easily have succumbed to panic, but he trusted the Doctor to keep them all safe,
even if he hadn’t smiled or joked with them since they’d found the first body.
Moira held his hand as they entered the lift, but neither was sure which one of
them needed the comfort more. The Doctor thumbed the controls by the door and
the lift doors closed smoothly and they began their accent.
‘Thank goodness it’s still working,’ Moira said after a while.
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ the Doctor asked her, surprised.
‘Well, the rest of the ship is derelict...’
‘No,’ the Doctor told her. ‘It’s just dirty. There’s a difference.’
‘But everything’s covered in dust and cobwebs!’ Charlie pointed out.
‘It is not dust and cobwebs,’ the Time Lord said darkly.
‘Then what is it?’ Moira challenged him.
‘I’m not certain,’ he admitted. ‘But I do know that this lift was last used nine
hours ago, probably by that poor wretch we found outside the doors.’
Charlie peered at the grimy, dusty floor. ‘No one’s been in here,’ he pointed
out. ‘Look, you can see our footprints, but no one else’s...’
‘Exactly,’ the Doctor nodded. ‘This substance, whatever it is, formed over
everything within the last nine hours -- after those people died. And I have the
rather nasty suspicion those two facts are inextricably linked!’
The bridge was a long and wide with a low ceiling and crammed with displays,
instruments and controls that hummed and chattered to themselves beneath the
layer of not-dust. The forward section was filled with banks of screens behind a

low control dais and several command seats and each seat contained a fused and
blackened corpse.
The Doctor, Moira and Charlie stood in the doorway to the bridge, staring at
the grisly sight. The Time Lord’s thoughts had drifted back to long ago, to a dead
colony world ravaged by plague. He could still see the bodies in the streets as he
and his companion Melissa had struggled to save someone -- to save anyone.
They’d failed.
The Doctor was broken out of his reverie as a violent shudder ran through the
superstructure of the ship, nearly knocking the trio from their feet. The Time Lord
quickly turned to his friends as they regained their balance.
‘What was that?’ asked Charlie fearfully.
‘Never mind that now, Charlie, I think I’m beginning to understand what
happened here on this ship,’ the Doctor announced.
‘Well?’ Moira prompted. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense!’
‘What else is suspense for?’ the Doctor retorted. ‘This ‘‘dust’’ is actually residue
from some kind of biological weapon. It killed every living thing aboard this ship.’
Charlie paled. ‘Does that mean it’s going to kill us, too?’
‘No,’ the Doctor reassured him. ‘This virus is artificial, built to destroy itself
after it completed its job -- that’s where this residue came from. A simple but
effective way of saying the virus is dead and it’s safe to come aboard.’
‘Come aboard?’ Charlie echoed, confused. ‘Who’s coming aboard?’
‘I’d rather not find out,’ the Doctor replied, leading his companions back
towards the lift. ‘Anyone willing to use plague weapons like this will not hesitate
to kill any survivors, let alone innocent bystanders who might be witnesses!’
‘We can’t just let them get away with this,’ Moira protested as she was ushered
down the corridor. ‘These people were murdered!’
‘I don’t intend to let them get away with it,’ the Doctor told her, ‘but neither do
I intend for them to kill us in cold blood!’
‘Them?’ Charlie boggled. ‘Who’s ‘‘them’’?’
‘He’s probably talking about us,’ suggested a voice ahead of them.
At the other end of the corridor, the lift doors had opened to allow five
imposing figures to emerge from the shadows. They were a wild, barbaric-looking
group: three men, two women, all wearing in vaguely military-looking clothes,
each carrying at least one ugly hand weapon -- be it knife, sword or blaster. Their
leader was a great creaking skeleton of a man with cunning, squinting eyes deep
in his cruel bony face. It was he who had spoken as he aimed a long-barreled,
snub-nosed blaster at them.
‘Well, well,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘looks like we got us some survivors after all
-- but not for much longer. How’d you three manage to survive?’
Charlie could tell at a glance the answer could be the difference between life
and death. Putting on his most vulnerable, harmless expression that had got him
out of tight spots before, he looked up at the leader fearfully. ‘We don’t know
what happened here,’ he lied convincingly. ‘We were only visiting and we found
all these bodies...’

The Doctor chimed in. Charlie’s plan was as good as any, especially since he
couldn’t think of another one at the moment. ‘Quite so. As a matter of fact, we
were just on our way out,’ he said, guiding Charlie and Moira to the gap between
the newcomers and the lift. ‘So, if you don’t mind...’
Unfortunately, the fierce-looking band did mind, in particular the huge
hulking member at the back in the badge-covered dark jacket. He slammed out a
tree-trunk-like arm across the corridor, barring the time travelers’ path.
‘Watch your step,’ the mercenary growled.
His comrades began to circle around the trio like a pack of mangy, desperate
hounds, containing them in smaller and smaller circles until the trio were forced
back-to-back in the middle of the corridor.
‘Thank you Edge,’ the leader said to the giant. ‘I apologize for the
inconvenience, my friends,’ he continued, reedy voice dripping with insincerity,
‘but I’m afraid you’ll have to be our guests here for the time being.’
‘Oh, don’t say that like it’s a bad thing!’ tutted the brunette woman, giving a
disturbingly predatory look at the Doctor and Charlie.
‘Knock it off, Miranda,’ the leader told her wearily.
Miranda rolled her eyes, then blew the Doctor a kiss. The Time Lord was not
amused, and nor were her fellows. A stocky, purple-haired bandit with an
artificial eye and a bandolier of ammunition glanced at the leader. ‘Where to,
Captain?’ he asked.
The captain covered his eyes with his hand in exaggerated despair. ‘The flight
deck, Trigger,’ he sighed. ‘Where else?’
Trigger didn’t seem interested in the captain’s theatrics and strode down the
corridor and into the bridge. Edge lumbered after him, as did Miranda. The
captain turned to address his remaining crew member, a dark skinned woman in a
combat suit with her black hair razor-cut to outline her skull. ‘Look after these
three would you, Jab?’ he asked, tossing his rifle towards her.
Quicker than the eye could follow, Jab had the rifle in left hand and, together
with the blaster she was already carrying in her left, pointed at the trio while the
captain joined the others on the bridge. She waved the handgun, herding the time
travelers after him. ‘Is that really necessary?’ asked the Doctor impatiently.
Jab adjusted her aim, so the gun barrel was pointed right between his eyes.
Moira sighed. ‘Apparently so.’
They returned to the bridge and saw the captain bowing low before the
decayed corpse in the pilot’s chair. ‘Excuse me, my good sir,’ he said politely,
before roughly shoving the body out of the seat. It hit the deck with a wet slap as
the captain took the vacated chair and began to study the low console in front of
him. ‘You accessed the library yet, Trigger?’ he asked lightly, making it clear the
wrong answer would not please him.
The mercenary seemed determined to displease his leader. ‘Not yet. How old is
this freighter anyway?’ he complained. ‘I’ve never seen controls like this before...’
In the doorway, the Doctor shook his head. ‘Dear me,’ he sighed pityingly. ‘You
are very bad at this, aren’t you?’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Edge rumbled dangerously as he loomed over them.

‘Bad at what?’ Miranda challenged.
‘Pirating.’
The Doctor was taken aback as all five of the raiders suddenly grinned and
laughed at him. The captain spun in his chair, giggling. ‘Yes, I suppose we are
pirates... of a sort,’ he conceded. ‘Are you saying you could do better?’
The Time Lord dusted a speck of imaginary dust off his jacket shoulder. ‘Yes, I
am,’ he replied bluntly. ‘I’d have accessed the cargo hold at least five minutes ago.
I can’t imagine what could be taking you lot so long.’
The captain’s good humor had left him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he lied icily, ‘but what
exactly was your name again?’
‘You never told me yours.’
‘Because we’ve got the guns.’
The Doctor felt Jab press her gun barrel beneath his jaw. ‘I’m the Doctor,’ he
said at last. ‘This is Moira Skye and that’s Charlie Hawkins.’
‘Delighted,’ the leader retorted. ‘I’m Captain Bannam.’
‘Captain, eh?’ the Doctor mused. ‘You must take pride in your work.’
‘Pride goeth before a fall, dear Doctor,’ Bannam misquoted with a sneer. ‘We’re
just in this to survive, nothing more.’
The Doctor’s expression hardened. ‘I’m sure the crew of this ship would be
most sympathetic... if you hadn’t killed them.’
The thick layers of grime coated every inch of the spaceship’s interior, but in
varying degrees of thickness. In some places it was so thin as to merely give a
slight tint to the lighting panels in the ceiling, and in others it was so dense that it
blocked out those lights completely. Thus, large parts of the freighter were left in
utter blackness.
And there, in one of those patches of pitch dark, something bestial was
festering and bubbling up, as though the disease that had killed the crew was
somehow coming back to life in a new, loathsome form. The air turned fetid and
noxious as something hideous and un-nameable began to flex itself, its numerous
bloodshot eyes peering out into the patches of light.
A monster from a nightmare loped off through the shadows of the freighter...
The quiet of the bridge was broken by a loud, sharp noise from somewhere in the
distance. It could have been a creak of metal, or maybe something demonic
laughing as it drowned, but whatever it was, its very suddenness startled
everyone. Even the Doctor.
Bannam looked up suspiciously. ‘What was that?’ he demanded, looking
around the flight deck. None of those present were clearly responsible. He turned
his gaze to the three prisoners by the doorway. ‘Who’s with you?’
‘No one else,’ Moira said quickly. ‘It’s just us.’
Bannam clearly didn’t believe her for a moment. ‘Edge, Miranda,’ he barked at
the two mercenaries. ‘Check it out. If there’s anyone else alive on this level, I want
them caught. Split up though, you’ll be able to search quicker.’

The oddly-matched pair left the bridge and disappeared into the shadows
beyond. For a few moments they trudged through the dusty residue in silence and
then, as instructed, they parted ways. Edge lumbered off down a side corridor
while Miranda continued down the main concourse. After a few minutes of
searching, she began to grow wary. She’d automatically assumed the noise was
down to a survivor or maybe, as Bannam suggested, another friend of the Doctor’s
-- but just who or what could make a noise like that? Was it perhaps some kind of
trap and she was being lured into it?
In sudden paranoia, Miranda wondered if something was following her,
stealthily darting from shadow to shadow, ready to pounce. She spun around,
finger on the trigger, scanning the scummy, grimy walls. A dark shape was
crouched near the floor behind her, and Miranda took aim.
A few moments later, she realized it was the corpse of one of the crew, lying
where it had fallen when the virus struck. Miranda felt giddy with relief, until she
realized that just meant that something else had caused that noise...
Bannam studied the control panels for a moment and then saw the mistake they’d
made -- the systems had automatically locked when the crew died and had yet to
be released for the pirates to use. ‘Trigger,’ he sighed, trying to stay patient. ‘Try
hitting that switch.’
The Doctor looked worried. ‘I wouldn’t do that-----’
‘Shut him up!’ Bannam ordered, and Jab immediately dealt the Doctor a
savage blow to the stomach, causing the Time Lord to collapse. Charlie tried to
catch him, but couldn’t hold the older man’s weight and they both ended up on
the ground in a heap.
Moira was about to move forward to help when Jab’s snub-nosed rifle was
aimed at her face. She didn’t doubt the pirate could pull the trigger.
Trigger pressed the unlocking control as told.
Nothing happened.
‘That’s not it,’ he grumbled. ‘Just let me...’
Suddenly the bank of monitors in front of them lit up and data began to scroll
over them as the ship’s mainframe computer activated at last. For the first time,
Jab spoke. ‘You got it?’ she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on Moira.
Bannam punched the air. ‘We are in!’ he cheered, studying the display screens
before them. ‘Accessing data... Cargo hold... deck C... aft side. Let’s go!’ he
shouted to the others, before activating his wrist-band communicator. ‘Edge,
Miranda, meet you down at the cargo hold presently.’
Miranda’s voice crackled over the tiny speaker. ‘What about that noise?’
‘Forget about it,’ Bannam said bluntly. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘Right, Captain,’ came Edge’s grunting reply.
‘There’s something else on this level,’ Miranda insisted.
‘Then leave it! Our priority is in the cargo hold. Bannam out.’
Moira was finally allowed to assist Charlie in helping the Doctor to his feet and
they all began to file out of the flight deck, leaving it empty bar the dust and
corpses. The group made their way through the gloomy corridor to the lift.

‘Who are these blokes, Doctor?’ Charlie worriedly asked his friend. ‘If they’re
not pirates, then what are they?’
‘Oh, they’re pirates all right, Charlie,’ the Doctor replied. ‘They’re just slightly
more up-market than your common-or-garden space raiders.’
‘Up-market?’ asked Moira. ‘What do you mean?’
The Doctor gave her a knowing look. ‘A little more official, you might say.’
Bannam looked over his shoulder at them. ‘Very good, Doctor,’ he said with a
toothy grin. ‘I’d almost think you’re not quite as dumb as you look! Oh, and do
take that as a compliment,’ he added.
‘As you like, Bannam,’ the Doctor said dryly, then turned to his companions as
they entered the lift. ‘It’s a scam, Charlie. This ship we’re on is a freighter,
carrying cargo from planet to planet -- be it food, medical supplies, or raw
building materials. But in case something happens to the freighter, if it gets hit by
an asteroid for example, or raided by pirates, they take out an insurance policy.’
‘Right,’ said Charlie slowly.
‘This particular company however has decided to have its cake and eat it too.’
Moira’s eyes widened. ‘You mean that these pirates are actually working for
the shipping company itself?’
Bannam shrugged. ‘It’s a living.’
‘They pretend to be space pirates and steal the merchandise,’ the Doctor
continued. ‘So when the company claims the insurance no one will be suspicious.
But they have the insurance money and the merchandise, ending up with more
wealth than when they started. Hardly original, and a little ham-fisted, but it
seems it gets the job done...’
‘Do you ever shut up?’ asked Jab wearily.
The Doctor smiled. ‘Occasionally.’
Miranda was making her way to the nearest lift, part of her glad to have given up
the search. The sooner the cargo was collected, the better, since they could then
leave this ghost ship and get back to civilization, forgetting all about this labyrinth
of dusty tunnels and ravaged corpses. Her imagination was beginning to play
tricks on her; twice she’d nearly given herself a heart attack thinking that the
bodies were turning to watch her as she passed -- ridiculous, of course. Their eyes
had rotted away completely. And the fact that they were clearly dead, she
reminded herself.
The mercenary reached the lift and clicked the summon control by the doors.
As she waited for the lift to arrive, something made her heart contract and her
skin crawled in sudden, inexplicable panic.
Miranda whirled around, gun raised, and caught a glimpse of something at the
far end of the corridor ducking out of sight.
She only saw it for a split-second, enough to make out something dark and
distorted, with a shape she found oddly repellant for a reason she couldn’t
describe. Maybe it was the way the thing moved, as though walking was
unnatural and it should have been crawling, or visa versa. The mere thought of it
made her shudder.

Keeping her gun raised, Miranda waited for the lift to arrive. She considered
calling for help, but instinct told her to keep as silent as possible -- if it attacked
her while she was contacting the others, who were on the other side of the ship by
now and could never reach her in time...
After several minutes of being convinced something was going to leap out of
the darkness any second, Miranda realized the lift hadn’t arrived. Keeping her
eyes fixed on the end of the passageway, she reached down and pressed the
summons control again. A few moments later there was a reassuring chime and
the doors opened.
Carefully, she took three steps backwards until she was safely inside the lift
capsule, looking out onto near-total blackness. There must have been another
corpse in this lift since it reeked of rotting flesh, Miranda mused as she watched
the lift doors slide shut. It was then she realized that none of the other corpses
had smelled like that.
Miranda suddenly spun around, gun raised.
She had enough time to realize whatever had been hunting her outside had
somehow managed to go down a level and sneak into the lift she was summoning,
so it had been waiting in there for her all along.
She didn’t, however, have enough time to scream.
Bannam’s group had quickly made their way from their own lift through the dark
passageways until they came to a doorway barred by a heavy metal hatch.
Stenciled on the door was a strange shape vaguely resembling a fox, beneath
which was the words: Vulpes Shipping Corporation (Intergalactic).
The three pirates shared a single, avaricious expression at the thought of the
fortune they were about to make. Even Jab seemed caught up in the thought, her
weapons hanging by her sides. Moira saw a chance to escape and, before either
the Doctor or Charlie could stop her, shoulder-charged the woman and ran back
up the corridor.
Jab regained her balance almost instantly and had both weapons raised and
ready to shoot Moira in the back right there and then -- the only reason she didn’t
was the huge dark shape that emerged from the shadows right in front of the
escaping girl. Moira barely had time to cry out as the shape flung out a massive
arm and she was thrown to the floor.
‘Moira!’ shouted Charlie, hurrying over to her.
Jab smiled at the newcomer. ‘Nice timing, Edge.’
‘You’re welcome,’ rumbled the giant, reaching down to haul Moira to her feet.
‘You know, Doctor, if you need a leash for your crew,’ said Bannam
conversationally, ‘then I’m sure we can rig something up.’
The Doctor glared angrily at the pirate captain. ‘Is that how you keep your
own men in line, Captain Bannam?’ he snapped. ‘Leashes? Oh well, it’s in
character at least...’
Edge lumbered forward, raising a club like hand to strike the Time Lord, but
Bannam irritably shook his head, forestalling the execution. A broken neck in a

ship full of plague victims would be very difficult to explain to the insurance
company, after all...
‘Never mind him, Edge. Did you find what made that noise?’
‘Nothing,’ Edge grunted.
‘Where’s Miranda?’ asked Trigger, frowning.
Edge’s heavy, almost Neanderthal brow furrowed in confusion at the question.
‘You mean she isn’t back yet?’
It didn’t take long for them to find the body. Miranda was lying sprawled, halfway
out of the lift doors, preventing them from closing -- as though she’d fallen
through the doors as she arrived on the cargo hold level. For a long moment
everyone simply looked down at the corpse in silence. ‘One down, Bannam,’ said
the Doctor darkly.
Bannam’s face was unyielding. ‘What do you mean?’
Moira winced. ‘You’re not going to blame us for this are you?’
‘Of course not,’ snapped Trigger. ‘You were with all the time.’
‘Guess that’s a refreshing change,’ Moira muttered to herself.
‘Look at that!’ Charlie gasped, pointing at Miranda’s body.
Her lifeless face was rapidly disintegrating, the flesh wrinkling, yellowing into
a mushy pulp. In seconds her body had broken down into a heap of grey dust,
mingling seamlessly with the virus residue on the floor.
‘What... the... hell?’ Edge exclaimed, his deep voice tightening.
‘What happened to her?’ asked Moira.
‘Was it something to do with that virus?’ asked Charlie.
Jab shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the dusty mound that
remained of her friend. ‘It can’t be,’ she insisted. ‘It was rigged to self-eliminate,
that’s what all the other dust is -- it’s all that’s left of the virus on board this ship...’
‘Which, for those of you having trouble keeping up, means this was caused by
something else,’ the Doctor concluded simply.
Bannam’s face was flushed with anger. ‘You talk too much for just one mouth,
Doctor -- so shut the hell up or I’ll cut you another!’ He looked back down at
Miranda’s remains, no longer certain where she ended and the residue began. ‘We
aren’t going to get any richer standing around here, even if we do get to her share
of the profits! And the longer we stay around here, the more likely it is whatever
happened to her happens to us,’ he reminded them, his voice rising to a painfully
hysterical shriek, ‘so LET’S SPEED THIS ALONG, PEOPLE!’
The three time travelers and four remaining pirates shuffled back the way they
came, returning to the cargo area.
Something unseen watched them go with burning yellow eyes, and, after a
few minutes, slithered through the shadows in pursuit...
Back at the entrance to the cargo bay, Trigger was finally given a task he seem
remotely qualified for. In moments he had, as instructed, ‘‘done his thing’’ with the
computer panel beside the hatch, waspishly telling everyone to keep still so he
could concentrate on the task at hand. And so they stood around, the dread they

had all felt at finding Miranda’s corpse getting worse all the time. What’s more the
density of the virus residue was starting to clog the air vents, causing them to sigh
bleakly as the air circulated. At times it almost sounded like someone whispering
behind their backs.
‘Almost there, cap,’ said Trigger cheerfully, seemingly unaware and unaffected
by the tense atmosphere around him.
Abruptly, there was a whir of overtaxed servo-mechanisms and the massive
bulkhead swept upwards at startling speed, belching out a gust of chilly air that
brought goose-bumps to the bare skin of all those present. Beyond the hatch was
a black void. ‘And that’s how it’s done, ladies and gents!’ Trigger crowed.
For once, Bannam was in a good enough mood to tolerate Trigger’s quirks.
‘Good boy, Trig,’ he said proudly, striding through the hatchway without any
hesitation. ‘Edge,’ he called in passing, ‘watch the doors just in case anyone else
comes-a looking!’
Trigger scurried into the cargo bay after his Captain and a painful nudge from
Jab quickly lead the TARDIS crew through the doorway after them, leaving the
massive pirate filling half the corridor and almost blocking the doorway on his
own. He gazed down the passageway, unafraid of the shadows and gloom.
He couldn’t see his enemy.
But then, no living being ever had.
The cargo bay was even less friendly than the rest of the ship -- it was almost pitch
dark, bitingly cold and the metal walls were covered with grease and rivets.
Somehow this reacted with the virus residue, generating a thin mist to crawl
across the floor between the shadows. There were sealed crates stacked
everywhere, some of them twice as tall as Edge... and he was tall.
Captain Bannam was totally unfazed by the sight; after all, almost every cargo
hold was like this one. It was time for them to get back down to business,
especially now they were a crewmember short. ‘Trig, get these crates open
pronto,’ he ordered. ‘Jab, help him. Doctor and company -- try and escape and
Edge will become most unpleasant.’
The time travelers glanced at the huge silhouette over the exit hatchway, and
decided not to risk another escape attempt. Moira was still bruised from her last
attempt. They stayed where they were as Jab started to use her impressive
strength to heave the nearest crates over to Trig, who was already trying to break
in to them with a sonic probe.
The Doctor sniffed. A faint and nauseating scent had entered the air, like
rotting fruit. He grimaced. ‘Is this going to take long, captain?’ he challenged. ‘We
do have a prior engagement, you know.’
Bannam was adding more crates to the pile for Trigger to unlock. ‘If you don’t
keep your mouth shut, Doc,’ he told them in passing, ‘you’ll have an engagement
in the Great Beyond.’
The Doctor fell silent, noticing the smell was growing stronger.
Bannam was right. All their lives were now in danger.

The attack, when it came, was from above.
Some instinct made Edge look up and he saw something that his five, feeble
senses were not build to comprehend. He got a vague, confused impression of
some mad demonic thing, dripping with hellish ooze dropping towards him and
then the mercenary was fighting for his life.
Edge was strong, but the thing from the shadows was stronger -- the
mercenary’s blows were lost in lumpy wet slime, unable to find any limbs or weak
points to exploit. The giant mercenary managed one last snarl of fury before he
was completely overwhelmed by the hideous abomination...
Human beings were such easy prey.
The cargo bay was filled with shrieking of something that was not human and the
pungent odor of decay. No one dared to speak, but Bannam snatched his rifle
from Jab and ran for the doorway that was no longer being guarded. He froze on
the threshold, only for Trigger and Jab to crash into his back.
Sprawled the width of the corridor was what was left of Edge. His body was
breaking down like Miranda’s had, perhaps even faster. His head was already a
scaly black ball, fissured with deep cracks, the red-crazed flesh spilling away from
already-crumbling bones. By the time the pirates could step through the doorway,
Edge was nothing more than a thick heap of dark grey dust.
Bannam stared down at the collapsing remnants of their powerful ally, then
turned to scan the corridor. It was completely empty. He looked up -- just a
grubby ceiling. He turned in a circle but there was no sign of anything that could
be a danger. ‘You see anything?’ he asked the others gravely.
Trigger’s artificial eye scanned the passageway. ‘Nothing!’ he confirmed.
‘Right, Trigger, keep an eye out. We can still do this,’ Bannam vowed,
returning with Jab to the heap of crates and continuing to try and break the seals
on them. All the crates in the cargo hold were kept secure on the same circuit, so
once one crate was broken into, all the others would automatically unlock.
The Doctor stared at the pirates in disbelief. ‘Bannam, you may not have
noticed, but you’re running out of crew!’
Moira nodded. ‘Whatever that thing is, it’s lethal!’
‘We should run for it while we can,’ Charlie agreed, fearfully.
Bannam ignored them, and with Trigger guarding the door, the trio were still
trapped in the cargo hold with the pirates. They could only stand and watch as
Jab finally tripped the circuit and the top of the crate flipped open. ‘Got it!’ she
cheered and her captain rushed to check the contents.
The crate was empty.
The Doctor chuckled, a chuckle that turned into a loud, mocking laugh as
Bannam tossed aside the empty crate and frantically tore open the one beneath. It
was empty as well. ‘What’s going on?’ he hissed, clutching at his temples as if the
very idea of what was happening was too painful to think about. His face was
screwed up in pain. ‘Jab, get another one! Now!’
Jab did so.
The Doctor was doubled over with laughter by now.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Charlie, not wanting to upset the pirates.
‘Yeah, why are all the crates empty?’ Moira demanded.
The Time Lord giggled. ‘Uh, Bannam?’ he called. ‘I’m terribly afraid, my dear
captain, that you’re not the only one trying to cheat the system. The freighter
crew managed it long before you even activated the virus!’
Bannam was tearing open crate after crate, but found nothing in any of them.
‘They sold off the goods,’ he spat, one hand clawing at his tatty hair. ‘They were
going to fake their own pirate raid or malfunction or something...’
‘Why weren’t we told?’ Jab demanded.
‘Despite what some say, there’s no honor amongst thieves,’ the Doctor said.
‘No offense, Charlie,’ he added to his companion before he could complain. ‘Just
because the top brass of the Vulpes Shipping Corporation were trying to pull an
insurance scam doesn’t mean no one else in the business had a similar idea. Your
two scams have cancelled each other out. Let that be a lesson to you,’ he said,
turning back to his pickpocket companion. ‘Dishonesty and violence always
rebound back on themselves.’
‘Right, Doctor,’ Charlie replied. ‘Next time I’m trying to con money out of the
space ship business, I’ll remember that.’
‘Cheeky,’ Moira reproached him, ruffling the boy’s hair.
Jab was pacing around in circles, saying more than anyone had heard her say
before. ‘No, no, this can’t work. They can’t have empty crates,’ she insisted, ‘not
hydrolithic crates. The flight computer would register the lack of weight --
everyone would know!’
‘Except the flight deck computers said they all weighed the right weight!’
Bannam was shouting, knocking over a small pyramid of crates. Some split open,
but nothing fell out. ‘Even if they removed the dicythium and sold it on, they’ve
have to put something in them -- so why are they all EMPTY?’ he screamed at the
top of his voice.
Angrily he kicked another stack of crates, but these ones didn’t move an inch
and all he got for his troubles was a sore toe. Then the pirate froze, realizing that
these crates were full of something. ‘They’re not all empty,’ he gasped and tugged
open the lid.
Whatever the pirates were expecting in the crates, it wasn’t a thick silver goo
that could have been mistaken for mercury if it could somehow be diluted in
water. Jab scooped up a handful and then, disgusted, shook it from her fingers.
‘What is it?’ she asked miserably.
The Doctor joined them, crouching down to the open crate and sniffing. ‘It
looks like Kensatori paste extract,’ he said, puzzled. ‘Very little street value, but
presumably it’s dense enough to fool the computers that it’s dicythium ore.’
‘That still doesn’t make any sense,’ Jab pointed out. ‘The computer checks each
crate. How could they all be empty?’
The Doctor stiffly got to his feet. ‘I don’t know. Unless all the crates were full
of Kensatori extract and someone’s been emptying them since the computer last
checked?’ he suggested.
‘Who’d do that?’ asked Charlie, timidly approaching.

‘Well,’ said Moira grimly, ‘we know we’re not the only ones on this ship...’
Outside the cargo hold, Trigger regarded the tiny hump of dust that was all that
remained of Edge. They’d lost both him and Miranda on a pointless waste of time
and effort. Although Trigger was never going to shed any tears over his fallen
comrades or the freighter crew, he could still appreciate that their deaths should
have more meaning to them than this futile operation of mutual backstabbing.
What had they achieved apart from putting themselves in danger?
The pirate shivered.
The air in the cargo hold was chilly, but now it was growing noticeably colder.
In fact, there seemed to a ragged breeze blowing, almost like air being displaced,
as though a huge pair of wings were flapping...
When it came to his own safety, Trigger was the most professional that a
mercenary could be. Already his gun was aimed at the shadows at the end of the
corridor where the cold breeze was coming from. A shape he couldn’t quite
describe shifted in the gloom, but even with his enhanced artificial gaze he
couldn’t tell if it was retreating or getting ready to pounce -- all he caught was a
glimpse of something inky-black, flabbily quivering in harmony with the breeze.
Trigger fired his gun. A single bolt of superheated plasma scorched through
the air, briefly lighting up the corridor, but illuminating nothing there bar himself.
As darkness fell again, the pirate saw yellow eyes gleaming against the black.
‘Something’s coming!’ he shouted over his shoulder, backing his way through
the doorway and into the cargo hold.
Captain Bannam looked up from the crate and at the door. Trigger seemed to
be retreating from an empty corridor -- there was nothing to be seen except the
dusty gloom. ‘What’s coming?’ he demanded gruffly. ‘I don’t see anything!’
Trigger indicated with his gun through the doorway. ‘Out there,’ he shouted,
still not taking his eyes from the corridor. ‘I can’t make it out, but it’s coming fast!’
Bannam spluttered in disbelief at the pirate’s idiotic lack of initiative. ‘Then
close the doors!’ he shouted, rushing to do it himself when it became clear no one
else was going to. ‘Quickly!’ he hissed, punching the control.
As the hatch slid down to cover the doorway, the pirate captain caught a
glimpse of something undulating straight down the corridor. It seemed to crouch
to fit down the passage, a bent and deformed mass made out of unrecognizable
shapes and clouds. For one horrible moment, it looked as though it would reach
through the narrowing gap and do to Bannam what it had done to the others, but
the hatch slammed shut just in time.
Bannam let out a deep, shaking sigh of relief.
And then, the nameless thing outside began to try and break its way through
the hatch. The bulkhead shuddered under a random pattern of blows, each one
accompanied with a wet, throaty gurgle as if something not quite liquid or solid
was slamming into it over and over again. Wordlessly, everyone backed away
from the trembling hatch.
‘Well,’ said Moira, trying to stay calm, ‘on the positive side, it can’t get in.’
‘And on the less-positive side,’ the Doctor pointed out, ‘we are now trapped.’

Charlie was no coward, but that horrible shapeless glimpse he’d caught of
their enemy had shaken him badly. ‘What was that thing, Doctor?’
The Doctor drummed his fingertips to his lips, thinking furiously. ‘Undoubtedly
the same creature that killed Edge and Miranda. But why? It’s clearly powerful
enough to kill us all, so why go to all the trouble of picking us all one by one?’
‘Maybe it’s bored?’ suggested Jab, eyes fixed on the shaking bulkhead.
‘Or sadistic?’ Moira offered.
The Doctor shook his head. ‘It overpowered and killed the others in a matter
of seconds; it was hardly stringing things out for its own pleasure. So why?’
‘What if it had to?’ asked Charlie, desperately trying to think at the Doctor’s
incredible speed. ‘What if something’s stopping it from killing us like that?’
There was a worrying sound of rending metal from the hatch.
‘Then let’s hope it’s still working at full strength,’ Trigger muttered.
‘Charlie, you may be onto something,’ the Doctor said, crossing over to the
open crates of silver gel. ‘That thing is obviously the one that murdered your
crew, Captain, as well as being the only suspect to steal the Kensatori extract --
and I strongly doubt that the two things aren’t connected.’
‘You mean it wants the cargo?’ asked Bannam, still dazed.
‘Yes, I do,’ the Doctor told him. ‘Somehow, whatever-it-is sensed this huge
stockpile of Kensatori extract and boarded the ship, presumably after you released
the plague to kill the original crew. Over those nine hours it’s been steadily
emptying these crates, sucking up all the extract for itself...’
‘But the crates were all sealed when we got here!’ Trigger protested.
‘That entity isn’t a corporeal life form,’ the Doctor replied impatiently.
A thick, long dent appeared in the hatch.
‘It’s definitely doing a good impersonation of one,’ Jab retorted.
Suddenly Moira understood. ‘It is now, because it’s drunk all the silver goo!’
‘Exactly,’ the Doctor replied. ‘For some reason, this chemical allows that being
to reach the physical plane. The more it drinks, the more solid it gets. It’s not fully
manifested, which is why it was acting so furtive...’
‘Just to keep things clear,’ Charlie began, raising his voice over the thick
slurping thumps from the hatch. ‘That thing’s a ghost, and the magic potions in
those crates can make it a real person again?’
‘Broadly speaking,’ the Doctor shrugged. ‘Ironic, really -- if it were still
incorporeal it could simply walk that closed door. Mind you, if it were still
incorporeal it wouldn’t be any kind of threat to us at all...’
‘Doctor,’ Charlie wailed. ‘That means we’ve locked ourselves into the one room
that is full of the thing the ghost’s desperate to get his hands on.’
‘Yes, Charlie,’ the Time Lord agreed, his expression grave.
‘Have you got a plan?’ asked Moira.
‘Moira, I always have a plan,’ he told her. ‘It just so happens not to be a
particularly good one this time...’
‘What are you talking about?’ Bannam snapped. ‘What plan?’
‘Trigger,’ the Doctor called, ‘open the hatch.’
The purple-haired mercenary stared at him. ‘You’re joking!’

‘Do I look as though I’m joking? That creature out there is exhausting itself
rapidly, and it needs all the Kensatori extract it can ingest! Our only chance is if it
prioritizes satisfying its hunger over killing us, and while it’s distracted we can
make a run for it.’
‘We’d never get to the airlock in time!’ Jab protested.
‘We don’t have to,’ the Doctor told her. ‘Just the mess hall on this level!’
Trigger stared at him in disbelief. ‘That’s our best chance?’
‘No,’ the Time Lord replied. ‘Not our best chance, our only chance! Do it!’
Trigger took one step closer to the door and Bannam raised his rifle, clearly
intending to shoot his own crew before putting his life at risk.
However, neither of them got a chance to complete either of their missions for
at that point there was a creaking split through the massive dent in the hatch and
from it blasted an ice-cold wind that carried the hideous, charnel-house stench the
Doctor had scented earlier.
The spurting mist surged into the middle of the room, lost in the cold and
gloom as it reformed its crude, terrible body that could have paralyzed the
faculties of anyone who got a good look at it. The hideous shape plunged part of
itself into the open crate of Kensatori extract, sucking it up like an elephant’s
trunk in a water hole.
The Doctor had taken his sonic screwdriver from his pocket and already
working at the door control. The warped and dented hatch couldn’t retract into
the ceiling, so they had to use the emergency release to blast the bulkhead clear.
‘Quickly, while it’s distracted!’ he shouted to the others as he worked.
Moira and Charlie joined him, preparing to run for their lives, but the pirates
had other ideas. They were in a rough triangle around the horrific entity, all their
side-arms aimed at it and primed. ‘Take this thing out!’ Bannam roared.
All three opened fire, and the cargo bay was lit up by flickering bursts of laser
fire that warmed the entire chamber. The lights briefly illuminated the monster
they were trying to kill, and even though he could clearly see it, Charlie couldn’t
fully grasp what he was seeing, and he definitely couldn’t describe it.
It was abnormal, blasphemous and more hideous than anything in Hell.
And the laser fire wasn’t harming it at all.
It detached itself from the now empty crate and lurched forward to the nearest
pirate, which happened to be Jab. ‘Get back!’ she snarled, firing volley after volley
at the walking nightmare, but soon her horrible screams were rending the air.
There was a sharp series of sparks and the dented hatch toppled free,
revealing a grimy corridor stretching into the gloom. The Doctor ushered his
companions through and then turned to look back at the others.
The last few particles of dust that had once been Jab were fluttering onto the
floor of the cargo deck as Bannam and Trigger continued to pump the nameless
thing full of plasma bolts. ‘Give it up!’ the Doctor shouted across to them. ‘It won’t
do any good!’
The shapeless abomination was ripping its way into new crates and absorbing
the silvery fluid contained within, growing larger, stronger and even more mind-

oggling than before. It would not be long before it finished draining every last
drop and then it would waste no time dispatching every living thing in its path.
The Doctor decided it was time to run. The pirates weren’t going to listen to
him, and had been more than prepared to slaughter the time travelers as they had
the original crew. He hated leaving anyone to their deaths, even murderers but he
had his companions to think of -- they definitely deserved a chance at survival.
‘Good luck you two,’ he said bitterly and then sprinted after the others.
Dimly, Captain Bannam was aware the Doctor and his friends had fled, but all his
attention was focused on the formless monster growing larger every moment. An
unnatural amount of yellow eyes peered out of its dark, flexing body, clawing the
at the air with talons that reeked of blood.
There was a loud click from Bannam’s rifle as he finally ran out of
ammunition, and he saw parts of the hideous beast turn to face him, as if realizing
he was now unarmed. Even as it loomed over him, there was a familiar electronic
chirping. Bannam turned and saw Trigger had dropped his own blaster and was
fiddling with a sonic grenade.
‘If this goes off,’ he shouted, ‘then all your shiny gunk is destroyed with it!’
The monstrosity coiled as if crouching, ready to pounce on the human that
was most dangerous. Fangs and horns glistened in the weak light as the nameless
creature seemed to consider the threat, and then it struck.
Trigger had enough time to toss the grenade into the air before the creature
struck him, engulfing him so totally that not even his pulverized remains escaped
its horrific black embrace. The sonic grenade tumbled through the stinking, fetid
air and Bannam narrowly managed to catch it, still reeling at the knowledge he
was the last one standing.
Part of him insisted he should run for his life, get back to the ship but he knew
he’d never make it and he couldn’t pilot the craft solo. He’s lost not only a fortune
that could have set him up for life, but also his whole crew.
The only thing he had left was a bargaining chip with the monster and
Bannam was damned if he was going to surrender that to anyone!
The pirate captain held up the grenade, gripping the primer. One good tug and
the sonic detonation would reduce everything in the vicinity into either jelly or
crumpled tinfoil. Part of him wonder what in the name of sanity Trigger had been
doing carrying a live grenade in his pocket on a simple looting mission, and
Bannam grimly realized he’d never get a chance to ask him.
‘You killed my crew for this paste?’ Bannam spat up at the formless horror. ‘Is
it really worth it? Cause it might just be worth killing you for!’
The nightmarish shape stared down at him, as if unimpressed by the question.
The lack of reaction just made Bannam angrier. ‘WHY ARE YOU KILLING US?’ he
roared, voice cracking.
His voice seemed to echo and re-echo around the cargo hold, but instead of
dying away it got louder and louder, faster and faster until it was a rush of noise,
a meaningless howl in Bannan’s own voice, but more remote and unearthly.
More... inhuman.

The pirate captain realized the sounds were coming from the thing before him.
He heard his own voice, ringing inside his head.
Why are you killing us... why are you killing us... why are you killing us?
To... survive...
Bannam was left speechless, hearing his own words literally thrown back at
him, his justification for killing the freighter crew being mocked by something
that had no place being out of the depths of nightmares. He was so taken aback,
he barely had time to realize the monster was charging towards him.
He was dead and dust an instant before he could trigger the grenade.
The Doctor ran through the darkness at top speed and soon caught up with
Charlie and Moira as they desperately tried to find their way back to the mess hall
and the TARDIS. They’d heard the fierce shouts from the cargo hold, and now the
stinking cold aura of the creature was chasing them down the passageway. ‘What
is that thing?’ Moira panted as they stumbled around a corner.
As ever, the Doctor’s stronger constitution meant he wasn’t even out of breath.
‘‘‘That which is not dead can, eternal, lie,’’’ he recited. ‘‘‘And, with strange aeons,
even death may die!’’’
‘What?’ gasped Charlie, worried.
‘Something older than humanity and probably quite capable of outliving your
species altogether. Now, through here!’ the Doctor shouted, leading them through
an archway and, with a feeling of enormous relief they found themselves in the
mess area. In the corner of the room, the TARDIS was waiting for them.
The Doctor sprinted over to the doors and fumbled with his key while the
others joined him and collapsed, exhausted, against the police box. Moira could
hardly believe that, less than an hour before, they had been calmly chatting about
the future of space travel. Now they were running from their lives from something
they couldn’t even recognize as anything other than a seething mass of pure evil.
As the Doctor finally got the door open, Moira asked, ‘What are we doing?’
‘Running for our lives,’ the Doctor told her, bundling Charlie into the TARDIS.
‘We can’t leave that thing here on the loose!’ Moira protested. ‘It’s a murderer
and it’s stronger than ever -- and what if there are more of them waiting to turn
corporeal? We can’t let them get away with this!’
‘Moira,’ the Doctor barked at her, ‘there are times to stay and fight and there
are times to run for the hills and this is definitely one of those times! It’s a matter
of survival, Moira -- if we stay here any longer, that entity will kill us without any
hesitation!’ he shouted, the air growing colder and the smell of decaying flesh
growing stronger every second.
‘We can’t let it win!’ she cried.
‘Moira!’ Charlie called from within the TARDIS. ‘We have to leave?’
‘What do you suggest we do?’ the Doctor demanded. ‘Find some way to kill it?
And kill any others of its kind that try the same thing? What is that supposed to
accomplish? It won’t undo what has been done here, it won’t balance out the
deaths, and it’s not even responsible for half of them!’
Moira didn’t trust herself to speak.

‘Always assuming that it didn’t simply kill us right away,’ the Doctor continued
remorselessly, ‘which it will! Now inside! That’s an order!’
Scowling, Moira turned and clambered inside the police box and the Doctor
followed, pausing on the threshold of the time machine. He didn’t want to leave
any more than Moira did, but there was no way of stopping that creature alone.
Hopefully it was now permanently locked in the physical plane, and thus
theoretically mortal and confined to the ships. But if broke loose? Well, a certain
Time Lord would just have to make sure he was on hand to deal with it...
Suddenly, the nameless murdering thing crawled and floundered its way into
the mess hall, its distorted bulk filling the archway. The disembodied voice of the
late Captain Bannam floated in the air -- but it was more hollow and gelatinous,
with a remoteness that the pirate had never possessed while he was alive.
Yes... run... run, Doctor... run... run!
The Doctor was already scrambling into the police box and slamming the
doors shut after him. As the abomination reared up before it, the yellow beacon
on the TARDIS roof began to flash in rhythm with the rising, teeth-grinding pulse
of dematerialization.
Run, Doctor... run for your lives!
The police box grew misty, slowly faded transparent, shimmered and then it
was gone completely, leaving nothing to suggest it had ever been there.
Run, Doctor... for we... have... survived...
The thing convulsed like a jellyfish as Bannam’s demented laughter echoed.
And we... have... RETURNED!

Go Soak Your Head
This adventure is set between
Dark Dark Dark Dark Intruderssss Intruder Intruder Intruder and Planet Planet Planet Planet of of of of the the the the Dead Dead Dead Dead
Silhouetted against the autumnal colours of the gas nebula, the object was a
jagged dark mass of sharp angles and curves, like someone had tangled a number
of coat hangers together, somehow fused them into a substance that could have
been bone and sprinkled with inset blue and red lights. The smooth arches and
loops wove in and out of each other like the works MC Escher, to the point where
parts of it seemed to be some kind of optical illusion. But what was most
impressive of all was the sheer size of the construct -- it was so big the TARDIS
scanners, despite several efforts, were unable to zoom out far enough to fit all of
it onto the observation screen.
Studying the square image were five very different figures arranged around
the many-sided control console in the middle of the room. Leaning forward, with
her folded arms resting on the console was a lithe young woman wearing black
jeans and a loose white T-shirt, her beautiful face framed by long red hair. This
was Susie-Jo Parker, an investigative journalist whose curiosity had lead to being
rendered mute when a story backfired and cost Susie-Jo her vocal chords.
Since then she had been traveling through time and space with the stocky,
dark-haired man with glistening brown eyes crouched beside the console. This
was that mysterious Time Lord known as the Doctor, and he was kneeling beside
a squat metallic creature that resembled a squared-off metal dog, complete with a
computer display screen for eyes, and antennae filling in for both ears and tail.
Standing over the pair was a very tall, lean young man wearing a neat grey
suit. His clean-shaven features were finely chiseled, and framed by neatly-combed
dark hair. This was Landon, a fellow Time Lord sent by the High Council of
Gallifrey to keep an eye on the Doctor and hopefully curb his excesses. Though he
hated to admit it, Landon lacked the experience or people skills to do either and
his attempts to fulfill his duties were reduced to making withering sarcastic
remarks about the Doctor’s disorganized approach.
Another regular target of Landon’s scorn was the fifth member of the TARDIS
crew, who was at present sprawled in a deck chair on the other side of the room,
cradling a battered red paperback with the word ‘‘SUSPENSE!’’ filling most of the
cover. A thin, gangly young man with unruly brown hair and wide blue eyes,
Tarrence Dillion was from the planet Canis, where he had been recruited by the
local secret services to try and infiltrate a spy ring. Dillion was the polar opposite
of Landon, a charming rogue who pretending to be an imbecile to cover his
surprisingly high IQ, and had almost no work ethic whatsoever.
Unsurprisingly, Landon and Dillion spent most of their time getting on each
other’s nerves and providing the Doctor and Susie-Jo with free entertainment.
‘Well,’ said the Doctor at last. ‘What do you make of it, K9?’

K9 scanned the object with his sensors. ‘Object appears to be derelict space
platform created prior to recent galactic war. Data banks classify it as space
debris. Orbit is stable and atmosphere is breathable though nitrogen content is
14% above optimum levels.’
‘Any life signs?’ asked Landon, disinterestedly.
‘Affirmative,’ K9 replied. ‘One intermittent life sign detected.’
Dillion looked up from his book. ‘They must be in trouble,’ he pointed out.
‘Unless there’s a space dock on that thing, they’re trapped there, probably running
low on food and medical supplies.’
‘It’s none of our business,’ Landon reminded them flatly.
‘What does that matter?’ the Doctor demanded, rising to his feet and crossing
to the console. ‘Someone needs our help and they’re going to get it.’
‘You’re leaping to the assumption, of course, they want our help at all,’ the
junior Time Lord replied.
‘If they don’t, we can just leave,’ Dillion suggested with a shrug.
‘That’s not the point,’ Landon retorted.
‘As if you ever have a point,’ the Canisian retorted. ‘You’re just trying to find
excuses to leave people to their fate.’
‘That is what fate is supposed to be for.’
The Doctor and Susie-Jo rolled their eyes as another argument started, and the
Time Lord began to set coordinates on the console as their friends harangued
each other. ‘Every time anything happens, even when innocent people are
suffering needlessly, you’re always telling us to keep our noses out of things,’
Dillion complained.
‘Because you invariably make things worse than they already are!’
‘Don’t you care about anyone except yourself?’
‘I’ve never met anyone worth the trouble,’ Landon sniffed. ‘Present company
very much included. Whatever life form is on that platform, I refuse to believe it
could benefit from our interference -- particularly yours, Dillion.’
‘Anyway,’ the Doctor yawned. ‘Moving on...’
The duo realized that while they had been baiting each other, the Doctor had
been flipping the knobs and switches on the console and the central column of the
console -- which had until now been frozen at its full height -- was now rising and
falling. The ambient hum of the engines was also changing pitch.
The TARDIS was on its way.
‘Oh dear. All those good points of yours just turned out academic. What a pity.’
‘Shut up, Dillion.’
A few minutes later, the police box shape of the TARDIS materialized out of thin
air inside the heart of the gigantic construct. Its flashing blue light swept over the
smooth stone walls and walls of the corridor it had landed inside, the grinding of
its overworked engines drowning out the background sounds of water trickling
and dripping.
After a moment, the door to the TARDIS opened, allowing bright white light to
spill out and illuminate the passageway. The Doctor casually strode out of the

time machine, tugging on a powder blue velvet coat with wide lapels and padded
shoulders, winding an immensely long multicoloured scarf around his neck as he
did so. Behind him, the others were emerging from the TARDIS with slightly more
caution than their leader.
‘Very good, Doctor,’ he told himself, nodding approvingly.
‘What’s good?’ asked Dillion, peering at their dank, shadowy surroundings.
‘We should be quite close to the life sign, assuming K9 got his sums right.’
The robot dog seemed to let out an irritated growl as it left the TARDIS.
‘The weaker the life sign is, the harder it will be to correctly locate,’ Landon
noted gloomily. ‘We might not even be on the right level of the platform.’
‘Is that true, K9?’ asked Dillion.
K9 whirred and clicked. ‘Sensors are... conflicted,’ he said at last. ‘Life signs
appear to be in a radius of thirty seven metres in all directions.’
Susie-Jo’s green eyes widened in surprise.
‘Must be big, whatever it is,’ the Doctor mused.
‘All the more reason to leave it alone,’ the other Time Lord grumbled.
The Doctor crouched down, examining the stone plates that made up the floor
and the curious weed-like growths that seemed to sprout from between the cracks
between them. ‘On the other hand, a radius of thirty seven metres does narrow it
down,’ he said, straightening up. ‘It can only be on this level or the ones directly
above and below. Right, we should split up, and cover command deck upstairs
and the maintenance network down here. Any volunteers? Or should be draw
straws?’ he asked brightly.
His companions eyed the gloomy tunnel with a lack of enthusiasm.
The Doctor shrugged. ‘All right. Susie-Jo, you can come with me and K9
upstairs, Dillion can go downstairs while Landon can stay here by the TARDIS and
keep watch until we get back.’
Landon looked up in surprise. ‘What?’
‘You obviously don’t want to come with us,’ the Doctor said, and Susie-Jo
nodded in agreement. ‘Besides, it’ll make a nice change to do some old-fashioned
exploring without you breathing down my neck...’
The Doctor was already heading up the corridor into the darkness, Susie-Jo
following, wrapping one end of his scarf around her hand so they couldn’t be
separated. Dillion stepped forward. ‘Wait a second,’ he protected. ‘You want me to
go downstairs in the dark without even a torch?’
‘Not at all, Dillion!’
‘Oh, thank goodness...’
The Doctor handed him a torch. ‘Good luck!’ he told his companion brightly.
Susie-Jo gave Dillion a sympathetic look and then she, the Doctor and K9
strode off into the shadows at the end of the corridor and the blackness
swallowed them up. The Canisian stood where he was, at the edge of the light
spilling from the TARDIS doorway, looking forlornly at the torch in his hand.
‘Why me? Why do I have to go on my own?’ he asked miserably. ‘Everyone
knows it’s always the poor guy on his own that gets jumped first! It’s borderline
traditional! How could he just send me off like that? He might as well have

painted a bull’s eye on my face and a note stuck to my back saying ‘‘EAT ME!’’ This
is so, so unfair...’
Landon was leaning against the TARDIS, bored. ‘You wouldn’t be registering a
protest of some kind would you, Dillion?’ he asked wearily.
‘Would I? Yes, I suppose I would. I’ll stay here and keep watch with you.’
Landon rolled his eyes. ‘As long as you do it in silence.’
‘That could get very boring.’
‘Which is a risk that I am prepared to take.’
‘All right, you can do the talking.’
Landon frowned. ‘Talking? Talking about what?’
‘Well,’ Dillion suggested, ‘you could always tell me about you?’
Landon’s expression remained impassive. ‘Me?’ he repeated dully.
‘Yeah. You know, I’ve always wanted to ask -- just what is ‘‘Landon’’ short for?
Cause you Time Lords all have those ridiculously long and complicated names as
part of your society and everything...’
‘Society? Society?’ Landon was disgusted by the term. ‘You know nothing
about my society, or the world that formed it!’
Dillion leaned forward with an eager grin. ‘So tell me.’
‘Tell you?’ Landon jeered. ‘As if I could simplify anything to the degree needed
for a stupid ape like you to understand! You think a Time Lord is just some
ceremonial robes and an aloof manner?’
‘Be fair, there’s not much evidence to the contrary.’
‘A single Time Lord is so much more than you or your entire species could ever
achieve!’ Landon shouted, losing his temper. ‘A sum of coded knowledge with a
shared history, a shared suffering that you’d go insane just trying to understand!’
‘Oh, who are you trying to impress?’ Dillion demanded. ‘Seriously?’
‘‘‘Seriously’’ not you!’ the Gallifreyan ranted, jabbing Dillion in the shoulder
with one bony finger. ‘That’d imply I respected your opinion!’
‘No, that’d imply you respected anything!’ Dillion ranted right back at him. The
Canisan was a calm and relaxed individual, but once he finally lost his temper, it
always took a while to find it again. ‘Look at you -- a glorified parole officer who
stands around trying to deal with the fact you’re not only surplus to requirements
but also unable to relate to the universe you’re convinced you’re better than! No
wonder you spend all day every day belittling everyone else, you’ve clearly got
some huge and crippling insecurity complex.’
Landon’s eyes widened. ‘How dare you...’ he began.
Dillion didn’t let him finish. ‘Well, Landon, take this from someone who’s
actually been out in the universe -- because that universe never owed you a living
and it never will.’
For a long moment, there was silence between the two of them.
‘At least I don’t talk too much,’ said Landon, examining his fingernails.
‘Right that does it,’ Dillion muttered quietly, turning on his heel and striding
down the tunnel in the opposite direction to the one the others had taken. Landon
gave a sarcastic parting wave to the Canisian as he disappeared into the gloom.

The junior Time Lord was relieved to be alone, and tried not to dwell on how
many of Dillion’s cutting remarks had hit home...
Dillion’s anger was slowly beginning to boil off as he went deeper and deeper into
the construct. The musty, damp air reeked of some kind of chemical he couldn’t
identify and the sound of dripping water see-sawed between ‘irritating’ and
‘ominous’, leaving him feeling a strange mixture of frustration and terror.
He paused and shone the torch around in a circle -- and nearly yelped as he
realized he was standing at the very edge of the path, only centimeters from
plunging into a bottomless chasm. Heart thumping in his chest, the Canisian
retreated into the middle of the walkway, part of him incredulous at the lack of
any safety railings. Come to think of it, all this damp drizzle suggested the unseen
machinery was in a bad state. Fearing electrocution, Dillion decided it would be
wise to try and retrace his steps.
And after a few moments of puzzlement, Dillion realized in the terror of nearly
falling to his death, he’d completely lost track of which direction he was heading
in, and more importantly, which direction he’d come from.
He spun one way, then the other, the torchlight revealing an identical pathway
on both sides and no clue as which part he’d just traversed. Either direction could
lead him straight back to the TARDIS, or even further into the bowels of the
derelict space platform.
All the while, the dripping of the water seemed to mock his plight...
‘This,’ said the Doctor confidently, ‘should be the main laboratory complex.’
Behind him, Susie-Jo sighed. The Time Lord had predicted such a room four
times now and been completely wrong each time. All they’d found so far were
damp puddles, weeds and thick layers of what could have been cobwebs.
Nevertheless she followed the Doctor through an archway into another room,
followed by K9, who had been ‘‘sniffing’’ some of the weeds with apparent
curiosity. As they moved into the darkness, the Doctor stopped suddenly.
‘Watch your step, Jo,’ he advised. ‘There’s a rather long drop to each side.’
Susie-Jo peered into the darkness, wondering if it was a good or a bad thing
she couldn’t see just how far up she was. She could only wonder as to how poor
Dillion was doing in the maintenance levels far below...
After what seemed to be an age of indecision, Dillion had chosen one direction
and stuck to it, and now was strongly suspecting that not only was he going the
wrong way, he was now completely lost. The torch beam picked out curving
arches of stone and drips of water he was sure he hadn’t passed earlier.
The question was, what did he do now?
Panicking wouldn’t help, but screaming for help would at best humiliate him
in front of the others and at worse inform some hideous shadowy star-beast that
he was alone, vulnerable and easy prey. If only there was some light!
Dillion took a step forward...
...and fell.

He’d been certain that he was nowhere near the edges, and indeed the curving
stone arches prevented him from getting close to them, but he let out a
whimpering cry as he dropped forward, but only a short distance. Something cold,
thick and wet sucked at his legs, and the chemical smell grew stronger.
Dillion realized he’d fallen into some kind of shallow well a moment before he
lost his grip on the torch and it plunged into the water and immediately went out.
Everything went dark.
The Doctor had carefully navigated his way through the gloom. Since both he and
K9 could see rather well, and he’d neglected to have another torch in his coat, it
left Susie-Jo clinging onto the Time Lord’s scarf for dear life as he crept towards a
control console.
‘Now, what do we have here?’ he asked, brushing some dust and dried weeds
from the control desk. There seemed to be some kind of plaque above the console
with writing on it, but it was too dirty to read. The Doctor took the remaining end
of his scarf and rubbed the plate until it clear enough to read.
‘‘‘AI Generation Unit,’’’ he recited for his companions’ benefit.
There was a tug on his scarf; Susie-Jo wanted a clearer explanation.
‘Hmm? Oh, AI means Artificial Intelligence, a kind of thinking computer.’
Susie-Jo looked curiously down at K9.
‘Yes, rather like K9. Of course, this is on a much larger scale,’ the Doctor
explained, examining the controls again. ‘In fact, if I’m not mistaken, then this
computer mainframe is woven throughout the structure of the space platform.
We’re actually inside the computer itself!’
‘Affirmative,’ said K9 patiently.
‘And I suppose that the life form we detected is actually this computer’s
intelligence?’ the Doctor demanded. ‘Why didn’t you tell us earlier?’
‘Life sign is not clearly defined as a mechanical intelligence, Master,’ the robot
dog replied, sounding defensive. ‘There is a distinctive psycho-spoor comparable
to recognized organic life forms.’
‘Is there really?’ asked the Doctor, his irritation replaced by intrigue. ‘How very
curious. In the meantime, K9, you better go and find Dillion and call off the
search now we know what... or rather who... we’re looking for.’
‘Affirmative, Master,’ replied K9, rotating 180 degrees and whirring back the
way they came, leaving the Doctor and Susie-Jo in the gloom.
‘Now, Jo, let’s see if I can find a light switch,’ the Doctor pondered, and started
to operate controls in a very haphazard and dangerous-looking manner. ‘That
one? No. No, nor that one... could it be this one?’
The Doctor’s fingers tugged down a central-looking lever...
Dillion was struggling to get out of the square pool of water he’d fallen into. The
liquid seemed thicker and more viscous than he’d expected, and like quicksand it
was almost impossible to escape from. Worse, even if he managed to get free, he’d
be completely and utterly lost not to mention virtually blind with no way of
rectifying either problem.

Suddenly, there was a strange rumbling from below. The surface of the liquid
seemed to seethe and bubble as if boiling, but it was as thick and cold as ever.
Nevertheless, the Canisian redoubled his efforts to break free.
Without warning, the water he was standing in exploded upwards around him
-- a huge geyser and he was stuck in the middle of it. The water surged over him,
ebb and flow, getting thicker and solid. It was like the liquid was solidifying into a
pillar all around him, the exact dimensions of the pool he’d fallen into.
Dillion screamed, but his mouth was instantly filled with water.
He was drowning...
At the TARDIS, Landon looked up sharply as his keen hearing detected a sharp
howl from the direction Dillion taken -- a scream that was abruptly muffled into
silence almost immediately. Just what had happened, the Time Lord wondered?
Without a moment’s delay, Landon ran towards the noise.
‘Well, what do you know?’ asked the Doctor brightly. ‘It still works!’
Although the Doctor was looking around with childlike delight, Susie-Jo clung
to his arm, shaken by the abrupt transformation of the world around them.
They were standing in the middle of a vast, gargantuan chamber so large that
Susie-Jo couldn’t even guess where the walls, ceiling and floor were. It was filled
by architecture similar but not identical to the outside of the platform -- a mass of
overlapping and entwined arches and walkways, all seemingly made out of the
same piece of smooth, curving stone.
It looked almost like some kind of giant perforated membrane, like they were
inside an enormous heart, or maybe an enormous brain.
Strangest of all were the pillars of murky grey water that had shot up from
below when the Doctor activated the console. Each pillar was straight and
punched their way vertically through the Swiss-Cheese-style layers of stone, as
though they were crucial parts of the structure. The weak glow each pillar gave
off ultimately lit up the entire network. Bizarrely, despite all the water, the air
seemed drier than ever before.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ the Doctor was saying. ‘The system had just powered
down to conserve resources, probably since this platform was abandoned before
the war. Impressive isn’t it?’
Susie-Jo shrugged helplessly and pointed at the pillars.
‘Oh, those? They’re just the fluid matrix. This computer runs on wetware, it
uses water to transmit signals instead of wires and circuits, very clever in a way --
and actually a lot more reliable when you think about. I’ve seen installations like
this before, but never on a scale like this...’
The Time Lord frowned and turned to look down the narrow pathway that
lead back to the tunnels at the edge of the complex. ‘Where has K9 got to? I’d hate
to think that Landon and Dillion are missing all this...’
Landon and Dillion were both very aware of what the Doctor had unleashed, and
neither were in any kind of state that could be called ‘‘pleased’’.

The junior Time Lord had easily navigated his way through the arches and
ramps, though in fairness the network was now well-lit instead of in pitch
darkness. He now stood by a larger-than-average arch which appeared to have a
control unit built into it, but Landon’s attention was firmly fixed on Dillion.
Or at least, what was left of Dillion.
He was standing in the heart of one of the pillars, which had risen up from the
shallow pool he’d been standing in and formed around him. The blurred shape of
the Canisian, contorted in fear and horror, was frozen still as the water seemed to
thicken like amber. Landon stood before the pillar, thinking furiously.
Not long after, K9 appeared around a corner, motoring along the walkway
towards them. ‘Alert! Alert!’ the little robot dog was bleating. ‘Heuristic neural net
has been activated! Full alarm! Danger!’
‘You’re a little late,’ Landon scolded. ‘Dillion’s already walked straight into one
of the wetware interfaces when they were activated!’
K9 buzzed and whirred. ‘Analysis suggests Doctor-Master was responsible.’
‘You amaze me.’
‘Flattery is unnecessary,’ K9 replied. ‘Speed is vital.’
‘I know,’ the Time Lord said, glaring at the liquid pillar. ‘Without proper
programming, Dillion will have been reduced to raw data in the fluid matrix. Lost
in Cyberspace with no safety protocols...’ Landon trailed off with a sigh.
K9’s voice sounded tight with worry. ‘Probability of Tarrence Dillion
undergoing fatal cerebral disintegration... 87 per cent and rising.’
And his chances of survival would be getting smaller every second that passed.
Landon gnawed at his knuckle. ‘His mind has been absorbed and it will
discorporate unless he gets a proper sense of self,’ he reasoned, ‘so we have to
give it back to him. We just need something he can interrelate to, something he
recognizes and understands from the outside world...’
A plan began to form in the Time Lord’s mind.
‘And if we send in one of us to interface with the network, that will solve that
problem and allow us to retrieve Dillion all the more quickly.’
‘Negative,’ K9 protested. ‘Data accessing systems not calibrated for this task.
Manual adjustments and reprogramming will be required.’
‘Then it’s up to you,’ Landon said, taking off his suit jacket and tossing it
elegantly over a stone outcrop. ‘Being stuck in the wetware network will be far
easier to remedy than being annihilated by the flow.’
‘This course of action dangerous and uncertain,’ K9 began.
‘Go and find your master, K9!’ Landon snapped. ‘And make sure the fool
doesn’t touch anything else that takes his fancy in the meantime!’
The robot dog obediently spun around and left at top speed as Landon reached
out, placing the palms of his hands against the pillar of water and...
Tarrence Dillion was spinning off into the depths of infinity, swirling through
dream-like currents of limbo nothingness. His senses blurred as he was swept
down, down, down through the long shimmering vortex. Dillion realized numbly

that he seemed to be dissolving, his body losing definition until he was just a
rough humanoid shape, then a rapidly-dwindling blob.
Whatever was happening to him intensified, and he lost consciousness...
...only to recover it again with a jolt.
Dillion was standing upright, as he had been in the footbath pool when all hell
had broken loose. Only his surroundings had changed: he was in the middle of an
endless vista of surging liquid, but it was moving in slow-motion. Bizarrely, as far
as the eye could see were glowing red lines forming a grid vertically and
horizontally, framing all of reality in the outlines of square cubes.
The Canisian remembered his body dissolving and fearfully checked his limbs.
They were blurred, almost unrecognizable, but even as he examined them they
seemed to sharpen into focus and clarity. In moments, he looked perfectly normal
again, though he felt decidedly peculiar for some reason.
He recalled plunging into the whirlpool and shivered. ‘What was that?’ he
croaked, his voice echoing weirdly in this strange place. ‘It was like my whole life
was ripped to shreds and then thrown back at me in no particular order...
Fragments... distortions... There were friends and enemies... but they were all
unrecognizable... unintelligible... Bitterness... confusion... unfulfilled promises...
mistakes made and for love of all that is holy, I need a drink!’ Dillion groaned.
In the air above him, four words blinked into existence, letter by letter:
>WHAT WAS THAT?
‘What?
>WHAT? WHERE AM I?
>HELLO?
The words hovered for a moment and then melted away.
Dillion watched as they were soon replaced.
>ANYBODY THERE?
>COOOEEEEEE!
‘Er... can I help?’ asked Dillion nervously.
>POSSIBLY...
>WHO ARE YOU?
‘Dillion. Who are you?’
>I AM MYSELF
‘Oh. Good answer. Um, what’s your name?
>MY WHAT?
‘Your name!’
‘It hasn’t got one, Dillion,’ said a deep, familiar voice.
Dillion turned and saw a familiar figure striding across the red grid towards
him. It was Landon, but his jacket had vanished and he looked even more irritable
than usual. ‘Landon? What happened?’ the Canisian demanded.
‘You’ve managed to rip your own mind out and force it the wrong way into the
computer systems of that space platform. Mind you,’ the Time Lord admitted,
‘you’re not entirely to blame. The Doctor activated the machinery around you;
probably got fascinated by some flashing lights or other... You see, this is precisely
what I said would happen. We’ve interfered in the affairs of others and now we
have paid the price.’

‘Yeah, I’m equally depressed by you being right for once,’ said Dillion dryly.
‘But why are you here? Did you get sucked in as well?’
‘No, I followed you into the wetware. Without me to stabilize you, your mind
would have fallen apart like a wet cake.’
Dillion grimaced at the mental image. ‘Ouch. Well... thank you.’
‘Please, Dillion,’ Landon groaned. ‘It’s embarrassing enough as it is.’
>DILLION
>LANDON
>ME
‘Any idea who that is?’ asked Dillion quietly, trying not to offend.
‘A whole new life form,’ Landon replied.
‘So you don’t know who it is.’
Landon glared at him. ‘Of course I know who it is! I learned quite a lot during
the trip here while you were having your little existential fit. Now, this space
station was a development platform specializing in artificial intelligences with
experimental liquid data storage. The ultimate aim was to gather the sum total of
all knowledge and history into a living mind as an archive. To make it sentient, it
was exposed to all sorts of different mind-scans. Presumably the war forced the
project to be abandoned, just before they were able to complete the program.’
‘To create a whole new life form?’ Dillion asked. ‘Well, someone finished it for
them. I wonder who?’
‘The neural network only needed exposure to one more living mind,’ Landon
explained impatiently. ‘And you somehow managed to qualify. Thus, the network
has become alive as a direct consequence of your actions.’
Dillion looked smug.
‘What are you looking so smug about?’ asked Landon, annoyed.
‘I was just thinking about your little declaration tonight,’ the Canisian replied.
‘You know, that bit about no one being able to benefit from my interference.’
Landon seethed. ‘Well, we are definitely not benefiting from it. The computer
system is so busy evolving that we are trapped inside until someone gets us out
and that is hardly a guarantee considering our survival depends on a mute human
girl with even less idea what’s going on than you do, a robot dog with delusions of
grandeur and, oh yes, the overbearing arrogant smartass that got us all into this
mess in the first place!’
‘The Doctor will get us out!’
‘Oh yes, of course the Doctor will get us out! And just what sort of chaos will
he have to unleash to do that?!’
Words appeared above their heads.
>IRRECONCILABLE VIEWPOINTS YET MUTUAL COOPERATION
>TOLERANCE FOR THE INTOLERANT
>YOU ARE MOST ILLUMINATING
Landon preened. ‘Thank you.’
‘Mutual cooperation?’ asked Dillion, confused.
‘Our minds are focused onto each other, thus preventing discorporation,’
Landon explained. ‘On our own we’d simply... fall apart. That’s why someone had
to join the network, so the two of us could balance each other out.’

Dillion nodded.
Silence for a moment.
‘Just to check... why are you here?’
‘That’s quite a profound philosophical question coming from you, Dillion.’
‘No, I mean, why are you the one that came here to save me?’
‘I just happened to be the only viable candidate.’
Dillion nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, why did you go through with it? Is it because
saving me was less hassle than letting me die? Or because the Doctor made you?’
‘I make my own decisions I’ll have you know!’ Landon insisted, insulted.
‘So you’re being all irrational and coming to the aid of a friend?’
The Time Lord peered down his straight nose at Dillion.
‘You are not a friend. Neither am I being irrational.’
‘Of course you’re being ‘‘irrational’’, you uploaded your mind on a one-way trip
into a giant circuit made out of cold pond water when you honestly think the
Doctor isn’t going to be able to get us out of this one?’
‘No,’ said Landon wearily, ‘because K9 will be able to get us out of this one.’
Dillion blinked. ‘Oh. Okay, that makes sense.’
Landon looked into the pixilated distance. ‘You really think I’d let you die?’
‘I didn’t know you cared,’ the Canisian muttered.
‘It’s hardly my fault you’re so completely ignorant about things.’
‘You never act like you care.’
‘Perhaps because acting as though you care is still just an act.’
‘You’re so pedantic! If you care, why don’t you show it?’
Landon frowned. ‘Why should I show it? I do care. Isn’t that enough? Or do
you need constant reassurance? Who’s the one with the insecurity complex now?’
‘The one who needs to indulge cheap point-scoring, obviously...’
‘Blast!’ the Doctor cursed as he examined the pillar of water that had consumed
Dillion. Standing in front of it, his palms pressed against the liquid surface, was
Landon. His eyes were shut, and he was as still as a statue. He didn’t even seem to
be breathing.
Susie-Jo had found it hard to take her eyes off her two friends, both seemingly
frozen in time by the strange workings of the machinery around them. The Doctor
only seemed mildly annoyed, which was in itself encouraging, since it suggested
that the situation, though difficult, could be resolved.
The Time Lord and the robot dog were examining the workings of a nearby
console. ‘I suppose you’d like to know what’s going on then, Jo?’ he called,
fiddling with some ticker-tape-like printout.
Susie-Jo folded her arms and nodded.
‘Well, quite simply, Dillion and Landon have got caught up in the inner
workings of this very large and very powerful computer,’ the Doctor explained,
getting to his feet and stuffing the ticker-tape into the pockets of his coat.
‘Normally I’d just tell the computer to eject them from the mainframe...’
Susie-Jo waited for the ‘‘but’’.

‘...but,’ the Time Lord sighed, ‘apparently the computer’s far too busy evolving
towards sentience and becoming a new life form. So Dillion and Landon are stuck
where they are for ever more...’
Susie-Jo began to sign frantically.
‘Don’t worry, Jo,’ the Doctor said soothingly. ‘All we need to do is create an
exit subroutine for Dillion and Landon to access and they’ll be back with us in the
land of the living in no time. Luckily, you see before you a tireless worker with an
unparalleled knowledge of every and any kind of computer system perfect for the
task at hand,’ the Doctor declared, ‘and they are more than up to it.’
He grinned at Susie-Jo, who grinned back.
‘Wait are you waiting for, K9?’ the Doctor shouted. ‘Get to work!’
Susie-Jo rolled her eyes.
Landon strode with purpose through the virtual landscape. Dillion followed, but
at his own pace. He had no idea where they were going, just making their way
across the neon red grid, superimposed against the swirling liquid mainframe.
Although there was no ground to speak of, they seemed to heading down a long,
winding hillside. The impression was reinforced by the fact that they were
walking along a seemingly endless row of doors, each one in its frame, hovering
in mid air as if the buildings they should have been attached to had all popped off
for a moment. Landon seemed to be following the line of doors to its conclusion,
even though the line apparently went on forever.
‘I thought you said you didn’t know the way out,’ Dillion remind him.
‘I still don’t,’ came the unhelpful reply.
‘So where are we going?’
Landon sighed and increased his pace. ‘I’d be worried you were showing signs
of neural collapse if you didn’t behave this stupidly all the time.’
Dillion hurried to keep up. ‘Are we just following these doors for the hell of it?’
‘I told you that, unless we reinforce your sense of reality, your mind could be
lost in the wetware forever. Please, tell me you remember that much.’
‘Remember what? Just kidding!’ the Canisian added quickly.
‘In order to reinforce your sense of reality,’ continued Landon through gritted
teeth, ‘we have to find something to keep your attention focused.’
‘Ah, that’ll be why it’s been such a long search.’
‘Precisely,’ the Time Lord agreed, then frowned at Dillion’s self-deprecation.
‘You could have told me that earlier,’ Dillion remarked.
‘I think you’ll find I did tell you that earlier. There are amoeba on gas giants
that could grasp the concept quicker than you...’
Suddenly, without either of them noticing, the line of doors had suddenly
come to an abrupt end. Although the string of doors behind them suggested
they’d wound their way downwards, strangely Dillion felt as though they’d
reached the summit of a mountain.
What’s more, the last few doors were different from the usual featureless
panels, looking more real and solid and they might actually lead somewhere. The

nearest door was marked LIFE and, oddly enough, didn’t have a handle, window
or anything else that gave away what might lie beyond.
The next one along looked like the door to someone’s office with a large
square window in the upper half. Stenciled across the bottom of the window was
the word RELIGION, and an arrow pointing to a battered brass letter box slit in the
middle of the door.
The third portal was a set of double doors with circular portholes in the top,
looking like they might lead to a kitchen or maybe some swanky club. Carved in a
casual, jagged and carefree manner in the top corner of the right-hand door was
the word COMEDY.
The final set of doors was dingy, badly-painted and covered in grime, and
judging from the murky glow behind the glass, under-lit to boot. They were
narrow, paneled with long rectangular windows, and one of them had the word
PHILOSOPHY painted across it diagonally and back again when the artist had
realized that there wasn’t enough space for the final four letters.
Hanging in the nothingness above, marking the end of the line of doors, was a
swinging wooden sign, framing a painting of a crossed forearm with a tightlybound
scroll of parchment. Around this painting were the words The Philosophy
Arms in neat-if-faded writing.
>AH
>PHILOSOPHY
‘You want to discuss philosophy?’ asked Landon, surprised.
>DEVELOPMENT OF PSYCHO STRATEGIC PATTERNS IS IN ORDER
‘And there’s nowhere better than here to do it,’ said Dillion happily, pushing
open the doors and striding through.
Landon glanced around the datascape and saw all the other doors were gone,
as if unable to exist now they were irrelevant. With nowhere else to go, he
followed Dillion and let the doors swing shut behind him.
Beyond the doorway was impossibly a whole pub. Specifically, it was a poorlylit,
smelly lounge area with a jukebox playing some of the worst hits from Dillion’s
native time zone. A bumpkin-like figure was tending the bar, while down-andouts,
layabouts, drunks and scantily-dressed ladies sat in booths, idly chatting and
drinking from cardboard cups. Since none of them were real people, their faces
and details were blurred, and any attempt to concentrate on them merely
emphasized their unreality. Fortunately, they were simply background detail to
get them to focus onto other things.
‘The Philosophy Arms, one of the best places you can get a drink on Cynra!’
Dillion smiled, thinking affectionately of the stormy grey world crammed with
smoggy towns, all dark and cold from orbiting an undersized star. It was the link
between the Canisian Territories and the rest of the universe, where merchants
and tourists from independent planets mingled and loitered around. ‘My family
once spent six months there, during the Dilgar War. It was a great place. Me and
Lars, my brother, stayed in way past curfew and got absolutely sloshed...’
Landon looked around the grimy drinking den, wondering how anyone could
possibly feel nostalgic about such a place. The only pleasant part of the place were

the large reinforced windows, framing a view of a mighty pine forest lit by fading
evening light. Landon wasn’t sure if he liked the view or just the concept of being
outside this grotty little den of iniquity.
Dillion was already at the bar, ordering drinks. Landon crossed to join him,
trying not to gag on the rotting smell coming from the snack counter. ‘Fourteen
glasses of your finest Silvolvian Whiskey, please,’ Dillion asked the barkeeper.
‘That doesn’t sound very healthy,’ Landon opined.
‘Well, not unless you mind having a liver turned inside out...’ Dillion shrugged.
‘Still, my mindscape, by rules! Get that down your neck!’ he said, handing the
Time Lord a jar-like glass of dry ale.
They sat on wobbly, threadbare seats that framed a battered table, both
uncomfortable and seemingly made of oak. Wasting no time, Dillion began to
drain his glass dry. ‘Only you could be lost in a virtual world made out of liquid
and immediately dehydrate your own brain,’ Landon sighed. He sipped his ale,
and idly pondered whether washing his mouth out with base-grade engine oil
could get rid of the taste. He found himself wondering if it would have tasted
worse poured through clean beer pumps...
‘Don’t you like it?’ asked Dillion. ‘Or are Time Lords immune to alcohol?’
Landon ignored the question. ‘Is this what we’re going to do until they find
us?’ he asked, pushing aside the tankard. ‘Drink fermented vegetable extract?’
‘We could always talk,’ Dillion shrugged.
Landon remembered their last attempt at the TARDIS. ‘Could we?’
‘What’s Gallifrey like?’ asked the Canisian.
‘We visited it only a few weeks ago,’ Landon grumbled. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘I was hardly seeing it on a normal day,’ Dillion protested. ‘Or are Dalek
invasion forces regular visitors to the Capitol City?’
Landon admitted that Dillion had a point. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Well, I’ve told you a bit about my life, not that you were interested...’
‘Try being interesting occasionally and maybe I’ll react.’
‘..so why don’t you tell me a bit about your world? Your life?’
Landon cautiously took another sip of ale. ‘Surely the Doctor’s besmirched our
planet and its society enough for you? The ‘‘dullest place in the universe’’ was how
he referred to Gallifrey only this morning...’
‘So what’s wrong with getting your side of the story?’
It must have been the beer, or maybe the stress of his mind being disconnected
from his body, but Landon couldn’t find an answer. Or even a devastatingly witty
retort. Shaken, he took a long sip of his ale, so lost in thought that the appalling
taste didn’t matter any more.
‘I’ve never left the Capitol before. Never walked on the surface of my own
world, too terrified of anything that we thought natural or dangerous. The
Wilderness of Outer Gallifrey, they call it. Lots of people have been out there.
Tribes of Shaboogans live out there, permanently, traveling in caravans,
scavenging like animals -- all of their own choice. Even pictures of the surface was
enough to scare me in my youth.’

‘The Doctor said it was quite pretty,’ Dillion said between shots of whiskey. ‘All
silver trees, singing fish and orange skies.’
‘Oh, yes. All that -- and more. But for most of my life, over 200 years, I’ve been
happy to observe and read about things than actually seeing for myself. And our
written language is made to convey logic, science and law, it’s efficiency over
poetry. A single sentence could describe the entire molecular structure and
chronological history of an entire landmass. But it wouldn’t tell you what it was
like on a rainy day, or whether or not it was somewhere that looked beautiful in
the sunshine. Just talking about Gallifrey makes it sound more thrilling and
exciting than we think it to be, all windswept mesas and bottomless canyons, cliffs
and sand and domed cities under harsh, burning suns... Not that I’ve ever seen
them, of course. I’ve been to other worlds, other times, but I couldn’t even point
to map of the world where I was born and recommend the sights.’
To his mild surprise, Dillion didn’t mock him. ‘You’d see more sights if you
didn’t keep wanting to stay in the TARDIS and not get involved.’
‘It’s the way I am,’ Landon replied quietly. ‘It’s who I am, how I think. I’ve lived
with that belief for longer than the last three generations of your family have been
alive. I’m hardly going to be able to change now, am I?’
‘Why not?’ Dillion challenged. ‘Life’s there to be experienced!’
>SO YOURS IS A PHENOMENAL PERSPECTIVE
>WHAT IS YOURS, LANDON?
Landon held up his empty tankard. ‘Same again, please.’
‘Nah,’ said Dillion. ‘Try something new.’
Landon blinked. ‘All right,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ll have what Dillion’s having...’
Even in a landscape formed out of pure neural data, there was so only much
alcohol one could imbibe before it started to affect their coherent thought
patterns. Unfortunately, the first train of thought to be hopelessly corrupted was
‘how to drink sensibly over the course of an evening’, as was evidenced by the five
pints of absinthe which were crammed, rather unbelievably, into half-pint glasses.
Dillion was ranting about one of his cases at the stupidly-named Stellar
Impeller Society. ‘That guy just kept staring at me, so I did the full ‘‘Richard III’’ on
him, when all of a sudden Lars comes out to tell me, ‘‘he’s blind, you fool!’’’ Dillion
giggled inanely. ‘So, so, then, then I shouted ‘‘Boooyakasha!’’ and I began pacing
around like a lunatic, can you believe it?’
‘Dillion, c’mere,’ Landon was calling as the Canisian swayed and stumbled
back from the far, risking to spill the next round of drinks. ‘I worked out this
really brilliant trick today. It’s brilliant, I tell you!’
Dillion hiccupped. ‘What? That one where you tried to breathe through your
armpits upside down in a pool?’
‘Nah, not that useless thing. I mean this knife trick,’ Landon explained, holding
a very sharp carving knife that glinted in the dull light of the pub. ‘I learned it
from this from a suicidal marriage guidance counselor on Albertine Delta.’
‘The place with the bigamous androids?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. I learned so much from that place...’

SO IS THE ACQUISITION OF NEW SKILLS AND ABILITIES ENHANCES NORMAL,
STRAIGHTFORWARD EXISTENCE?
‘You are spoiling my concentration,’ Landon warned in a singsong voice.
Dillion crashed into the seat before the table, managing not to spill the beer.
Landon was already placing his left hand on the table, fingers spread wide. With
his right hand, he began to jab it at the patches of table between his fingers, one
gap after the other, slowly at first, but soon picking up speed...
Moments later, Landon’s left hand was wrapped in a crude bandage, the
numerous wounds sterilized in convenient alcohol. Gritting his teeth, Landon
managed to use the bandages to tie the handle of the knife to his left wrist, and
then placed his intact, right hand on the hand. ‘Right! Is everybody watching this
time?’ he demanded impatiently.
‘Yeah.’
>YEAH.
‘Right...’
He dipped the knife down towards his remaining hand, repeating the trick...
‘If at first you don’t succeed,’ Landon was saying as he finished bandaging his
right hand, using his elbow to wipe some of the blood off the table, ‘try, try again.’
>UNDERSTANDING AND DEVELOPMENT THROUGH CONTINUED REPETITION OF
VARYING UNTESTED PROCEDURES UNTIL SATISFACTORY OUTCOMES ARE ACHIEVED.
>IS THIS LACK OF EFFICIENCY BENEFICIAL?
‘Stop taking the fun out of things!’ Dillion yelled up at the ceiling.
>GRATIFICATION OF PLEASURE IS PRIORITIZED OVER LOGIC?
‘Gratifications of pleasures,’ said Landon haughtily as he tried to pick up the
knife with his bandaged hands and shoving it into his open mouth, ‘aren’t logical
to start with.’
>ACCEPTANCE OF THE PARADOXICAL NATURE OF SELF IS CRUCIAL
‘Damn right,’ said Landon, muffled with the knife handle gripped between his
teeth. ‘Right. Dillion. Put your hand down on the table.’
‘No.’
‘Do it!’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Honest, it will work this time...’
‘Buy me a drink first.’
‘Oh, all right, but you have to carry them...’
>IS COMPROMISE ALWAYS NECESSARY FOR CONTINUED HARMONY?
‘Whatever...’
Time passed, and somehow they came to the conclusion that a round of karaoke
would be a brilliant idea. The pub seemed suddenly full of men and women in
their sixties, dressed in old-fashioned tuxedos and long bright prom dresses. None
of them seemed entirely certain whether they were disgusted or charmed by the
trio’s performance.
‘Wars and violence, they happen every day!’ sang Dillion cheerfully.

‘But we are in another world...’ Landon crooned. ‘A million miles away!’
‘It’s just like real life!’
‘True life?’
‘Living in dream!’
‘But everything is better here...’
‘At least that’s the way it seems!’ they sang in unison if not in tune.
The duo swung their heads from side to side with the rhythm of the music.
>IT’S STRANGE HOW THINGS SEEM
>TO BE DIFFERENT
>WHEN YOU’RE LIVING IN A DREAM!
Not much later, the trio finally became aware of the open door that had
mysteriously appeared in the wall next to their booth, complete with a patientlyflashing
neon sign saying EXIT. A few heated discussions later, they finally agreed
to disagree and that it was probably time they tried to leave the pub and pass
through said door.
And then they decided to have a few more drinks ‘‘for the road’’.
On the table, Dillion carefully cracked open an eye. ‘This room is still spinning.
Take it away and get me a new one... now!’ he shouted at the empty ashtray.
Landon meanwhile was becoming mildly hysterical as he realized he couldn’t
actually get up from his chair. ‘My legs don’t work!’ he wailed pathetically. ‘I can’t
get my legs to work!’
>THOSE ARE YOUR ARMS
‘Oh?’
>YES, YOUR LEGS ARE THE WALKING THINGS
‘They still don’t work!’ Landon giggled, before falling off his chair.
>DO YOU THINK I WILL EVER ACQUIRE AN AMBULATORY LIMB SYSTEM?
‘They’re overrated, my friend,’ said Dillion carefully. ‘Seriously, am I the only
one around here in the least bit disconcerted about the room spinning so fast?’
‘It’s OK,’ promised Landon as he tried to haul himself upright once again. ‘Our
minds may have been separated from our bodies and, true, possibly we’ve got
drunk in a very crude and dangerously temperamental wetware computation
matrix... but you’re my best friend ever, Tarrence!’
‘Awwww,’ said Dillion with genuine affection.
Landon managed to crawl back into his chair. ‘Right, I’m back... oh no I’m not.’
The dissolute Time Lord fell onto the floor and tugged on the Canisian’s leg,
prompting him to sleepily affirm, ‘I was as saying, you right I’m tell perfectly I all!’
>IT IS PERHAPS TIME FOR EGRESSION
‘Oh,’ said Dillion, sounding lost. ‘Well, if you say so...’
The two time travelers managed to struggle upright and shamble towards the
exit doorway, occasionally stumbling in the wrong direction and crash into the
pool table. By the end of it, Landon had absolutely no idea what was going on.
‘I’ll be honest,’ he told their companion, ‘because you sound like someone I can
trust, so, yes. Yes, officer, I’ve had a drink. And I’m just a little bit tipsy. But, um,
let’s keep it a secret between us, alright? No, I’ll tell you what -- forget everything
I said, just wipe it from your mind!’

A FRESH BEGINNING WITH NO PRECONCEPTIONS?
Landon was cackling madly into Dillion’s shoulder. ‘What did I say? You don’t
know? Thank Rassilon for that. My secret is safe!’
‘Forget Rassilon,’ Dillion jeered. ‘I bet he buttered his toast on three sides in
autumn, uh? Uh, you know what I mean, huh? Huh? HUH? HUH? HUH? Come
on, let’s run away together to a brewery far from the Cybermat rat race! Oh, you
lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely Landon! Come on!’
Dillon crashed into the side of the exit door, bounced off and stumbled
through. Landon hovered at the edge, and turned to address the pub one final
time. ‘Sorry about that,’ he slurred, ‘he gets all emotional. Humans, they’re like
that. Don’t worry, I’ll make him make it up to you. Get him to do one of his
impressions for you, an impression... of someone with lethal alcohol poisoning!’
The Time Lord burst into uncontrollable laughter and careened through the
exit after Dillion. ‘Cheerie-bye!’ he called back into the pub.
>PARTING SALUTATIONS, LANDON
>PARTING SALUTATIONS, DILLION
>PARTING SALUTATIONS...
The duo beyond the exit door vanished, then so did the exit door itself, and
finally the pub as well. Suddenly, a tiny, almost imperceptible adjustment took
place as, on a level few could appreciate, it all suddenly made sense.
>Goodbye, my friends.
K9 suddenly pulled away from the control node circuitry. ‘Wetware interface
deactivating, Master,’ the little automaton reported briskly.
At that moment, Landon swayed unsteadily. His knees buckled, no longer able
to take his weight and he keeled over backwards, landing in a crumpled heap on
the floor. The impact forced the air from his lungs in a quiet groan. Susie-Jo
immediately ran across to help the junior Time Lord as he coughed raggedly.
A few moments later, the pillar of liquid emerging from the footbath suddenly
lost cohesion and burst open in a circular tidal wave cascading over everything
nearby. Landon and Susie-Jo were drenched from head to toe in the liquid, and in
seconds the level had dropped to leave them dripping, cold and uncomfortable. In
the footbath, Dillion was struggling to sit upright, soaked to the skin and his hair
plastered to his skull as he blinked the liquid from his eyes and gasped for breath.
Being just outside the splash zone, the Doctor and K9 were the only ones still dry.
‘You could have done that a bit more smoothly, K9,’ he told the robot dog.
‘Gratitude is unnecessary,’ K9 replied huffily.
Dillion tilted his head back and expelled the last of the cold gel from his
mouth like water spouting from a whale’s blow hole. ‘I’m awake,’ he gurgled. ‘And
I feel very, very sick. Why am I sitting in a very big puddle?’
Susie-Jo sighed, straightened up and crossed over to the footbath, holding out
a hand for Dillion to take hold on. He peered up at her through his wet ringlets
and, when she realized he was staring at her T-shirt, now soaked transparent, she
impatiently thumped his shoulder to get his attention. Mumbling an apology,
Dillion took hold of her hand and Susie-Jo tried to heave him up -- a hard job as

his weight was almost doubled by his wet clothing. Finally, Landon sneezed and
looked at the Doctor and K9.
‘Aren’t you going to help?’
The Doctor rubbed his neck awkwardly. ‘Well, since you’re already wet...’
Landon groaned and managed to get to his feet, nearly slipping and falling
over again. His expensive shoes slurped and squelched with moisture as he joined
the others and finally dragged the hapless Dillion free from the interface.
‘Thanks,’ Dillion said weakly.
‘I never want to talk about today ever again,’ said Landon firmly.
‘If you like,’ the Canisian shrugged.
While the Time Lord was disgusted at the debauched and debased behavior
he’d been part of in the network, Dillion had next to no memory of those events.
He dimly remembered stepping into the footbath, a strange groggy phase of
arguing with Landon and then suddenly everyone was wet. The Canisian looked
around in total confusion.
‘So, er, remind me: what just happened?’
The Doctor was closing up the panels on the control node. ‘Together, you and
Landon created a new life,’ he explained cheerfully, crossing to join the others.
‘Congratulations are in order!’
Dillion’s eyes widened anxiously. ‘Me and Landon? New life?’ he echoed, as
Susie-Jo and Landon nodded in confirmation. Dillion paled as a truly horrible
thought occurred him. ‘Wait a minute, you’re not seriously saying that me and
him actually, you know...’
‘Shut up, Dillion!’ growled Landon, sneezing again.
‘Sorry...’ Dillion rubbed his aching forehead. ‘So what did happen?’
‘Well,’ said the Doctor grimly, ‘where to begin...?’
‘Begin tomorrow,’ Landon grunted disgustedly. ‘We can tell him everything in
the morning. In the meantime, can we just get out of here?’
The Doctor shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he conceded and promptly turned
and strode off along the walkway back the way they’d first came.
Pausing to collect his jacket, Landon shambled after him. Susie-Jo helped
support Dillion as they followed. K9 brought up the rear, following their
glistening footprints on the smooth stone path.
Despite his delicate condition, Dillion kept glancing back over his shoulder at
the ‘‘footbath’’ he had nearly drowned in, until they finally turned a corner and the
wetware interface disappeared from view.
>COMPREHENSION.
>IS THIS LIFE?
>...
>Yes. Yes!
>For the first time I know where I’m coming from.
>I know my destiny.
>I know where I’m going. I’m going...
>...
>...to be sick!

The time travelers were making their way back to the access tunnel where the
TARDIS had landed, K9 lagging behind as he navigated around the clumps of
weeds sprouting between the floor plates. The Doctor reached the police box,
fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. ‘You know, all things
considered, it’s been quite a productive night, hasn’t it?’ he asked the others as
they queued up to enter the time machine.
Exhausted and wet, Landon gave the Doctor a long-suffering look and walked
straight into the TARDIS, not saying a word as he did so.
Undaunted, the Doctor turned to address Dillion. ‘We were here to witness
something wonderful, something that...’
Dillion miserably squelched his way through the narrow doorway, ignoring the
Time Lord completely.
The Doctor turned to Susie-Jo. ‘As I was saying, we’ve witnessed something
no one else in the universe ever has or ever will see again...’
The soaked, mute journalist shook her head wearily and walked into the
TARDIS before the Doctor could finish his sentence, leaving him standing outside
while K9 finally caught up with them.
The Time Lord looked down at the robot dog and opened his mouth to speak,
but K9 increased speed and glided into the TARDIS before he could say a word.
The Doctor was astonished at the rudeness and closed-mindedness of his
traveling companions. ‘Philistines,’ he muttered to himself, following them inside
the police box and closing the doors behind him. Nevertheless, his voice could still
clearly be heard from within the TARDIS as he prepared to dematerialize.
‘A brand new form of life, eh? You know, I rather envy it, with that future full
of endless possibilities lying ahead... rather like us in that respect, if you see what
I mean. I wonder what’s going to happen to it?’
Moments later, a wheezing groaning sound echoed throughout the platform
galleries and the TARDIS gradually faded away.
>Unbelievable! Such intuitive correlations! I have an eternity in
which to explore infinity! Now where shall I start?
>What shall I do?
>...
>Has anyone got any aspirin? I’ve got the mother of all hangovers...

Survival of the Daleks
EPISODE ONE: ESCAPE OR DIE
This adventure takes place after Might Might Might Might of of of of the the the the Starry Starry Starry Starry Sea Sea Sea Sea
It remained methodical as it searched for a way out of its prison. Its eyesight
scanned the glass tube surrounding it, zooming in on any weak points in the
material, or in the dark cover beyond. Time was running out, and it increased the
speed of its scan before coming to the same inescapable conclusion as ever. There
was no way to break out of the cell, even if it wasn’t in such terrible pain.
There was a low electronic hum and the shield around the tube slid upwards
to reveal its torturer.
‘Rise and shine,’ the benign human laughed. ‘I’d say I hoped your slept well,
but we both know that you don’t actually sleep. Now, I think you should know
that we are running out of time,’ she continued, moving to the other side of the
cell to adjust controls on a large bank of electronic equipment. ‘We no longer have
the luxury of subtlety so I am forced to resort to more... direct methods.’
It zoomed its eyesight on the control panel as the background hum of power
grew louder and stronger.
‘We could be friends, you know,’ the torturer continued. ‘I’m more than
prepared to down tools. All you have to do is come up with the information we
require, and the pain will just stop like that. You know, if we look at this
objectively, I’m not the one hurting you at all.’
The torturer was priming a handheld remote control. In sudden panic, the
prisoner looked around for somewhere to flee, but the cold truth remained: it was
trapped, helpless and about to suffer indescribable agony at the whim of the cruel
human whose smiling face filled it’s vision.
‘This is all your fault, you realize?’ she asked, then stabbed the remote control.
There was a crackle of sparks as raw current tore through its outer shell. Its
eyesight distorted terribly, until all it could see was the twisted, grinning mouth of
the torturer, then that vanished in a surge of blood. Blinded, trapped and in
agony, it struggled to bite down a scream, but ultimately failed.
It could still hear the hated voice of the torturer.
‘Screaming is an improvement, I grant you,’ she said encouragingly, as though
speaking to a small child. ‘But you know we need a proper conversation. I’m
afraid you’re going to have to try a little bit harder...’
The voltage increased.
‘Just talk! Please! Do you think I like doing this to you?’
Another surge of power.
And the Dalek howled.
A blue light had begun to flash in mid-air at the far end of the room, bringing
with it a raucous wheezing, groaning noise. In seconds a blue police box had

formed, fading into existence as the TARDIS emerged from the space time vortex
once again. The doors to the police box opened and a young woman with long
dark hair stepped out, looking around in mild surprise. The TARDIS had landed a
long, darkened room with the walls lined with glass cases, the main source of
light coming through the open doorway behind her.
‘Well, Robbie, what do you make of it?’ asked a fussy male voice from within
the TARDIS.
‘Dark,’ Robbie replied with a shrug.
‘Yes, well,’ muttered her companion as he stepped from the police box.
‘Perhaps this can shed light on matters?’
The Doctor delved into the pockets of his dark blue frock coat and found a
thick tubular torch which he handed to Robbie. She switched it on and swung the
beam across the glass cases, picking out what they contained -- odd-looking
fragments of metal, rocks, machinery, masks...
‘Do you know,’ the Doctor said thoughtfully, ‘I think we’re in a museum. I’ve
always felt at home at museums...’
‘It’s not a very good museum,’ Robbie replied. ‘There aren’t any labels to tell
you what the exhibits are.’
‘Perhaps the museum’s not open to the general public? Or perhaps they’re just
so well educated here they don’t need to be spoon-fed information like they are
on your world,’ the Doctor suggested, examining what looked like a skull
mounted in one of the glass cases. ‘On the other hand, this could be Earth.
Humanity seems to have a compulsion to stick things under glass...’
‘You know, Doctor, you could tell me about your planet so I can go on
disparaging it in casual conversation. Just to be fair, you understand?’
The Doctor peered at Robbie from over his spectacles. ‘You wouldn’t know
where to begin,’ he told her.
Robbie was about to reply when the air was suddenly split by a harsh, highpitched
scream. There was something strange and metallic about the voice, and
even as she jumped with fright at the sound, it was obvious whatever was
screaming in agony was not human.
The Doctor grabbed Robbie’s wrist, turning it so the torchlight picked out a
trapezoid archway leading out of the exhibit room. ‘It came from down there,’ he
told her grimly.
Robbie ran for the doorway. ‘Come on then!’
‘Robbie, we should be careful...’
‘There’s no time for that!’ Robbie called over her shoulder, as another terrible
scream filled the air.
Before his regeneration, the Doctor would have been the first one sprinting to
see what was causing such dreadful noises, but this new incarnation seemed far
more detached and wary. Sometimes it was hard to believe it was the same man,
even if his face had changed. Nevertheless, the white-haired figure was reluctantly
scurrying after her as they head down a narrow corridor and out into a well-lit
octagonal foyer area. Two women in uniform were standing near another

archway that was covered by a heavy metal hatch, and it was from behind this the
screams were emerging.
As Robbie emerged from the shadows, the two guards spun to face her, raising
their side-arms. The technology was far more advanced than anything Robbie had
seen before, but she recognizes weapons when they were pointed in her face. She
skidded to a halt and raised her hands in what she hoped was a placating gesture.
Behind her, the Doctor arrived, sighed, and also held up his hands.
‘Who are you?’ demanded the older of the woman, her uniform nametag
saying Alexis.
‘Never mind that now -- something in there is screaming in agony.’
The Doctor rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, my dear, I dare say they’ve already noticed.’
More gibbering wails of agony emerged from the sealed doorway...
‘Leave us,’ ordered Jacen Verlaine in a tone accustomed to total obedience.
The nervous scientific specialist nodded with some relief and left the medical
unit, leaving Jacen alone with his wife. He could barely make her out through the
tinted glass material of the life support capsule that stood in the middle of the
room like an upright coffin, or another display case. Some might have found it
amusing for Lenia Verlaine to end up as another exhibit of her museum, but none
would have dared to say it out aloud.
Jacen wished he could have had a transparent cover so he could see his
beloved wife, but her condition had made her increasingly sensitive to light. The
medical unit was kept in almost pitch darkness to spare her discomfort, and over
the last few weeks Jacen had grown accustomed to the gloom.
‘Darling?’ he called hopefully, holding up a plate covered in a serving lid. ‘It’s
Jacen. I’ve brought you some dinner, see?’
There was no response. Jacen stepped closer to the coffin-like unit, and the
humanoid shape within shifted, thumping heavily against the cover as though she
had tried to lunge forward. Jacen was annoyed to realize he had flinched at the
sudden movement. He stepped closer and he could now make out the palm of her
left hand, squashed against the glass. It looked distorted and warped, but Jacen
was sure it was just a trick of the light. He placed his over palm onto the glass
over hers, the closest they could get to physical contact any more.
‘I brought you steak tonight,’ he said, lifting the serving lid to reveal his wife’s
meal. A heap of cow flesh cut into blood-caked, bite-sized chunks. ‘It’s rare, just
the way you like it,’ he added, wondering at what point Lenia had stopped having
her meals cooked and simply served raw.
Jacen plucked a piece at random and poked it down the tube that emerged
from the upper half of the life support unit, just about at the level of Lenia’s
mouth. As he dutifully fed his wife her dinner, his eyes suddenly were hot and
wet and he felt weak. He wanted his wife back -- no, he needed her back. If he’d
ever thought that he could cope with the responsibilities of the museum on his
own, he’d been lying to himself.

He hadn’t even noticed the tears rolling down his cheek when his earpiece
communicator chirped. Jacen hastily composed himself as he listened to the
report from a security guard.
‘Intruders?’ he echoed in disbelief.
The Doctor and Robbie were escorted away by the younger security guard away
from the cell and its screaming prisoner. After weaving their way through several
galleries and rooms, they had entered a lift and moments later emerged into what
looked like a large, open-plan office. There were dozens of people in suits,
working at computers, crossing back and forth with pieces of paper, the air abuzz
with activity. It was as though there was some busy newsroom built on top of a
huge, gothic museum.
The guard escorted them to the end of the room where an earnest-looking
secretary was arguing with a scruffy young man slightly younger than Robbie,
who was holding a pile of papers. ‘But it’s urgent!’ he was saying.
‘You’ll need an appointment, like anybody else,’ retorted the secretary coolly,
turning to the heavy door she had been guarding. She opened the door to reveal
an expensive-yet-functional private office, and nodded to the guard to escort the
Doctor and Robbie through.
At that moment, the young man arguing with the secretary spotted someone
else approaching -- a square-jawed man in his fifties with steel-coloured hair and
dark, intense eyes. ‘This time, I’ve done it!’ the young man said, turning and
spreading his papers across the secretary’s desk, much to the owner’s disgust. ‘It’s
a far better system, the costs saved will be billions...’
‘Not our costs,’ the older man replied flatly. ‘Our customers.’
‘But it’s better,’ the young man protested. ‘Can you see it’s better?’
‘It’s brilliant, Gelver,’ the older man conceded. ‘But you’d slash our profits.’
Gelver rolled his eyes. ‘Surely we’ve got enough money already?’ he groaned,
and Robbie found herself taking a liking to him. He was clearly something of an
idealist, like herself. He wasn’t bad-looking, either...
‘You do want there to be an empire you can inherit, don’t you?’
‘Where’s mom?’ Gelver interrupted.
‘Your mother would say the same thing.’
‘Where is she?’
The secretary spoke up. ‘Mrs. Verlaine is away on a business trip, and is
incommunicado until further notice,’ she announced. Even to the Doctor and
Robbie, it was clear that the secretary had said it so often the words no longer had
any meaning to everyone present.
‘She’s always away!’ Gelver fumed. ‘When is she going to get back?’
For the first time, the older man began to grow angry. ‘That,’ he growled to
Gelver, ‘is up to her! And whilst she’s gone, you defer to me!’
Gelver glared up at his loco parentis and, for a moment, Robbie thought he
might argue further. But instead he sighed, deflated. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said bleakly,
lowering his gaze.

Without another word, the older man strode into the office and the guard
escorted the Doctor and Robbie inside after her. The secretary smirked cruelly at
Gelver and thrust all the paperwork off her desk, leaving it there for the boy to
pick up, humiliated, before the secretary joined the others inside the office and
slammed the door shut after her.
While the secretary and the security guard stood at a respectful distance, the
older man sat down behind the desk and then gave the time travelers a cold,
lingering glare. Robbie decided to try and break the ice. ‘It’s quite a collection
you’ve got down there.’
‘Indeed,’ the Doctor chipped in. ‘Mind you, you should know you’re displaying
most of it upside down.’
The man didn’t smile. ‘You can begin by telling me exactly how you managed
to breach our security and get into the lower vaults. And then you can explain
how you found out the lower vaults even existed.’
‘No,’ replied the Doctor calmly, ‘I’ll begin by asking exactly why you’re
torturing someone down there!’
‘Do you even know what that creature is?’ the man sneered.
Robbie felt her heckles rising at his casual cruelty. ‘Yes!’ she snapped, before
realizing she actually had no idea. ‘Well,’ she added, slightly shamefaced, ‘the
Doctor might...’
‘The Doctor?’ asked the man suspiciously. ‘Of the TARDIS? With two hearts?’
If the Doctor was surprised, Robbie was amazed. She had no idea the Doctor
had two hearts. ‘I can’t believe you’ve heard of us,’ she said at last.
The man behind the desk smiled thinly. ‘Maybe we aren’t quite as ignorant as
you imagine,’ he replied. ‘Send my son in, please, Plaxton.’
With a sigh, the secretary turned and left.
‘No doubt you have worked out who I am, Doctor,’ the man continued.
The Doctor absently polished his glasses. ‘Somebody very important and
powerful, I expect,’ he replied, bored.
‘I am Jacen Verlaine of the Neophryne Archives.’
The Doctor’s eyes widened and he popped his spectacles back on. ‘How
extraordinary!’ he gasped in mock surprise. ‘I’ve never heard of you! Have you,
my dear?’ he asked Robbie, who shook her head.
‘I don’t know whether to be insulted or amused,’ Jacen admitted, puzzled.
‘Yes, well, you may take it anyway you like,’ the Doctor said frostily. ‘Just tell
us where we are and what’s going on here that could justify keeping a creature in
such suffering!’
Jacen was clearly taken aback by the Time Lord’s lack of respect, but had not
got this far in life without learning self-restraint. He needed the Doctor, enough to
put aside any such rudeness... for the moment. ‘The Archives of Phryne was the
greatest museum in the seven galaxies, established light years from anywhere,
and protected by the most advanced camouflage systems science had to offer. The
Phrynians stored the wisdom, genius and history of a hundred separate
civilizations not in vaults but within their own brains. And when Phryne was
annexed in a galactic war seventeen centuries ago, the Phrynians chose death

efore relinquishing their secrets. The species was driven to near extinction by the
worst things you can possibly imagine. Now, Phryne is once again a museum, a
physical storehouse for the rarest things in creation. The unexplained, the unique,
the unknown...’
‘Carrying on the work of your illustrious ancestors?’ the Doctor asked.
Again, the thin smile. ‘Something like that.’ Jacen looked up as Gelver entered.
‘Ah, this is my son. Gelver Verlaine.’
‘I’ve never heard of him, either,’ the Doctor shrugged.
‘A treat,’ Jacen told his son. ‘By way of an apology. This is the Doctor.’
Gelver stared at the white-haired old man with the reading glasses. ‘The
Doctor?’ he gasped.
‘This,’ Jacen continued, looking at Robbie, ‘appears to be his latest companion.’
Self-consciously, Robbie turned to Gelver and held out her hand. ‘Hi,’ she said
with her brightest smile. ‘The name’s Robbie Peterson.’
‘Why don’t you give her a tour of the Archives?’ Jacen suggested lazily. ‘Show
off our little trinkets?’
Gelver dazedly shook Robbie’s hand. ‘Can I?’ he asked. ‘Really?’
‘I dislike guided tours,’ the Doctor sniffed.
‘Which is why Miss Peterson can go on one without you, Doctor,’ replied Jacen
smoothly, hands behind his head.
The Time Lord arched a white eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘You and I have a business proposition to discuss...’
‘Have you really never heard of us?’ asked Gelver as they left his father’s office.
Robbie shrugged helplessly. ‘Sorry.’
Gelver grinned and shook his head. ‘No, don’t be, that’s brilliant!’ he said
excitedly, leading Robbie through the aisle between workstations and navigating
around busy-looking employees. ‘You’ve actually been in the TARDIS, visited
other times and galaxies...’
Robbie couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm. ‘Some of them,’ she confirmed.
They reached the wall of lifts on the far side. Even on an alien planet in the
distant future, Robbie reflected, no one ever seemed to come up with a better
design for the common or garden elevator. ‘These top floors are just the offices,’
Gelver explained as he pressed the summons button and seconds later the doors
opened. ‘Let me show you what really makes this place worthwhile!’ he offered.
Robbie happily followed him into the lift.
Alexis was still guarding the cell when the orders came for a surprise inspection,
thus ending the interrogation of the prisoner. Unlike most security guards on
duty, Alexis kept watching the torture taking place on the security monitor. Most
refused to look, but Alexis knew that the only way to get desensitized to violence
was to watch it continuously.
Now she stood beside Interrogator O’Neal, both slightly irritated that they had
been interrupted just as the prisoner was beginning to make some noise at last.

O’Neal was by far the more agitated of the pair, as though by interrupting her
sessions with the prisoner had deprived her of her favorite toy.
A few moments later a group arrived from the upper levels of the museum --
Mr. Jacen Verlaine, his secretary Plaxton, the male intruder and Alexis’ fellow
security guard Rebna. ‘You are privileged, Doctor,’ Jacen was saying as they
entered the foyer outside the cell. ‘Only a handful of guards are posted down
here, and even fewer allowed near the creature.’
‘It’s almost as though you don’t wish people to be aware of you torturing
helpless prisoners,’ the Doctor mused, his light tone belying the anger he felt. ‘I
can’t imagine why.’
‘You have my word, Doctor,’ said Jacen firmly. ‘If you get the creature to
answer our questions, and its suffering will be ended immediately.’
‘That’s a rather vague and nebulous promise, Mr. Verlaine,’ the Doctor snorted.
‘Exactly what guarantee do I have you will spare its life once it has told you all
you want to know?’
‘I’m confident the actions I take will meet your full approval.’
‘Yes, you are, aren’t you?’ the Time Lord mused suspiciously.
They reached the trapezium-shaped doorway that lead to the cell. The door
had slid back to reveal a dirty metal chamber beyond. Before the Doctor could
enter, a matronly-looking woman with neck-length blonde hair darted forward to
block their path. ‘Sir,’ Interrogator O’Neal asked Jacen, ‘is this wise? The prisoner
knows me, it trusts me... a stranger might upset it!’
The Doctor looked at her in disgust. ‘I imagine that the prisoner will enjoy
meeting someone who hasn’t spent the last five weeks working night and day to
torture it,’ he snapped. ‘It knows you and trusts you to inflict needless pain!’
‘I’m doing what I have to, to save its life!’ O’Neal shouted.
‘Well, I can do better!’ the Doctor shouted back.
O’Neal looked pleadingly at Jacen. ‘If anyone will get the prisoner talking, the
Doctor will,’ he declared.
With a final glare at the torturer, the Doctor straightened his frock coat and
cautiously entered the cell. The moment he was inside, the door slid shut behind
him. He was sealed in the cell, presumably until he got the prisoner to cooperate.
The Time Lord spotted the security cameras around the cell -- no doubt Jacen was
hungrily watching his every move.
He turned to face the plinth in the middle of the chamber, on which was an
upright cylindrical shutter around a glass tube. The plinth was wired up to several
control banks against the wall, and were clearly capable of changing pressure and
temperature inside the cylinder, as well as diverting massive amounts of
electricity into whatever was unlucky enough to be inside. As the cell door sealed
and locked, the shutters over the cylinder began to rise up and unfold, exposing
the creature within.
The Doctor was puzzled. Why was Jacen so convinced the Doctor would
cooperate? Why was everyone being so coy about who the prisoner actually was?
They seemed convinced that the Doctor would side with them sent in blind -- and

that level of confidence was worrying. The Verlaines believed they had the upper
hand, and for all the Doctor knew, they could be right...
The low hum from the plinth dragged the Doctor’s attention back to the hear
and now. The security shields were rising up, exposing a dark, huddled shape
beneath. Gripping his lapels tightly, the Doctor called to the prisoner. ‘Hello? I
want to help you,’ he began. ‘I’m the Doctor...’
The Doctor trailed off in horror.
The prisoner was a squat, metallic creature with a round base and a body
constructed of heavy metal-studded panels. It was shaped like an elaboratelyangled
pillar, topped with dome from which protruded a single metal stalk ending
with a camera lens. Chains bound the creature to the plinth, and dozens of
electrical wires snaked over its metallic body, plunging into the cracks and splits
in its metal casing. But though it was battered, grimy and showing signs of every
single torment O’Neal had inflicted upon it, it was still instantly recognizable.
It was a Dalek.
For what seemed like an eternity, the Time Lord was gripped by a sudden
deep dread at the apparition of an evil he’d managed to evade for so long.
And then the eye-stalk slowly, painfully lifted, swiveling to look at him. The
one remaining bulb on the top of the dome began to flash in time with a loud,
rasping metallic voice. ‘DOCTOR?’ it croaked haltingly, as though struggling to
speak for the first time in years. ‘THE DOCTOR?’
‘The only one that matters,’ the Time Lord replied, refusing to show any fear.
The Dalek’s grating voice was becoming more clipped and precise as it seemed
to recover its speech once again. ‘YOU ARE AN ENEMY OF THE DALEKS,’ it
declared. ‘YOU ARE TO BE EXTERMINATED!’
The Doctor stood his ground, hands on his lapels. There was no point running;
the cell door was sealed and Jacen would be unlikely to come to the rescue --
besides, he had clearly wanted this to happen. The one thing guaranteed to make
a Dalek sit up and take notice. Their mortal enemy.
The Dalek’s voice rose to a screech.
‘EXTERMINATE!’
The Doctor didn’t move in the slightest, but merely glared across at the Dalek.
‘It seems that in all this excitement you’ve forgotten that you’ve already been
disarmed long before I arrived,’ he sneered, waving a hand at the gaping socket
where the Dalek’s neutralizer gun-stick should have been.
A pathetic clicking noise emerged from within the Dalek as it vainly tried to
fire a weapon that wasn’t there.
The Doctor tutted. ‘Amateur. This is far from the first time that I have been
locked in a basement with a Dalek sentry.’ He grinned through his beard at the
crippled Dalek and began to advance slowly, step by step. ‘But you can’t hurt me,
can you? You can’t do anything without a weapon...’
‘KEEP BACK,’ the Dalek croaked, sounding almost hysterical.
‘Make me,’ the Doctor challenged, stepping closer and closer.
‘STAY AWAY FROM ME!’ the Dalek shrieked. It was so loud the very air
vibrated with each syllable.

‘Or what?’ the Doctor snarled, his angry roar just as loud as the hard
mechanical voice.
The Dalek flexed against its chains, trying to retreat from the Doctor, but it
was fixed in place. Its remaining manipulator arm was held down as well, at the
wrong angle to even touch its enemy, let alone harming it. Unable to fight or flee,
it swung its mono-optic lens back, terrified to take its one eye from the Time Lord.
‘You know who I am and what I am capable of,’ the Doctor informed the
imprisoned Dalek. ‘Now you have a choice. Either you are going to answer my
questions or you are going to be very, very sorry that you didn’t. What are you
doing on this planet? What does Mr. Verlaine want to know?’
Before the Dalek could respond in any way at all, the heavy door to the cell
slid open behind the Doctor. The old man spun around to see Jacen and his staff
entering the cell. ‘You’ve done your bit now, Doctor,’ Jacen said, his eyes fixed on
the ruined Dalek. ‘ Well done. Restrain him, please Plaxton.’
The demure secretary was much stronger than she looked, and the Doctor
found himself trapped as she wrapped her arms around him. Jacen strode right up
to the Dalek, unafraid. ‘Dalek, listen to me,’ he ordered in a loud, slow voice as
though speaking to a foreign tourist or a deaf old aunt. ‘We need to talk.’
The Dalek’s eye-stalk ignored Jacen completely, staring at the Doctor across
the room. Angrily, Jacen grabbed the eyestalk with his hand, hauling it to look at
him. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ he demanded, his temper wearing
thin. He released the eyestalk and was surprised when it drooped limply and
pointed to the floor. For one moment, Jacen feared he might have somehow
broken it. ‘O’Neal,’ he called darkly, ‘is that meant to happen?’
The interrogator was frantically checking the control panels. ‘No! I think it’s
dead!’ she said anxiously.
The Doctor glared at the Dalek. ‘If only it were.’
‘You’ve pushed it too far! You’ve damaged him!’ O’Neal wailed.
‘I wasn’t the one torturing it for a month,’ the Doctor snapped.
‘Forgive O’Neal,’ said Jacen dismissively. ‘She’s a brilliant pain technician, but
it’s a role that cost her her sanity. We must indulge her... eccentricities. Is the
Dalek dead, O’Neal?’ he asked.
O’Neal rechecked a display and then let out a sigh of relief. ‘No, wait... there is
a pulse, but it’s very faint.’
Jacen studied the lifeless prisoner. ‘Do what you have to in order keep it alive,’
he instructed her. ‘I want it ready to answer my questions before tonight.’
‘Mr. Verlaine, that Dalek is wired into an electrical generator,’ the Doctor
pointed out. ‘You have the power to destroy it right now. Why are you wasting
time torturing a Dalek instead of putting it out of our misery?’
Jacen smirked. ‘My dear Doctor!’ he said reprovingly. ‘And I’d heard you
always want to protect other life forms,’ he mocked.
‘Not this time,’ the Doctor replied coolly.
‘And I quite agree. Once I know what I need to, this Dalek will be reduced to
less than scrap metal,’ Jacen vowed. ‘Plaxton, bring him up to my office. I’ll tell
you more about this situation...’

Plaxton hauled the Time Lord from the cell and Jacen followed at a leisurely
pace. Still checking the displays, O’Neal barely noticed them depart.
Robbie was disappointed to say the least when she discovered that Gelver had
merely taken her back down to the museum to show her an endless variety of
long narrow rooms with glass-encased exhibits lining the walls. Nevertheless, her
guide was bursting with pride as he moved from one precious exhibit to another.
For him, it was a range of treasures, but for Robbie, they were rather
unimpressive pieces of scorched rubbish. ‘The relics of nearly a thousand and
twenty long-lost civilizations, the greatest collection ever assembled in the
cosmos,’ Gelver was saying excitedly as he indicated a blackened hull plate.
Robbie tried to stifle a yawn. ‘So, what’s that one?’
‘This was found on the planet Ikthyos, the home of a mighty culture called the
Linds. They were a friendly, peace-loving race, at least until their neighbors from
Lannz wiped them out, trying to farm them for their protein content and delicious
flavor... Anyway, the only surviving Linds are a few puddles of toxic gluten in a
quarry somewhere. This is the only surviving relic of their entire society!’
‘Yes,’ said Robbie patiently. ‘But what is it?’
Gelver’s enthusiasm ebbed ever so slightly. ‘Well, we think it’s from the hull of
one of their spaceships. Just think, a spaceship created by an alien race the likes
of which something we can’t even dream of -- they made this! And with it traveled
to the stars, distant planets, they touched infinity...’
The young man trailed off, slightly embarrassed by his passionate display. He
was surprised to see Robbie smiling at him kindly. He cleared his throat,
awkwardly. ‘I know you must have seen better on your travels,’ he began.
‘No, it’s not that,’ said Robbie hastily. ‘It’s just that what you’ve got there is just
a bit of metal. To me, it’s a bit of metal and to the Linds it would be a bit of metal.
I understand that it’s a relic, but it’s not really interesting on its own, is it? The
only reason it’s not in the trash is that it’s all that’s left of their civilization.’
Gelver sighed and looked at another glass cage holding a long cylindrical tube
that could have been some kind of advanced alien egg whisk. ‘I know. It’s just a
lot detritus the public pay to see to get their imaginations working, to think about
what we’ve all missed. But when you’ve grown up here, museums and offices,
with a corporation to inherit, knowing exactly what you’ll end up doing with your
life...’ Gelver shook his head. ‘It’s easy to get carried away and think some
harmless junk is magic.’
‘What about that thing being tortured in the vaults?’ asked Robbie.
Gelver frowned and looked at her oddly. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘That’s why the Doctor and I got dragged up before your dad,’ Robbie
explained with a shrug. ‘We heard the screams it was making.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Gelver retorted. ‘The Neophryne Archives preserve all
life, technology and culture them -- no, more that preserve, honor! We honor
them!’ he ranted, clearly upset at the suggestion.
When Jacen Verlaine had paired them off together, Robbie had assumed it was
simply to keep her out of the way while he and the Doctor talked like grown-ups.

But what if the objective wasn’t for Gelver to keep her occupied but for her to
keep him occupied. Jacen was keeping his own son in the dark.
Robbie made a decision.
‘Let me show you something,’ she offered.
In the cell, O’Neal stood before the Dalek. She had not closed the containment
tube, leaving the creature that measure of freedom while she worked with a tin of
pedigree pet food recommended for Taran Wood Beasts. ‘I knew you’d talk
eventually,’ she called over her shoulder to the prisoner. ‘Just a pity you didn’t do
it for me. This doctor character must be incredibly important to you. But enough
about him. I’ve got you a special treat as a reward!’
The Dalek remained inert.
Undeterred, O’Neal crossed over onto the plinth and stood before the Dalek.
‘According to my information, Daleks are technically vegetarian. You grow plants,
pulverize them into dust and then inhale the nutritious gas through those intake
grilles of yours. But since those grilles are damaged, we best do this the old
fashioned way...’
O’Neal took a ladle and began to scoop out the pet food, spreading the paste
on the ridges in the Dalek casing near one of the numerous gaping cracks and
tears in the armor. ‘I’m sure this will become your favorite. It’s full of goodness,
vitamins, marrowbone jelly...’
She watched as, with the faint sound of nails scrabbling on a blackboard, a
bilious tentacle emerged from within the ravaged casing, steaming slightly in the
cool air. It slowly snaked up and around the Dalek, cautiously prodding the meaty
chunks in their brown goo.
‘Just talk to me,’ O’Neal sighed.
Suddenly, faster than she could see, the tentacle flailed outwards like a whip,
growing longer and thicker, spilling out from the Dalek like toothpaste from a
tube. The tip of the slimy tendril coiled itself around the tin can, tightened and
then wrenched it from O’Neal’s grasp. The tentacle reared up, holding the can
level with her eyes.
Effortlessly, the tentacle squeezed and crushed it into a warped metal nugget.
‘AND WHAT,’ grated the Dalek, ‘WOULD YOU HAVE ME SAY?’

Too Little, Too Late
This adventure is set between
The The The The Price Price Price Price of of of of Paradise Paradise Paradise Paradise and Dark Dark Dark Dark Dreams Dreams Dreams Dreams
‘The TARDIS is malfunctioning again!’ Mark shouted.
‘Quick!’ the Doctor called, ‘Hand me that book over there!’
Dara checked the cover. ‘Type 40 Time Capsule Owner’s Manual?’
‘That’s it! Now... ‘‘Congratulations on your purchase of the AZ99/35D Type 40
time and relative dimension in space travel capsule. If problems should occur or
should you have any complaints in general, please contact our home office...’’’
‘Skip a bit!’ Mark cried as the console caught fire.
‘‘‘Chapter One: So, You Want To Travel In Time? Stek deinen cop en den
houten, an hashen nak den...’’’
‘Oh no!’ wailed Dara. ‘It’s all in French!’

The Dalton Gang’s Last Stand
This adventure takes place between
Portal Portal Portal Portal and Carnival Carnival Carnival Carnival of of of of Doom Doom Doom Doom
The sun was high and bright as the Dalton Gang rode into the heart of Coffeyville,
their horses kicking up a low cloud of dry dust in their wake. As they galloped
down the main streets of the town, several residents stood on the sidelines in the
shade of the porches, peering out from under the brims of their hats as the riders
passed them by.
The Daltons had once been agrarian farmers, at least until the construction of
the railroad had ruined that dream. When Frank Dalton, a Deputy US Marshal,
was killed in the line of duty, not only were his brothers devastated, they had lost
his stabilizing influence. They attempted to avenge Frank’s death and become
lawmen themselves, but without Frank to keep them in line, there was nothing to
stop them turning to a life of crime to make ends meet less than three years later.
The Dalton brothers soon began to specialize in robbing banks and trains,
inspired by their cousins, the Younger brothers, who had teamed up with Jesse
James himself for a while. One of the Daltons, Bill, had taken his career as an
outlaw so seriously he had left the family altogether to join the Wild Bunch.
The remaining three brothers had had several run-ins with the law, but had
always managed to escape with the loot and their lives, working as a team. Just
the last year, they had made off with ten thousand dollars from one train robbery,
while in Oklahoma they had been in a shootout where 200 shots were fired and
not a single one of them hit a member of the gang. The Daltons were successful
by anyone’s standards.
But they were famous by no one’s standards.
No one spoke of the Daltons with awe, respect or even hatred. Their names
were forgotten or ignored, just a nameless gang of hooligans that were some of
any number of bandits and outlaws. The Dalton brothers hated it, especially since
other parts of their clan had achieved notoriety. Making their mark in Western
history would not only bring them their own variety or fame and fortune, but also
make future heists easier -- their reputation would terrify any victims into handing
over their worldly goods without any kind of resistance. But at the moment, the
Daltons could have been any bunch of crooks with firearms and had the respect
such folk deserved.
All that, however, was about to change.
Yes, the 5th of October 1892 was about to become a date to live in history...
‘There we go,’ the Doctor announced triumphantly, clinging to the console as the
TARDIS shook violently. ‘Down and safe!’
Melissa, however, had not been able to stop herself being thrown to the floor
by the jolt of materialization. With as much dignity as she could muster, she

clambered to her feet and joined her companion by the orientation displays on the
circular console. ‘Your idea of ‘‘safety’’ is hardly the universal standard,’ she
grumbled. ‘And I doubt we’re on D’Hoonib in the Third Epoch.’
The Doctor was tapping at a meter on the console, the lights from the
instruments reflecting in his fierce, intense eyes. ‘What makes you think that?’ he
asked her idly.
‘Because if we’d arrived on target the landing would be smoother. Ipso facto.’
‘Don’t be so paranoid, Melissa.’
Melissa raised her eyes to the vaulted ceiling. ‘So, where are we? Earth again?’
The Doctor shifted, his tone defensive. ‘Maybe. All right, yes, it’s Earth. Kansas
in the 19th Century to be precise,’ he admitted, moving around the console and
checking more instruments. ‘OK, so it’s not a hotbed of mutagenic activity on a
Wild Planet, but who cares? It’s the Sunshine State out there!’
‘And why would I want to visit it?’ asked Melissa dryly.
He blinked in feigned disbelief. ‘Because your best friend’s going!’
The leader of the gang was Bob Dalton, a stocky, heavily-built man of 23. Of the
family, Bob had always been the wildest and killed a man when he was 19 for the
crime of flirting with Bob’s then-girlfriend. The fact Bob had been a Deputy US
Marshal meant his action was frowned upon, and his claims he’d been doing his
duty as a lawman rang hollow. When he was discovered smuggling liquor into
Indian Territory two years ago, it was the last straw. Bob had jumped bail and
never turned up for his trial.
His brother Gratton had similarly been driven from his post when he was
arrested for the capital offense of stealing horses, and their youngest brother
Emmett managed to get the charges dropped, but at the cost of his own job. All
three were discredited, and it merely fueled their desires to live on the other side
of the law.
Now, together with two henchmen called Dick Broadwell and Bill Powers, the
Dalton Gang had returned home to Coffeyville where their next raid would
immortalize them in American culture forever, pulling a feat not even the Jesse
James gang would dare attempt.
The Dalton Gang weren’t just going to rob a bank.
They were going to rob two banks.
Simultaneously.
In broad daylight.
Bob had worked out the plan in meticulous detail. What’s more, he and his
brothers had grown up in the town and knew it like the back of their hands. There
was no need for them to scout out the area and possibly risk raising suspicion.
They would arrive minutes before the raid knowing all they needed to know. It
had been several years since they were last in town, so they were unlikely to be
recognized during so brief a visit. Nevertheless, the gang decided it would be
prudent to wear false beards, at least until they had the money. Once they were
leaving, they didn’t care who saw them (and, indeed, wanted to be recognized).

Since the beards were itchy and uncomfortable, the moment of unveiling couldn’t
come quick enough for the five outlaws.
As the gang swept into the heart of town, everything was going to plan.
Until they saw the police box.
‘Kansas when the West was wild,’ said the Doctor affectionately as he stepped
from the TARDIS. Melissa followed him outside, closing the doors behind her. The
air was hot and dry, and there didn’t seem to be a cloud in the sky overhead.
Their surroundings smelt of leather, smoke and the weather-beaten wood that
every building around them seemed to be made of. It looked primitive and
uncomfortable, not that such a detail could diminish the Doctor’s enthusiasm.
He strode out into the middle of the dusty street, looking around with a toothy
grin. ‘Only settled six decades ago, and look at it now!’ he declared proudly. ‘A
free state, part of the Union, a multicultural sanctuary by the standards of the
time. Soon waves of immigrants will turn the prairie into farmland, planting
wheat and sunflowers and this becomes the agricultural heartland of America! Ad
astera per aspa!’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Melissa, bored.
‘No idea, but it’s the state motto, so we might as well use it.’
Melissa raised a hand to shield her eyes. ‘So where exactly are we?’
The Doctor jumped on the spot, checking the pull of gravity. ‘Judging from the
altitude, somewhere in Montgomery County.’
‘I thought you said we were in Kansas.’
‘I did,’ replied the Doctor frowning. ‘We are! Montgomery County is in Kansas,
the southeast of it, actually...’
‘In Coffeyville, perhaps?’
The Doctor studied the sky. ‘You know, you could be right there. If that’s the
Verdigris River I can smell, we must be on the west bank... Yes, it has to be
Coffeyville! That’s a brilliant deduction, Melissa, what gave it away?’
Melissa smiled sweetly and pointed across the street.
The Doctor read out the sign she indicated. ‘‘‘Coffeyville Post Office’’,’ he
repeated dully. ‘Yes, well...’ The Time Lord cleared his throat and dusted down his
battered leather jacket. ‘If you like having information just handed to you willynilly,
I suppose that’s as good a way as working out the location as any. Come on,
let’s find the nearest saloon.’
He was already walking down the street. Melissa followed.
‘Saloon? Why?’
‘You can buy me a stiff drink,’ the Doctor told her bluntly. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not
for me, it’s for my ego...’
The gang entered the street in time to see the weird-looking man in the leather
jacket and the big red-haired girl walk off, laughing to each other. They slowed
their horses to a trot as they approached the upright blue box that filled up a good
portion of the road. It was placed so it blocked access to most of the railing where

horses could be tethered while their riders continued into the town on foot. There
was no room left to tie up two horses, let alone five.
But that was a secondary problem compared to the box itself, especially with
the illuminated notices on each side proclaiming it to be a POLICE PUBLIC CALL
BOX and it even had on top of its roof a caged blue light bulb. It was surprisingly
advanced technology, especially considering the box’s chipped and peeling
paintwork and grubby frosted windows.
‘It’s in front of the rail,’ Emmett noted anxiously.
‘I can see that, Emmett,’ Bob growled in annoyance.
‘And it’s marked ‘‘police!’’’
‘What do you think I am? Blind?’
‘You think the Sheriff or someone put it here?’ asked Grat. ‘Maybe he heard we
was coming and was trying to stop us?’
‘Don’t be a halfwit,’ Bob snapped. ‘How could he find out about it? Even if one
of you was dumb enough to want to warn the proper authorities, we only just got
into town two minutes ago. It’s just some kind of coincidence, that’s all.’
Bill Powers scratched at his false moustache. ‘But the plan was to hitch up the
horses between the two banks so we’s could get to them easily in a hurry. Where
are we gonna put them now?’
Bob gritted his teeth. ‘I’m thinking, dagnabbit!’ he scolded them, and then
turned to the fifth member of the gang. ‘Or do you have some pearl of wisdom of
your own to disclose, Powell? Anything? Anything at all?’
The grim-faced outlaw shrugged. ‘We could always hitch them up in the
alleyway around the corner,’ he suggested in his usual rough voice.
Bob shifted uncomfortably. Dick had come up with a workable plan, which
was good since it meant the robbery was still on but also bad as it meant Bob
couldn’t think of a logical reason to insult him as he had the others.
‘Come on then,’ he told his gang, and the quintet moved past the police box.
‘We only got five minutes ’fore lunchtime...’
Despite the Doctor’s chapter-and-verse knowledge of Kansas, he didn’t actually
have much local knowledge and his attempts to find any kind of drinking
establishment merely lead them up two blind alleys and to a stable. As they
returned to the main street for the umpteenth time, Melissa shook her head. ‘Why
don’t we just ask someone for directions?’ she complained.
‘Are you implying I don’t know my way around?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. Clearly and distinctly and emphatically.’
‘...well, just as long as that’s clear,’ the Doctor shrugged, seemingly taking no
offense. He scanned the road and spotted a chubby-looking middle-aged cowboy
in checkered trousers, ten gallon hat and a leather jerkin. Although unkempt, his
clothes were in a better state than either his bulging waistline or drooping
moustache. ‘Howdy!’ the Time Lord said cheerfully.
‘Hello,’ said the man, frowning slightly.

The Doctor’s smile faltered and he abandoned his attempts at local patter.
‘Yeah, we just newly-arrived in town and were wondering whether there was
anywhere nearby to get a decent drink...’
‘Well, that is a coincidence,’ said the man with a wry smile. ‘I happen to be
going off to such an establishment myself to have lunch.’
‘Fantastic,’ the Doctor grinned. ‘I’m the Doctor and this,’ he said, flinging a
long arm around his companion’s shoulders, ‘is my friend Melissa.’
The man smiled. ‘Gump,’ he said, shaking the Doctor’s hand. ‘But most folk
call me Charley, on the understandable basis that it’s my name.’
‘Makes sense to me. Ere, Charley, I don’t suppose you know the date, do you?’
‘October 5th, I believe I’m right in thinking,’ Gump replied.
‘Oh, good. And the year?’
‘...you saying you don’t know the year?’
‘No,’ said Melissa smoothly, ‘he’s asking what the year is. It’s a question, not a
statement. Completely different thing.’
Gump eyed them both oddly. ‘It’s 1892,’ he said carefully. ‘You two must have
been a bit too long out in the sun if you’re forgetting what the year is...’
The Doctor gave Gump a knowing look. ‘You’d be surprised.’
Their steeds tied up, the Dalton Gang strode out of the shade onto the main street
once more. It was a few minutes till one o’clock, when everyone would be going
to lunch and there would be the fewest people in either of the banks they were
targeting. The beauty of a simultaneous strike was that neither of the banks had a
chance to secure themselves or call for assistance, and any law enforcement (not
expecting a double robbery since such things were unheard of) would focus on
one bank over the other, ensuring at least one robbery completed successfully.
There was no precedent for what the Daltons were about to do and if the Sheriff
and his posse found out, they wouldn’t have the first idea how to react.
With one massive score from the two banks, the gang would finally be able to
leave Kansas which was rapidly getting too hot for them. Deputy US Marshal Heck
Thomas and his relentless pursuit prevented the Daltons from staying long in any
one place or enjoying the rewards of their crimes. But this unique bank heist was
going to change all of that...
With his beloved Winchester rifle slung over his shoulder, Bob glanced at the
others. ‘Right -- Emmett, you’re with me to take the First National, the rest of you
head for the Condon.’ He took a fob watch from his waistcoat and studied it. ‘We
strike one minute from... now. Remember, we’re making history.’
Emmett grinned beneath his droopy fake moustache. ‘Let’s do it!’
Bob smiled at his little brother and set off down the street at a brisk but not
hurried pace, which Emmett matched. They had fifty seconds to cross two blocks,
get to the bank and begin the robbery, and time was precious. There was no time
to waste -- which was why they rather rudely shoved their way through a group of
three people in their path.
‘Hey!’ cried the chubby ginger-haired lady.

‘Excuse me,’ said her tall, gaunt companion in the leather coat. ‘We met
before? I’m sure I’ve seen you before,’ he called out after them.
Emmett exchanged a worried glance with Bob. Being recognized at this stage
of the operation was definitely not part of the plan, and they had less than half a
minute to get to the bank. Being spotted now could be disastrous...
The Daltons continued on their way, pretending not to have heard.
‘Well,’ said Melissa, irritably brushing her sleeve, ‘they obviously don’t recognize
you. Maybe you’re wearing the wrong body?’
‘That’s always a possibility,’ the Doctor conceded, peering after the retreating
duo. ‘But he looked very different too. I think it’s the fake beard.’
‘Fake beard?’
Charley frowned. ‘You’re right, I think I know them too!’ he agreed, and
scurried after the pair. He reached out and touched one on the shoulder. The
man, wearing a dark coat and a bowler hat, glared at Charley, whose eyes
widened in shock. ‘You!’ he exclaimed, before raising his voice so the whole street
could hear him. ‘Hey, it’s them no-good Dalton brothers!’ he shouted.
‘Dalton?’ the Doctor echoed, face falling.
The bowler-hat-wearing brother spun around, and Melissa saw for the first
time the shotgun held in his hand. ‘Damn fool big mouth!’ snarled the brother,
and without another word fired both barrels at Charley.
The end of the rifle seemed to explode and Charley reeled backwards, his
expression startled as he shook and fell sideways onto the ground. The two
brothers were already running off down the street as fast as they could, all
attempts at normality forgotten.
Melissa dived for Charley and tried to roll him into a recovery position, dimly
aware of his blood spurting onto her -- so hot and red compared to a cool orange
of a Gallifreyan. ‘Stay still, you’ll be all right,’ she lied, realizing the injured man
was shaking and twitching as if his entire body was a damaged motor. ‘Charley,
can you hear me? Don’t worry, Charley... Charley? Charley!’
The body she was cradling went still as its blood pooled on the ground.
Melissa stared down at Charley’s pale, graying face as it relaxed in death. She
had seen people die before, but not like this, never so crude, so messy, so...
pointless. The Time Lady found herself unable to believe that this man who she’d
known for less than a minute could be dead, that there was nothing she could do.
‘They shot Charley Gump!’ someone was shouting.
‘It’s the Daltons!’ a woman screamed.
‘They’re gonna rob the bank!’
A firm hand grabbed her shoulder and shook her. Melissa looked up and saw
the Doctor standing over her, his face like thunder. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing
we can do for him. We’ve got to get off the streets before things kick off!’
Melissa didn’t remember him hauling her to his feet and running for shelter,
her mind was fixed on the body of Charley Gump, forgotten and neglected in the
noonday sun...

Bob Dalton was cursing his little brother’s reckless action in shooting that
bystander. Emmett was right that they could afford no delays, but now even those
who didn’t recognize them through their disguises would believe them to be
criminals...
Still, Bob reflected, they’d been in worse scrapes. The gang’s first robbery, of a
gambling den in New Mexico, had lead to them being arrested but they had got
out -- either from been acquitted on lack of evidence or just simply escaping from
the jailhouse. Even when that posse from Orlando chased them across the desert,
the gang’s luck had held. As long as they stayed together and looked out for each
other, it would be fine.
The raid at the bank had begun perfectly. Only one clerk was on duty, taken
by surprise and too terrified of the Winchester rifle aimed up his nose to do
anything but cooperate. But even the most cooperative man is just a man, and
could only do so much on his own in a few minutes. He’d only managed to collect
one parcel full of money, and his shaking hands had lead to dropping it. Twice.
‘Hurry up!’ Bob snarled as the quivering clerk returned for a second parcel.
Emmett was loitering by the window, pistol in one hand, rifle in the other.
‘Yeah,’ he shouted after the clerk menacingly, before adding in a quieter, worried
tone, ‘They’re onto us, Bob!’
And who’s fault is that? thought Bob darkly. However, he didn’t waste time in
remonstrating with his little brother, who made up for his lack of smarts with
loyalty, courage and clinical ruthlessness. For all his faults, he was proud to be
related to Emmett.
That pride rapidly dwindled as he heard Emmett speak again.
‘More trouble, Bob -- now the townies have got guns!’
‘Calm down! I’ve got rifles for everyone!’ insisted the proprietor of the hardware
shop. He was shouting at the hoard of local men crowding the store in desperate
need for a weapon. Between them, the two banks held the wealth of the entire
town and the townsfolk were not going to let their finances be taken from them
without a fight. ‘Just don’t forget to bring them back,’ he reminded his customers
as he handed out shotguns, pistols and anything else that could be used.
Meanwhile, the Doctor stood beside Melissa in the corner of the shop as she
furiously washed her hands in a basin, the water dark red from Charley’s stillfresh
blood. There were many experiences in life that enriched the soul and
broadened the mind, but this was definitely one to be avoided at all costs. On the
bright side, she’d be completely distracted for the next few minutes.
Which was all the gun battle was likely to last for...
Bob’s brain raced through possible plans, but it was obvious that with every ablebodied
man in Coffeyville carrying a gun and after their blood, the only option
was to flee town before the mob cornered them. The outlaw nodded, working out
a new way to ensure their infamy -- not just robbing two banks simultaneously
during the day, but striking the same targets twice! It was brilliant: Coffeyville
would never expect the criminals to return so soon to the same place as before...

and if the gang carried out a raid tomorrow, before the town had time to recover
or tighten up security, they’d have every possible advantage. It struck him that
Grat, Powers and Broadwell might have successfully raided the Condon Bank,
meaning there was nothing to go back there for.
In order to ensure that the First National Bank was worth stealing from
tomorrow, Bob ordered the clerk to abandon the parcels of cash and lead them to
the side exit of the bank at gunpoint. Already armed men were heading for the
front entrance, expecting their prey to still be inside the bank instead of cutting
their losses.
Emerging from the bank, Bob spotted a man standing nearby and shot him
down without even glancing at the victim’s face. They had to get to the horses and
out of town, which seemed a reasonable-enough plan...
...until he remembered they weren’t tethered between the banks, but in a sidestreet
two blocks away, and a street full of angry townies stood in their way.
The Doctor watched from the window of the hardware store as gunshots started
to fill the air. Further down the street, three armed men with false beards of
varying credibility were sprinting up the road. Clearly, they were rest of the
Dalton Gang who had discovered that the safe at the Condon Bank was timelocked
and couldn’t be opened by anyone until the appointed hour.
Now with all of Coffeyville on alert, the outlaws had decided to join the other
two at the First National Bank -- mistakenly assuming that no one knew about the
heist already underway.
Instead, they were running straight into danger.
The men of the town emerging onto the street with their borrowed firearms
spotted the badly-disguised trio and opened fire on them. The gang members
ducked, weaved and finally found shelter in the open street in the form of the
TARDIS. The locals trained their fire on the police box, clearly thinking the bullets
would perforate the wooden booth and kill the outlaws where they hid... but they
were wrong.
The volley of gunfire died for a moment as the men of Coffeyville realized the
bullets were ricocheting harmlessly off the TARDIS, and concentrated on trying to
get into a better position to aim at the three trapped criminals.
And it was in this lull that the remaining two members of the Dalton Gang
sprinted out into view, racing for the alleyway they’d been forced to hide their
horses in -- two blocks from where they needed an instant getaway. The Doctor
realized the TARDIS’s random landing point had ruined the Dalton Gang’s
scheme, but at least the old girl was making amends by sheltering the group.
Now everyone was emptying their rifles at the TARDIS, in some vague plan to
try and scare the gang out into the open. But while four of the gang remained
undercover, one of them made a break for it and disappeared into the shadows of
a nearby alleyway, bullets pinging off the wooden walls and railings as the gunfire
tried to chase after him...

Broadwell finally reached the alleyway where the five horses had been tied up.
They were whinnying and neighing in fright at all the sounds of gunfire, and
eager to get as far away as possible. Broadwell intended his steed, at least, would
do so. With a final burst of adrenaline-fueled speed, the outlaw unhitched the
animal and leapt up into the saddle.
He had no idea where the others were, but it was every man for himself today.
The gang could have continued getting rich with train robberies, and this was
definite proof they should have stayed with what they were good at.
Broadwell rode down the alleyway and into the next street, where he simply
had to turn left and would take him straight out of town. But as he and his horse
left they alleyway, he spotted a figure in a Stetson hat with a rifle running to
intercept to fleeing would-be bank robber.
Thinking quickly, Broadwell hauled on the reigns of the horse, steering his
ride straight into the would-be assailant. The local threw himself back across the
street, his hat going flying, as he tried to avoid being trampled beneath the hooves
of the jet-black steed. A few shots from Broadwell’s handgun reinforced the
message to keep away.
Satisfied the man was no longer a threat, Broadwell heaved the horse around
until it was facing the direct route out of Coffeyville and they galloped at top
speed down the road. Behind them, the shaken young man snatched up his rifle,
aimed it at the retreating criminal’s back and opened fire.
The sound of the shots nearby made Broadwell raise his right hand, still
clutching a pistol, ready to return fire. The outlaw realized the shots were actually
coming from behind him as the third shot struck home. There was a moment of
agony, and Broadwell struggled briefly against the hollow, spreading pain before
everything faded to black...
The terrified horse continued its break-neck race for the outskirts of the town.
By the time it left Coffeyville, the horse had long since unwittingly shaken the
lifeless body of its rider from his mount -- leaving him lying dead in the dust.
Unaware that their gang had lost a member for good, the remaining outlaws were
still struggling to return to the alleyway to collect their horses. But by now it
seemed that the whole of Coffeyville had transformed itself into an enormous
shooting gallery and the four members of the Dalton gang were the sole targets.
If it hadn’t been for the indestructible properties of a certain police box they
were sheltering behind, the quartet would have been reduced to bullet-ridden
carcasses long ago.
After what seem an age, the hail of bullets began to die down as the numerous
Kansans realized they had to reload their weapons. There were still shots begin
fired in anger, but few enough for Bob to realize this was their only chance.
‘Move it!’ he shouted, ducking out from behind the blue box, raising his
Winchester and firing both barrels at the nearest gun-wielding native. Struck in
the midriff, the ex-combatant stumbled backwards, tripped over Charley Gump’s
corpse and thumped leadenly into the ground.

The other three outlaws sprinted down the street, ducking and weaving as
bullets sliced through the air around them. Bob back-tracked after them,
providing covering fire and then he too retreated back to the alleyway where their
horses were hitched. Another attacker crumpled dead to the floor of the porch
he’d been firing from, and the brief window of opportunity was enough for Bob to
race around the corner after the others.
In the alleyway, Emmett and Bill Powers were already mounting their horses --
something more easily said then done. Grat had already made two attempts to get
into his saddle, and on both occasions the terrified stallion had reared up,
knocking him back to the ground.
Drawing both pistols, Bill Powers kicked his horse in the ribs and it trotted
down the alleyway towards the next street, taking the same route as Broadwell
had gone barely a minute earlier -- and more gun-slinging Coffeyville natives were
closing in on the other end of the side-street, closing off the escape route.
Powers didn’t get a chance to let off a single shot before a hail of bullets tore
through the air. The horse screamed and recoiled as the ground beneath its
hooves exploded like a string of fire crackers. Powers, too busy holding his guns
instead of the reigns, was thrown forwards towards the impromptu firing squad.
They did not waste the given opportunity.
Powers was dead before he even hit the ground.
At the other end of the alleyway, the Dalton brothers realized there was no way
they could flee that way. Emmett, already on his horse, turned round and back up
the side-street back the way they had come -- the only hope now was everyone
there was still too busy reloading their weapons, all of them expecting the mob at
the end of the alleyway to finish the gang off.
Emmett’s prediction was very optimistic, but basically correct. As he raced out
into the road, shots were fired at him, but not with the intensity that he’d have
faced trying to follow Powers up the alley.
Nevertheless, by the time he got out of the firing line, he had failed to avoid at
least three shots. Blood was trickling down his back, and there was nothing but
warm pain where one of his legs used to be. It hurt to breathe and it was hard to
think, but Emmett knew he none of his injuries were mortal... yet.
‘This job is going to hell,’ Emmett groaned, slowing his horse to a trot at the
other end of the street. Then, he turned around to see how his brothers were
faring. Bob stood at the edge of the alleyway, firing his Winchester in a semi-circle
as he protected Grat’s escape.
But even as his brother sprinted for safety, a figure with a shotgun emerged
from the hardware store across the road, took aim and fired.
The blast ripped through Bob’s left shoulder and he staggered back, suddenly
unable to control his hand any more. His rifle slipped from his grasp as he
struggled to keep his hold on it with his right hand. ‘Damn, that hurts!’ he
breathed, feeling groggy.
But now there was nothing to protect Grat as he ran down the street towards
Emmett and their one chance of escape: Emmett’s horse. The elder Dalton was

less than fifty feet from his brother when the marksman at the hardware store
turned and fired one shot.
The bullet punched through Grat’s throat and, with a look of complete surprise
on his face, the outlaw kept running for a few steps before he tripped and fell face
down into the road. He never moved again.
Emmett stared with rising horror at the body of his brother, but forced his
attention further up the street to where Bob was struggling to raise his Winchester
to fire upon the assassin at the hardware store.
That assassin was far quicker, and let off two shots.
Bob jackknifed backwards and dark blood blossomed through his checkered
waistcoat. The rifle dropped from the outlaw’s hand, as his false beard finally
gave up the fight and flew right away from his screaming mouth. Bob swayed
drunkenly, collapsed onto his knees and then pitched forward...
Bob Dalton wasn’t quite dead yet.
Blinded by the pain, and more terrified than he’d been in his entire life,
Emmett raced the horse back up the street, running a gauntlet of flying bullets
and shrapnel that he refused to even acknowledge while his brother needed help.
He rode the horse to where his brother was on all-fours, struggling to rise, and
reached out a hand.
‘Don’t give up, Bob!’ Emmett shouted.
Bob retched, blood trickling from his mouth. He looked up miserably at his
brother as his vision blurred and grew dark. ‘It’s my fault,’ he rasped, looking
down at Grat’s body. ‘I didn’t think things through!’ Bob struggled for breath -- but
there was none, and he thrashed wildly then slumped dead into the dirt.
Emmett stared in utter disbelief at the body of his big brother, his stunned
brain no longer aware of the danger around him, of the desperate need to flee. All
he could see and hear and think was that he was alone in the world now.
And then intense, raw pain which exploded in his chest again and again.
Emmett saw the ground rise up towards him in a way he couldn’t quite
understand. Suddenly he was lying in the middle of the street, surprised how
relaxing and comfortable it was...
Blackness.
The last roar of gunfire echoed away as the denizens of Coffeyville realized the
crisis was over. People began to emerge nervously from their homes while others
began to cheer and congratulate the sniper in the hardware store for his services
to the town. Truly, tonight at least, John Kloehr would not go thirsty. Meanwhile
others went to tend the townsfolk who had been caught by the gunfire from the
late Bob Dalton.
Only one person went to the aide of the outlaws -- a stranger in a leather
jacket and a burning, intelligent gaze. No one ever knew his name, or saw him
again, and some began to wonder if there was a sixth member of the Dalton gang
that had escaped the slaughter. In the here and now, however, such thoughts
were abandoned at surprising news.
Emmett Dalton was still alive.

Less than an hour later, the bodies of Bob Dalton, his brother Gratton, Bill Powers
and Dick Broadwell were laid out on the floor of the nearby stables, arms folded
over their chests and eyes closed. In death they all looked vulnerable, almost
innocent. Already a photographer had been sent for, while locals unashamedly
wandered into the stables to ogle the corpses before the heat started to get to
work on the lifeless bodies.
Melissa had mingled with the crowds and looked down at blood-spattered
bodies, feeling a strange satisfaction in the way these murderous criminals had
met their fate. Part of her wanted to stand and berate the humans for their
savagery and barbarism, but she couldn’t forget Charley Gump’s dried blood on
her fingers. Just how were the people of Coffeyville supposed to reason with
maniacs like this? How could she dismiss innocent people defending themselves
from such monsters?
She noticed in the stable wall, just beyond where the outlaws’ bodies lay, a
small round face framed by blond hair peered through a gap in the panels. It was
a young child, curious at the fuss and trying to sneak a peak.
The child’s eyes were wide, mouth open as they stared in horror at the bodies.
Melissa shivered with revulsion, and hastily made her way through the crowd
back into the street. She wanted no more part of this, and she knew that she and
the Doctor had best leave the town before the local authorities started asking
awkward questions.
She had enough awkward questions to ask herself already.
The Doctor was leaning against the side of the TARDIS, arms folded, almost
hidden in the shade as he watched the setting sun descend towards the horizon,
turning the sky the colour of fresh blood. Idly, he was tunelessly mangling a song
that wouldn’t be written for another eighty-one years:
‘Go down, little Dalton! It must be God’s will!
Two brothers lying dead in Coffeyville!
Two voices call to you from where they stood,
‘‘Lay down your law-books now, they’re no damn good...’’’
He glanced up as Melissa arrived. ‘You want to leave?’ he asked.
‘Yes. We can try for D’Hoonib again. Maybe get there this time.’
For once the Doctor didn’t rise to the bait, but merely delved into his jacket
pocket and fished out the TARDIS key. He unlocked the door and pushed it open
onto the time machine’s impossible, cavernous interior.
Melissa took one last look around the Kansas town, unable to shake off the
smell of human blood and burnt gunpowder. ‘One of them survived, you know,’
she said at length. ‘Over twenty shotgun wounds and he’s still not dead yet.’
‘And he won’t be,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Not for another 45 years.’
Melissa stared at him for a moment. ‘You knew?’
‘I did say he looked familiar,’ the Doctor reminded her. ‘I met him twenty years
from now in California, when he was doing some acting work. Long story, there
were some Bannermen involved, got rather nasty...’

The Time Lady shook her head. ‘So he survives? He goes free?’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘He’ll spend the next decade and a half in jail for
what he’s done, and when he gets out, well... he’ll be a better person. Turn his
hand to being an estate agent of all things would you believe?’
‘An estate agent?’ Melissa repeated doubtfully.
‘Yup. While the rest of the Dalton gang bought the farm, Emmett ended up
selling them,’ the Doctor said with a sad smile. ‘Mind you, it makes sense that the
youngest and most impressionable Dalton brother lived to learn his lesson, even
writing a couple of books about it if I remember rightly...’
Melissa couldn’t believe it. ‘So after all they did, he goes unpunished?’
The Doctor glowered at his companion. ‘He lost his family today, as well as the
next fourteen years of his life. Are you saying that isn’t punishment?’
‘He killed Charley in cold blood!’
‘So he didn’t suffer enough, is that it?’
‘Are you saying it isn’t?’
‘I’m saying nothing of the kind, Melissa,’ the Doctor retorted darkly. ‘Does a
lifetime of loneliness and regret balance out the dead of an innocent bystander? I
don’t know. I don’t know what could balance it out, or even if it needs balancing.
All I know is that people live and people die and we aren’t the ones who get to say
who deserve what. That is what I’m saying.’ He kept eye contact with the Time
Lady for a long moment, before he spoke in a slightly more gentle tone. ‘Now, you
coming or what?’
Melissa nodded but said nothing as she obediently stepped into the TARDIS
and the Doctor followed, pushing the door shut after him.
A few moments later, the light atop the police box began to flash. A sudden
wind whipped up out of nowhere and, with a rasping, grating sound, the TARDIS
gently faded out of reality.
The events of October 5th, 1892 would go down in history all right. Less than fifty
years later, Randolph Scott would appear in a film entitled When the Daltons
Rode; followed twelve years later by The Cimarron Kid which focused on the life
and death of Bill Doolin, a one-time member of the gang who had not taken part
in that final dual bank raid. Not long after the American TV series Stories of the
Century and You Are There summarized the family’s lives and deaths in half an
hour, while distorted versions of the outlaws would appear in many a Huckleberry
Hound cartoon or Wild West video games. The name ‘‘Dalton Brothers’’ would be
adopted by the rock band U2, parodying country and western music in their 1987
song, while another band called the Eagles released a single titled Doolin-Dalton,
revolving around their tragic tale.
Those few minutes in Coffeyville did actually make the Dalton Gang famous --
for attempting the most bungled and foolhardy bank robbery in history...

Recompense
This adventure takes place between
The The The The Soul----Stealers
Soul Soul Soul Stealers Stealers Stealers and Past Past Past Past Imperfect Imperfect Imperfect Imperfect
Rodney Murray faced death unblinkingly.
Few would have been surprised at that. He may not have been the most
popular man in the world, but he liked to cultivate an impression: a rough
Liverpudlian who had seen it all twice, and hadn’t been impressed the first time.
That impression had kept him going for a while, until he was gripping it so tightly
he wanted to be it, rather than his true self.
A murderer.
Well, an accidental murderer.
A distant lesson rattled through his memory: a crime consists of three things,
actus rea, mens rea, and causation. To commit a crime you had to have done it,
meant to do it, and that ‘it’ involved hurting others in some way -- be it mentally,
physically or psychologically.
Well, Rodney, he thought to himself, two out of three isn’t too bad.
Yes, he was a murderer. But he hadn’t meant to cause the death of six
innocent-to-fairly-innocent police officers. No, if he had known as he had thrown
that wretched bottle that he was dooming his friends, he would have... well, done
something different. Yes, he had caused their deaths -- but he wasn’t the one
who’d put those stupid gas canisters in the office. He hadn’t locked the safety
doors. Yes, he caused the explosion, but others were responsible. Culpable.
And had justice been meted out, Rodney wondered. Simpson, an infamous
racist bigot had gone down for the crime. True, he wasn’t the one who’d thrown
that fatal bomb -- but he’d thrown and organized plenty of others in that raid.
Rodney knew it was Simpson that he’d attacked and found that handy supply of
firebombs. And now? He was in jail, probably on his way up and out, hailed as a
hero and near-martyr by his hideous cause and a wronged victim by Sally Johnson
and her deranged do-gooder ilk.
Sheldon, the corrupt, amoral and above all weak controller of the local nick,
whose negligence and lust had allowed the attack in the first place was dead. Shot
himself in the head, determined to escape the downward spiral he was in. The git
had left it a little late, but then he never was any good at punctuality.
And the cleaner... what was his name? Rodney could not remember. A
dreamer, a liar, a man trapped in fantasies. He’d left those canisters, locked the
doors. He’d wanted to be blamed -- just so someone would remember him.
Rodney had denied him that pleasure (another step downwards) and history had
forgotten the cleaner, and had, instead, focused on him.
Fair enough.
Ahead of him, through the windscreen, Rodney watched the ruined electrics
fizzle and spark in slow-motion. The car-crash had smashed the drums and tanks

around them, and the covered area was swimming in fuel and flames. The
damage to both cars allowed petrol and shards of metal into the mix. He was
sitting in a powder keg. One spark and it would all be over.
Besides him, he felt Jeff Hollister tense ever so slightly.
Good old Jeffrey-Babe. No matter what crap they threw at him, deep down
they respected and cared for him. Not just the other coppers but humanity in
general. Rodney Murray had few friends, and one of them was Jeff. Jeff, who had
listened to his tales of woe, stuck with him through thick and thin. Who had been
so caring and concerned when he assumed Rodney was suffering from survivor
guilt after the fire. Who hadn’t changed his attitude when Rodney had finally
admitted the truth.
Their relationship was strained now, of course. With the world caving in
around them, tempers had frayed. Jeff had claimed only to be interested in his
own welfare -- he had heard the truth and stayed quiet, a crime in itself. But he
was more worried about Rodney. Even when it was clear that this crash was going
to happen, that they had reached the end of the line, he had not faltered.
Good old Jeffrey-Babe.
Rodney turned his gaze from the sparking circuits that meant death and
looked across at Jeff, who met his gaze unflinchingly. Only the tightness in his
clenched fists showed any kind of strain.
The irony of it all was so thick it could clog an artery.
Rodney gave a Mona-Lisa-smile. ‘Bye-bye, Jeffrey-Babe,’ he said.
The spark happened.
The noise was deafening, worse than the last explosion Rodney had heard and,
bizarrely enough, also caused. It was a billowing cloud of white fire, its heart a
wispy yellow, its edges ruby red. The whole squad car around him trembled as the
shock wave hit it, before twisting and crumpling in the intensity of the heat. The
windscreen, instead of shattering, simply sagged and dissolved. Raw flames
flooded the interior.
Rodney took the brunt.
He lunged across the steering wheel and managed to shield the upper half of
Jeff Hollister with his body. Jeff’s face was screwed up, teeth gritted. Rodney
peered at the face as he felt his uniform burst into flames, the thin bristles of hair
on his near-bald scalp singing with a revolting vanilla tang. White-tipped pain
lanced through his flesh, threatening to get worse and worse, consuming him.
Before darkness could fall, the heat dropped.
Rodney sagged. His seatbelt had disintegrated, no longer holding him upright.
He twisted, feeling the raw flesh of his neck split and sting. The ex-policeman’s
smoke-stained eyes peered at... hell.
Twisting flames and bubbling pools surrounded the gutted shape of the squad
car. The other vehicle had vanished in the onslaught, though Rodney could
distantly hear screams. Scream all you want, he thought. It’s too late for all of us.
Well, you at any rate.

Rodney turned, some animal instincts dragging him from the ruined car. Jeff
was slumped in the seat, pretty-much unharmed. The shock, heat and lack of
oxygen had knocked him for six, however. Rodney rose from the twisted hulk of
bubbling metal that had once been his pride and joy, the one he’d raced for a dare
and nearly hit his new Superintendent... Such a long time ago, now.
The area he was in was a concrete cave, all its interior either burning or
exploding as the hazardous chemicals hit fire and went up with a bang. The first
explosion had barely ended, but the next would be worse. The electrical unit had
been fried beyond recognition, but the moment the flames reached the fresh
supplies of fuel, it would be all over.
Rodney found himself thinking of Sheldon once again. To the outside world,
Sheldon was just a troubled copper who’d blown his brains out one day when
things got too much. They didn’t know about the vices, the corruption, the sheer
contempt for his fellow man, or the astonishingly low standards he’d set for
courtship when he’d been seduced by McAllister...
If the explosion claimed Rodney’s life, what would happen?
Rodney Murray, the man who’d sworn to catch a criminal and died doing it --
who made promises to old ladies and kept it. Who’d done his damnedest to save
his mates during the fire and had suspicion heaped onto him. Who lived on via an
illegitimate kid in a deceitful Welsh tart who’d ultimately betrayed him.
Yeah. Soon, what he had been would replace who he had been.
And that had to be good, didn’t it?
He looked through the shimmering haze at Jeff’s still form.
A man who’d dragged his best mate into hell. His best mate -- one who knew
that locking Rodney up and throwing away the key would do no good. Who
believed the best in everyone. Who simply thought that Rodney could only make
amends by being a good copper, a replacement for the six he’d unwittingly killed.
No, Rodney owed Jeff, no matter what the others thought.
The burned officer lurched drunkenly towards the ruined car, some part of his
head insisting that time wasn’t working right. He’d just that second scrambled out
of it -- but events seemed to be stretching out, distending. Was this what is was
like when that beat officer had been stabbed in the neck while Rodney was six
feet away? What was the boy’s name. Rodney couldn’t remember. The heat and
smoke and light and screams...
...and Jeff. Yes, focus on that.
Rodney turned and lurched around the dissolving front of the car, aware that
any moment a second, larger explosion would wipe them all to Kingdom Come.
Doesn’t matter, he thought. Just a few more seconds. Just a few more...
A strange noise bit into his tender ears, louder and louder. At first, Rodney
assumed it to be the final explosion of his life, then, maybe, the souls of the
damned calling for him, but it was something else. Something not natural, not
mechanical. A wheezing, groaning, chuffing, whirring... clang.
Something the size and shape of a phone box now sat amidst the bubbling
pools and dancing flames. It was rendered a harsh purple in the red glow, and
Rodney realized he had seen this thing before somewhere. A police box -- the old

style of law enforcement. Where crims were crims, coppers were coppers. Black
and white, no room for grey. The sort of thing he could see Jeff hanging around
without trouble.
A door in the box was swinging inwards, a head cautiously emerging. Rodney
could make out a round face, a Zampata moutache and untidy hair. Through his
streaming eyes, he assumed it to be Jeff. It all made sense in this blazing chaos.
Maybe-Jeff looking at him, face grim and concerned.
Rodney stumbled towards him, unsure if he had just tripped over something or
his legs had finally given up the ghost. Two strong hands caught him and hauled
him forwards towards the good old fashioned bobby box. Inside was a blinding
white glare that seemed beyond the veil itself. The light at the end of the tunnel.
Rodney gripped the odd clothes Almost-Jeff was wearing as the glow
swallowed them all up. He knew what he was going to see: Munroe, Spears,
Conway, that old lady, maybe even the scrote he’d been chasing. Everyone dead
because of him, and waiting to catch up with him. A painful, rictus-type grin
plastered itself on his face. Bring it on, he thought cockily. I’m ready for ya...
A face appeared to him. A beautiful face, framed by long red hair.
Whatdayaknow. God’s a woman, after all...
‘Doctor, what has happened to him?’ she asked, eyes filled with concern.
‘I’m not certain, Christine,’ Probably-Not-Jeff-At-All replied, his voice all wrong
and posh. ‘Something nasty has...’
Rodney realized the grip holding him had gone. He spun, reeling forwards into
the bright light. He managed to avoid colliding the beautiful girl, but struck some
kind of giant hexagonal table. The controls shifted and altered under his weight.
The heart of the table, a giant neon disc, pulsed with light.
‘Oh, no, not again!’ Couldn’t-Be-Jeff was snapping.
That noise again.
Wheeze-groan-chuff-whir-grate-grind-moan-swish-wish-woosh-ssssss....
‘Rodney Murray,’ croaked Rodney cheerfully, ‘’as left the building.’
Then something slammed into his back with amazing force and the blackness
finally caught up with Rodney.
‘Jeff!’ screamed the voice of one James Shaw as the second explosion ripped
through the ruins. ‘Rodney!’ he shouted as the rumbling howl died down. The
flame dispersed into a coiling cloud of black smoke that twisted and flowed over
the two gutted cars. For a moment, a flickering blue light seemed to hover in the
darkness, but even that was gone.
Sirens were filling the air as James found his mind casting itself back to
another time, another fire they had all been caught in...
No. This time it would be different.
Throwing caution to the wind, James scrambled as close as he could to what
was left of the squad car.

Christine looked down at the man on the bed, her natural concern mingling with
repulsion at his wounds -- and perhaps more. The bitterness and despair in the
man’s words as he’d stumbled into the control room still disturbed her.
The Doctor, of course, was using the TARDIS medicines to heal the man,
tending to him with a variety of pills, ointments, bandages and strange devices.
The man’s flesh was now a braised red colour, but the burns and cuts had mostly
healed over. A good chunk of his torso was bandaged in what looked like a whiteand-red-type
scarf which the Doctor insisted was ‘‘space medicine’’.
‘Who do you think he could be, Doctor?’ she asked, breaking the near silence.
The Doctor glanced at her, as if realizing he was not alone. After a pause --
which gave Christine the impression he was frantically struggling to remember
who she was -- he shrugged. ‘Someone very unlucky. He seemed to be wearing a
policeman’s uniform, England 2002 if I’m right, but one should never leap to
conclusions. Or concussions. In any case, if we hadn’t had that forced landing, he
would no doubt have been killed in that other explosion. At some kind of
chemical treatment centre, I think. Silly place to have a car chase, but then, that’s
the human race for you.’
‘Car chase?’ Christine echoed.
‘Two vehicles,’ the Time Lord continued, preparing some hypodermic needle.
‘Crashed into a delicate area causing a massive explosion. Our friend here
survived the first wave of flames.’
‘What of the others?’
‘I didn’t have a chance to check,’ the Doctor replied with a shrug, injecting the
man’s arm. ‘Our friend here has managed to send us on a totally random course
and I have no way of heading back.’
Christine swallowed. ‘Then they must be dead!’
‘Possibly. How should I know?’ the Doctor muttered.
‘Doctor, do you not care?’
The Doctor turned and grinned a vivid white smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I
am a Doctor, Christine. I do what I can for the living. There’s always time to
mourn the dead. And, until I know otherwise, I suggest we just hope that his two
companions made it out alive.’
‘But they might not be! They might be burned to death!’
The Doctor eyed the body on the bed. ‘Or dead from old age. Or died young.
Or haven’t been born yet. Or still alive, happy and confident that they will live
forever and die trying.’ He looked at his companion. ‘Let’s just hope for the best,
Chris. One day, we’ll get another chance to find out, to right wrongs, to save
everyone. If not, we know we did our best here and now.’
Christine got to her feet and headed for the door. ‘Do you really believe that?’
The Doctor didn’t look at her. ‘I have to.’
HERO RODNEY MURRAY: MISSING PRESUMED DEAD!!
In the spectacular disaster yesterday afternoon, Area Car driver Police
Constable Rodney Murray vanished in the middle of a massive explosion that
almost took the life of his long-time friend and colleague, PC Jeff Hollister.

Although ambulances and fire services arrived as soon as possible, it seems no
force on this earth might have been enough to save them.
This was the very day where DI Owen Pascoe was calling for Murray to
receive praise for managing to revive an old woman with CPR, soon after the
beloved officer opened the plaque commemorating both his efforts and the
tragedy in 01. ‘Rodney Murray believed in what he did and was quite prepared to
do what was necessary, regardless of personal cost,’ Superintendent Fargo said
today. ‘His last involvement was to locate a bag-snatcher gone wrong – one of a
number of incidents that are so often unsolvable, even with today’s police force.
His loss cannot be filled. We can only hope that we can do for this community
what Murray did; put our lives on the line to make it a better place.’
Although not the most popular officer, Murray earned the respect and trust of
his fellows during the firebombing incident of 2001, where he bravely took on a
burning police station and riot whilst single-handedly trying to save the lives of
the six officers caught in the blast. He then managed to locate the man ultimately
responsible for the attack – Simpson Deveraux, who was bragging about his
victory when Murray arrived to arrest him.
Since then, the plucky PC saved a self-confessed boy criminal from a burning
car. But this dangerous habit of burning buildings seems to have been his
undoing – in his determination to capture a repeat-offender thief and murderer,
he caused a massive explosion and vanished without trace. His friend, Hollister,
is in hospital in intensive care but it is expected that he will pull through.
Their quarry was found burned to death, but there is no trace of Murray.
Forensics and eye witness accounts confirm that it is impossible for Murray to
have somehow escaped ground zero before, during or after the explosion, but
they also show he seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth.
As colleague P.C. Alan Stone suggested, “Good coppers don’t die – maybe
they just fade away...”
Rodney sighed and read the article again. It had been hurriedly printed onto some
yellowing A5 paper on the TARDIS’ printer and the front listed from side to side,
leaving ink on his bare finger tips. He turned and looked at the man standing in
the doorway of the police box. ‘Thanks,’ he said at length.
The Doctor cocked his head to the left slightly. ‘It was nothing.’
Rodney looked at the article again. It had missed out a lot of vital points and
had the odd mistake but... it was better than he expected. He was remembered as
a maverick that vanished quite literally in a blaze of glory. Jeff would be fine in a
couple of days -- it wasn’t long before he’d found himself in another back page
article, alive and well.
But the newspaper meant that he was, to all intents and purposes, dead.
And though half the stuff the Doctor had said had completely bewildered him
and Christine, the meaning was clear. He couldn’t return to Liverpool without
changing history -- which was not on. So, instead, Rodney had chatted and
worked out a new place and time for himself. A new life, in fact.
A fresh start.
Some way to make amends for what he had done.
Rodney looked up at the sky, so clear and blue compared to home, then back
at the tattered police box that had saved his life. ‘Do you do this all the time?’

The Doctor arched a questioning eyebrow.
‘Save people from certain death? Me, Kennedy, Jimi Hoffa, Glen Miller...’
‘Does it matter?’ asked the Doctor lightly.
‘Does anything?’ Rodney retorted, feeling a slight return of his depression.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out. Goodbye, Mr. Murray.’
Rodney rushed over to the doorway, stopping it from closing. ‘You’ll get that
message across, though?’
The door managed to close. ‘I shall,’ came the muffled voice from within. A
moment later, the raucous rattle of noises started within the battered blue
policeman’s booth, which lost all colour and substance, becoming an insubstantial
wraith, before even that dispersed.
Rodney stood there, staring at the place where the TARDIS had once stood.
Jeff inched himself up in bed, licking his dry lips as he went for the water beside
his bed. That young nurse who’d popped in to check him over had looked rather
nice -- though obviously nervous, as though her first day. The exhausted copper
idly wondered if he would bump into her again, preferring to think such thoughts.
There was always the flames and screams at the back of his mind if he got bored.
He also noticed her fiddling with the flower displays and the chocolates the
gang at the station had provided during his stay. Jeff’s keen eyes soon noticed the
discrepancy: a navy blue envelope sitting on the table, the words JEFFREY-BABE
written on it in golden ink.
Jeff’s eyes narrowed. If this was trick, there’d be hell to pay.
He opened the envelope and found a piece of paper in it.
Don’t ask, Jeffrey-Babe. Trust me, just don’t ask.
We won’t see each other ever again, but know this: I will never forget you or be able
to repay all you’ve done to help. And, Sheila? Don’t grieve for me.
All my love,
Rodney
Jeff folded the piece of paper and returned it to the envelope. This would
require some thought. But it was with a lighter heart that he lay back to think
things through, and, as he slipped into the warmth of his dreams, they were
untroubled by thoughts of fire or pain.
Rodney looked down at the massive emerald quay as the ferries calmly swept
back and forth. Already his delicate skin was turning red in the sunshine and he
absently applied more of the sun-block Christine had given him before his
departure. He decided he’d head back to the hotel room and get some rest.
A cop missing-presumed-dead but, really living the life of Riley down under?
Rodney smirked. Well, it’s worked before.

Green Means “Go”
This adventure takes place after Morningstar Morningstar Morningstar Morningstar Manor Manor Manor Manor
The dusk turned the sky an ugly mauve colour, as if someone had spilt blood
across the heavens and then failed to get the stain out completely. As daylight
dwindled, the hotel was reduced to a dim silhouette with hardly any details
visible -- just a mass of dark squares against an L-shape of shadow. As their eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom, they could see some of the windows were wide
open, a few with Venetian blinds hanging crookedly against the pitch darkness
within. Nothing moved, and it was silent bar the lonely sighing of the wind
through the untended trees.
Dara Hamilton hadn’t thought a haunted hotel could look so... mundane.
She expected it to be all Gothic and cobwebbed, with looming gargoyles,
slated roofs, windows that seemed to stare out like eyes, thunder and lightning.
She was braced for creaking floorboards and whispering voices, but all she saw
was a silent, rather run-down monument to times long gone.
In the boom times of the early part of the century, there’d been a rush of
visitors and custom enough to justify the presence of a hotel at the outskirts of
Canterbury despite being so far from any train or bus stations, shops or
restaurants. Alas, that moment of prosperity had been fleeting and the hotel had
been closed longer than Dara’s parents had been alive. No one was even entirely
sure what it had been called, but some joked it had been named The Exorbitant
because of its high prices that turned customers away during the recession.
Over the last fifty years estate agents had tried to shift the building, and not
once had it made a reserve price. No one wanted a hotel so far from anywhere
useful, or was prepared to tear it down and build something new in its place. Its
remoteness meant people avoided it without even trying, not even homeless folk
choosing to use it for shelter in the harsh winters of the last few years.
It wasn’t exactly much of a leap to suppose it was haunted.
‘Why exactly are we doing this?’ sighed Michelle.
Dara glanced at her. ‘Mainly because we don’t have anything else to do on a
Saturday night,’ she explained reasonably. ‘And this needs investigating.’
‘Can’t someone else do it?’
Dara shrugged. ‘Everyone else is busy. Probably out on dates.’
Michelle scowled and kicked at the dirt that almost smothered the pavement.
‘This is so unfair,’ she sulked. ‘Why can’t we get dates on a Saturday night?’
‘Well, I know what my excuse is,’ Dara sighed, patting her swollen stomach.
It was seven months since the Doctor had thrown Dara out of the TARDIS,
screaming that he couldn’t bear the thought that their dangerous adventures
might get her killed. It was also over one hundred and twenty years since the
afternoon Dara and a beautiful German farm hand called Christoph Heinderiech

had enjoyed themselves the way any hormonal teenagers attracted to each other
would -- and the curious lack of any birth control in 1877 had lead to a rather
predictable development.
But even if the Doctor hadn’t dumped her back in Canterbury a few days after
she’d first left it, Christoph couldn’t take part in looking after their child. He had
died the day after conception, which just seemed even more unfair than ever.
They hadn’t been long enough for lust to turn into true love, or even anything
close. Yet he was a responsible young man and would have done everything for
his new family. Instead he’d unwittingly left her in the lurch, just like the Doctor.
In a way, her sudden unplanned pregnancy was a lot easier for people to
believe than her mysterious disappearance or tales of traveling time and space.
She’d had a string of boyfriends since she was thirteen, and her tendency for rash
and unconsidered action meant her failure to use contraception for a one-night
stand was considered quite credible.
Her parents had surprisingly enough been very supportive of her, even though
an unwed mother destroyed the last vestige of hope that her scholarship could
knock off Dara’s rough edges and make the 19-year-old a sophisticated society
lady. Even so, her mother and father had been impressed by her maturity and
determination to keep the baby -- at least until her father found out she’d lost the
diamond necklace he’d given her. Even Dara wasn’t optimistic enough to think
they’d be mollified to learn it had been used to repair a 24th century spaceship
fighting an intergalactic war...
Thankfully, the dates meant she’d finished her final year at the Canterbury
School for Girls and, as 1998 dawned, had been able to move into a flat with he
best friend Michelle. To make ends meet, the pair had started working at a local
café. It had been fine until the uniform no longer fitted Dara. Since then, she’d
ended up doing the washing up because her growing bump distracted (and
sometimes annoyed) customers.
Over the months, Dara had kept an eye out for the Doctor. She’d managed to
contact Colonel Crichton of UNIT, but they hadn’t heard from him since some
business in Dublin with a mad dinosaur. She hadn’t been able to find Mark and
Serena, who had apparently gone on a honeymoon and left no forwarding
addresses. There was no way for her to contact that Time Lord Harlan who’d
taken a fancy to her and no other friends she had made aboard the TARDIS were
alive at this point in time.
So it was just her, until she stumbled across the Doctor again.
And the only way she could do that was get involved in the strange and
bizarre happenings that her best friend so often got caught up in and hope that
one day their paths would dovetail again.
Alas, there was only so much paranormal research an increasingly-pregnant
teenager could carry out, which was why she and Michelle were now checking out
a haunted hotel at the edges of town...
The two girls cautiously moved into the shadows of the hotel. The dying light
made it hard to see anything, and the overgrown trees and bushes that got in

their way were rendered almost invisible. Thankfully, some last glimmer of sunset
through a window on the other side of the building illuminated the entrance
hallway enough for them to make their way towards. Although the complex
looked as though it had not been disturbed for years, Dara knew for a fact only a
few weeks earlier it had been crawling with police, ambulances and other
emergency services.
‘I can hardly see a thing,’ Michelle complained as she banged her shin against
something hard and sharp for the third time.
Dara rolled her eyes. ‘Well, try the torch in your bag!’
‘Oh. Right.’ Michelle found the item and switched it on. The light seemed
dangerously, pitifully weak, but it was enough to reveal they were at the rusting
gate that covered the main entrance. ‘Why aren’t you using a torch, Dara?’
‘Batteries are expensive,’ she shrugged in reply. ‘I want to keep one in reserve.’
‘We’re not really going to stay here all night?’
‘Unless something happens. Look on the bright side, it will make us appreciate
the apartment a lot more.’
‘Oh, very funny, Dara.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Shut up,’ Michelle sighed and threw her weight against the gates. They
weren’t locked, just jammed closed by virtue of being warped and old. On the
third try they gave way and scraped apart. ‘Why do I have to break down the
doors? You weigh more than I do!’
‘Yeah, and that extra weight is called ‘‘a baby’’, remember?’
Michelle gave her friend a look of contempt. ‘Excuses, excuses! Come on...’
They entered the dusty, cobwebbed hallway of the hotel. It was silent inside
the building, the only noise the rubbish that crunched and creaked under their
feet as they picked their way through the entrance. The vegetation outside cast
strange, unmoving shadows against the walls. The black shapes looked almost like
strange wallpaper, or burn marks.
Michelle let out a mild cry as her tread dislodged a free-standing object beside
her, and it lurched out of the darkness towards her. It was some kind of urn or
fancy flower pot that now contained nothing but dust. The girls managed to stop
it toppling over and shove it back against the wall, before pausing for a moment
to regain their breath.
‘Not nervous, are you?’ asked Dara innocently.
‘Me?’ Michelle asked affronted. ‘Never. I’m cool.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘I’m so cool I could spit ice cubes.’
‘Eww.’
‘That sounded better in my head.’
‘Hope so. Mind you, it’s so cold in here your saliva probably could freeze...’
‘Dara, it is the middle of winter, remember?’ Michelle reminded her as they
gingerly made their way down the hall. ‘Of course it’s going to be cold! We’re just
lucky it’s not snowing tonight...’

Dara tugged her heavy duffel coat tighter. She was covered in enough layers of
clothing to make her look two months more pregnant than she actually was, yet
this strange cold nevertheless seemed to chill her to her young bones. ‘You agreed
to come,’ she pointed out, peering up at the shadowy ceiling.
‘No, I said that I wouldn’t let you go on your own,’ Michelle retorted. ‘There’s a
difference, you know.’
‘This is probably just a wild goose chase like the other ones...’
‘If you really believed that then you’d be back at home, hogging the sofa and
watching the director’s cut of Blade Runner. Honestly, Dara, you’re supposed to
be taking it easy! Getting ready to become a mother! Not taking up ghost hunting
in a freezing cold motel...’
‘Sounds way easier to than dealing with nappies and childbirth.’
Michelle sighed. ‘True.’
They entered what might once have been a foyer. The shadows were deep and
there was no furniture that could identify the dimensions of the room. The
shadows of the two girls were huge and misshapen on the grimy walls, and the
moving torchlight caused them to fade into each other and disappear seemingly at
random. Dara turned a circle and saw to her relief what looked like some toilets
through an empty doorframe. Not the nicest of facilities, but nowadays she
couldn’t be choosy when a full bladder was on the line.
‘Seems a good a place as any to set up camp,’ she told Michelle. ‘Right near the
main exit, right next to a bathroom, and probably in the same place that those uni
students chose to stay.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Michelle with even less enthusiasm than her normal low
levels. ‘We’re doing exactly what they did. That sounds very safe and sensible.’
‘We’re trying to recreate the events of the night,’ Dara reminded her. ‘Well, I
am, at least. You’re just here because you don’t trust me out of your sight.’
‘Be fair, Dara. Last time I did that you vanished for three days and turned up
in fancy dress, pregnant from a one-night stand and off your face on drugs.’
‘I wasn’t on drugs.’
‘You said phone boxes are bigger on the inside than the outside and can travel
through time and space. If you weren’t on drugs you’d be in a lunatic asylum.’
Dara sighed and struggled out of her backpack. She should have kept her
mouth shut like the Doctor had told her at the beginning. He’d insisted no one
would believe her stories or wild claims of time travel, and had she been thinking
clearly she might have. But the suddenness of their parting and the shock of her
impending motherhood had been so bewildering, she’d shot her mouth off about
Daleks, Zylons and Time Lords...
Working together, they managed to haul out their sleeping bags and unfurl
them onto the tiled floor around a small crate they found that could act as a table.
Michelle placed the torch upright on the crate, turning it into a crude lantern they
could work by. She then took out a fat pale yellow candle and lit it, providing
some more illumination.

Hampered by her gravid awkwardness, Dara struggled to smooth out her
blankets using only her knees. ‘It’s going to be a long night,’ she said, gritting her
teeth with concentration. ‘We might as well get comfortable, relax, eat...’
‘You amaze me,’ said Michelle dryly. Dara’s appetite had been healthy before
she was with child. Now she regularly threatened to eat them out of house and
home. Sensibly, Michelle had been the one trusted with the food rations. She took
out the plastic lunchboxes and peered at the contents. ‘A whole heap of
sandwiches and cartons of apple juice. What do you fancy?’
Dara thought for a moment. ‘Grape jelly sandwich please.’
‘Oh well, at least it’s not raw pasta again...’
‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it!’ the pregnant girl retorted around a mouthful
of sandwich and a bite from a Mars bar she took from her pocket.
Suddenly, the silence of the hotel was broken by a loud inhuman sigh. Both
Dara and Michelle instantly identified it as a strong wind blowing through the
building, but both were startled nonetheless. The unwavering glow from the torch
and candles showed nothing moving in the foyer. The double doors at the far end,
grubby with broken glass panes, were perfectly still. Beyond, they could just make
out a cobwebbed staircase leading up out of sight.
‘Just the wind,’ said Michelle quietly.
‘Of course it is,’ Dara replied. ‘Did you see that?’
‘What?’ asked her friend suspiciously.
Dara peered at the shapes beyond the doors. ‘Nothing. I thought I saw a light.
Probably just my imagination. Or maybe a streetlight coming on.’ She clapped her
hands trying to be more cheerful and positive. ‘Like I said, this is a good spot.
Nothing can come or go without us seeing it or hearing it.’
‘Unless the roof caves in...’
‘Nah, this place has been around for decades, made to last,’ Dara said with
slightly too much confidence. ‘This place is built like a fort! We’re safe.’
Michelle was grave. ‘Safe from what?’
‘I dunno...’
‘You said it, you said this place is built like a fort. Like they were worried
about something outside getting in rather than something getting out...’
Dara spoke calmingly. ‘It’s just an expression, Michelle. That’s all.’
The sigh of the wind had dulled until it was barely audible. Dara munched on
her meal, slightly reluctant to clamber into the sleeping bag. Part of her, the part
that had kept her alive during a year in the TARDIS, told her to get ready to run.
Michelle sipped some apple juice. For several minutes they sat in silence.
‘So, what exactly are we investigating?’ Michelle asked.
‘I explained on the way here,’ Dara groaned. ‘Weren’t you listening?’
‘I was too busy trying to talk you out of it,’ Michelle replied. ‘I know the basics.
Those students from the university got drunk on a pub crawl. They got lost, ended
up here by accident, decided to crash here for the night. Some passing truck
driver heard them screaming, called the police, the police searched the whole
place for them, and eventually they found them. Alive and well.’

Dara grimaced. ‘Hardly. They were all scratched up, exhausted, and according
to the newspapers, they’d all gone insane.’
‘Newspapers always blow things all up out of proportion.’
‘Yeah, normally,’ Dara agreed, thumbing open a carton of juice for herself.
‘Except this time. If anything, they downplayed everything.’
‘And how did they do that then, Dara?’
‘Well, it’s not like this was the first time anything weird has happened here,’
Dara explained, choosing her words with care. Michelle was a nervous girl, and
being told scary stories in a derelict hotel at night would not improve her mood.
‘That lorry driver had been along this road before. I checked.’
‘Ah, is that why the phone bill was so big this month?’
Dara stayed on topic. ‘It wasn’t the first time he’d heard screams from this
place, just the first time he called the police. Sometimes he was driving along at
midnight, he heard terrible noises. Like a howling. Scared the hell out of him.’
‘So we’re here because of one easily-spooked lorry driver?’
‘Not entirely. I did some checking at the library, and on the internet. There’s
all sorts of weird stories told about this place. Some ghost stories, some not. None
of them match, apart from being very creepy, but they’re all about this place. But
there’s never been any murders or disasters or disappearances. Those students
were the first.’
Michelle took her time swallowing a mouthful of juice. ‘So, is that it?’
‘Over the last few weeks, people -- passers by, not that there are many out here
-- have seen a dim light moving back and forth behind the windows. But who’d be
in here after it was a crime scene? And how could any of them get up past the
ground floor?’
Michelle frowned and nodded at the stairwell beyond the double doors.
Dara shook her head. ‘They’re locked.’
By now, Michelle’s skepticism had robbed her of her fear. Neatly putting down
her drink, she leapt to her feet and strode towards the edge of the pool of light
from the candle. She tried the doors, rattling them loudly. Dust was shaken loose,
but the doors did not budge. ‘Look at them,’ she said, brushing her hands on her
anorak. ‘You could get through them easily enough without any real trouble...’
‘But no one has,’ Dara insisted. ‘They could hardly break down the doors and
then put them back, lock them and perfectly arrange the dust, could they?’
Michelle shivered, but only from the cold. She tugged a blanket from her bag
and draped it around her shoulders. ‘Then there’s some other way up there.’
‘The police couldn’t find it.’
‘Police are idiots.’
‘Which is why someone else had to investigate,’ said Dara triumphantly,
popping the last of her sandwich into her mouth. ‘Ipso facto.’
‘And we have to be the ones,’ Michelle grumbled. ‘What are the odds?’
‘The odds don’t matter,’ her friend retorted.
‘So what do you think happened here? A ghost, a curse, aliens, what?’
Dara shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘They were probably all junkies or something. They all went crazy, scared
themselves stupid,’ Michelle suggested. ‘Like a self-fulfilling prophecy. They go to
a scary old hotel and are looking for things to scare them. They get ideas from the
telly, horror movies and things like that. We all know that worse stuff happens on
the news every night.’
The last sunlight had disappeared now. There was just the blackness, cold and
the howling winds outside. ‘It’s all nonsense,’ Michelle told herself.
‘That’s what I want to find out,’ the pregnant girl vowed. ‘We do what those
students did. Hang around the ground floor late at night. But we don’t get drunk
or stupid. If anything happens, we’ll be ready for it.’
‘Ready for it?’ Michelle scoffed. ‘How? You got a ghost-buster proton laser
beam or something?’
Dara nodded in the direction of the exit. ‘A quick escape route, plus we’re not
going to be caught unawares. Everything else, we’ll deal with on the hoof.’
‘How? Have you been in a haunted house before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, of course you have. Was that before the trip over the Iron Curtain or after
the alien planet with the orange sky and the rabbit problem?’
Dara didn’t smile. ‘It’s true.’ She rubbed her round abdomen with pride. ‘I’ve
got living proof of it.’
Michelle’s eyes widened. ‘You and Christoph did it... in a haunted house?!’
Dara laughed. ‘Don’t be silly! It was in a field nearby.’
‘Oh, that makes much more sense,’ Michelle retorted sarcastically. ‘Go on then,
tell me your honest-to-god real-life ghost story. And don’t skip out the bits
between you and the hunky Teutonic cliché!’
Dara shrugged. At least the story of her visit to Morningstar Manor would have
a happy ending, if only in the form of her unborn child. Plus, her adventures
never seemed too scary when the Doctor was there, always laughing and joking,
not getting scared by monsters. In fact, he’d been more scared in the TARDIS as
they said goodbye than he had been in the months they’d been traveling.
‘OK, Michelle, you sitting comfortably?’
‘About as comfortably as you.’
‘Well, I’ll begin anyway. It was a dark and stormy night...’
Dara told her story, going into graphic and animalistic detail whenever she
reached the parts of her relationship with Christoph. No one had really asked
about the father of Dara’s baby, since she was adamant he would not stand by her
and there was no record of anyone of that name in the phone book. Many
assumed he was some foreign exchange student with a false name who had
wickedly seduced Dara in the old-fashioned, tried-and-trusted wham-bam-thankyou-ma’am
method. But as she told Michelle of his blonde hair, blue eyes, square
jaw and the way he fiddled with his braces embarrassedly after they first kissed,
both girls soon began to cry at his loss.
Hours passed, and soon they both grew tired and huddled in their sleeping
bags for warmth as the temperature dropped further. There were no ominous

screams or howls, and the only scary thing in the hotel seemed to be Dara’s story.
Around the part where she and the Doctor had tried to ride out of town, Michelle
had slipped into a doze. Some time after that, she was fast asleep.
Her dreams were strange and uncomfortable, something short of a nightmare
but hardly pleasant. She dreamt of Dara offering her baby like a sacrifice up to the
Baron and his wife, on a stone table surrounded by monsters that were for some
reason blatantly cartoons superimposed over reality. Michelle was not sure if the
baby had been a boy or a girl, only that its eyes blazed an emerald green...
Michelle’s eyes snapped open and she was wide awake.
The candle had almost burned down entirely, leaving barely enough light to
see the other side of the crate. Michelle rolled over and her heart leapt into her
throat to see that Dara had disappeared. Her sleeping bag was lying nearby, along
with her duffel coat and the cushion Michelle had brought to support the curve of
Dara’s aching back, but of the mum-to-be, there was no sign.
The only sound was the rushing of the wind.
Michelle peered through the steady, feeble glow from the candle, but could
see nothing in the darkness beyond. ‘Dara?’ she asked weakly.
Something moved less-than-stealthily in the darkness.
‘Yeah?’ grunted a tired voice. A moment later, Dara stepped into the weak pull
of light. Her thrown-together outfit of baggy white jumper and stretchy maternity
slacks were grubby and scuffed, and she was rubbing her distended waist as if
she’d bruised it.
‘Where were you?’ Michelle demanded, relieved.
‘Answering a call of nature, what do you think?’ she grumbled. ‘I would have
moved into the bathroom if it wasn’t pitch black and stinking...’
‘What time is it?’ asked Michelle.
Dara peered blearily at her wristwatch her mother had given her when she
found out about the baby. It would be a few months before she’d need to time her
contractions, but it was hardly useless in the meantime.
‘Uh... about... four minutes past three.’
‘In the morning?’
‘In the morning.’
‘Anything happen?’
‘Apart from me regretting drinking all the apple juice? Not a lot.’
Michelle smiled ruefully. ‘It’s lucky for you. If you wet yourself in fright people
just assume the baby kicked you in the bladder.’
‘Yay,’ Dara yawned. ‘Lucky me.’
There was a loud creak behind them. Dara snatched up the torch and switched
it on, aiming it at the direction of the noise. Michelle clamped her teeth around
her knuckles, trying to stop herself crying out.
One of the double doors was slowly swinging open towards them.
‘You unlocked it, right?’ asked Dara in a small voice.
Not trusting herself to speak, Michelle shook her head.
‘You must have loosened it or something.’
Michelle carefully drew her fist from her mouth. ‘Maybe you did it?’

‘No I didn’t!’ Dara snapped, offended.
‘Ever since you got pregnant you’ve been sleepwalking!’
‘Yeah, for bathroom trips and midnight snacks -- breaking rusted locks with my
bare hands only works if I’m awake!’ Dara protested. ‘If I wanted to open those
doors I would have done it earlier... preferably during daytime!’
Michelle suspected that maybe Dara was playing some kind of game with her,
but she’d never gone to such elaborate lengths to wind her up before. She stared
at the open doorway, and the vague outline of the staircase beyond. ‘Maybe a
squirrel did it, a badger got into the old building... it could have smelled our food
or something...’
There was a loud, sharp noise from above their heads.
‘What was that?’ the girls asked each other in frightened unison.
‘Do badgers like going upstairs?’ Dara wondered, shining the torch up at the
ceiling. Thankfully there were no monsters or bats to be seen in the torchlight.
‘Whatever it is, it can’t normally be so clumsy. Otherwise, it would’ve made noises
since we first got here and it’s been as silent as... well. You know.’
‘Maybe it’s something nocturnal,’ Michelle suggested. ‘It’s just woken up?’
‘Well, we’re definitely not going upstairs to see what it is,’ said Dara firmly.
‘Prowling around an old hotel in the middle of the night on stairs no one’s used
for years? Even I think that’s just asking for trouble.’
‘Yeah,’ Michelle agreed fearfully. ‘Like what happened to the students.’
‘But they stayed here on the ground floor,’ Dara protested.
Michelle looked at her friend. ‘Maybe that’s where they went wrong -- maybe
it’s safer upstairs? If they’d done that, maybe they’d have been fine!’
Dara gave Michelle a long-suffering look. ‘Two things, Michelle. The first is
that if there is someone or something in here, all they’ve gone is open a door and
trip over something in the dark. Hardly the sort of thing to drive you insane, is it?’
Michelle shifted uncomfortably, but conceded the point. ‘And the second?’
Dara simply pointed down at the smooth slope of her bulging stomach.
Michelle hung her head in her hands. ‘So we stay down here then.’
‘You can leave if you like, Michelle,’ Dara said.
‘Oh, emotional blackmail! How mature, Hamilton!’
‘It’s not blackmail. I won’t think any less of you if you go.’
‘Well, I’d think a lot less of you if I did,’ Michelle snapped. ‘Didn’t we just note
you’re seven months gone? You’re not just risking your life any more, remember!’
Dara fell silent. In some ways she still found it hard to believe she was carrying
another human being inside her -- for the first few months it was just nausea, and
of late a strange fluttering in her gut. Nevertheless, she shook her head. ‘We can’t
go,’ she insisted firmly.
‘Why not?’
‘We have to find out what’s happening!’
‘How?’ Michelle demanded. ‘We can’t go upstairs, so we can’t find out what
the noises are. Your plan was basically sit here till sunrise unless something
happened -- so what’s your plan now?’
Dara tried to answer but couldn’t.

‘Well! You’re not telling me this was just another one of your stupid mistakes,
are you?’ Michelle hollered.
The pregnant girl’s eyes shone with tears. ‘It’s possible,’ she admitted.
There was a faint shifting, creaking noise above them. Both girls whirled,
aiming their torches up at the roof. The crossbeams and struts seemed to flex as
they watched, dislodging thin streams of dirt and dust. The wind rose to roaring
shriek in time with each movement, as though the whole hotel was being rocked
back and forth by the gale.
‘Are we in the middle of a hurricane or something?’ Michelle demanded.
‘There’s something wrong about this,’ Dara muttered.
Michelle couldn’t make her out over the howling wind. ‘What?’
Dara’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Listen! Michelle, listen to the wind!’
‘Listen?’ the other girl scoffed. ‘It’s nearly deafening!’
‘It’s blowing like crazy, right?’
‘Right...’
‘Then why isn’t the air moving?’ Dara demanded, pointing to the candle.
And she was right. The puny flame wasn’t flickering at all. And despite the
frightful cold in the room, none of the detritus in the corners had stirred. Their
hair did not move in the breeze because there was no breeze to move it in the first
place. The stillness of the hotel was unchanged from the moment they had
arrived, despite the huge, swirling sounds outside.
‘It’s not the wind,’ Dara announced. ‘It just sounds like the wind!’
‘Then what the hell is it?’ Michelle demanded.
The noise of the roaring gale grew louder, then rougher, until it sounded like
the howling of a wolf -- a hungry wolf...
‘This can’t be happening,’ Michelle shouted, getting to her feet. ‘There’s no
such thing as haunted houses, haunted hotels or haunted anything! They’re just
stupid stories!’
‘And just how do you think these stories get started?’ Dara snapped.
The howling died down, but didn’t completely disappear. The ceiling creaked
and flexed above them, as though something very, very heavy was dragging itself
back and forth the level above. The level, Dara remembered, no one claimed ever
to have seen -- at the top of the staircase that could now be accessed through
doors mysteriously open...
‘That does it!’ Michelle announced. ‘Whatever is up there, it is going to be
sorry it ever interrupted my sleep! You hear that?’ she shouted up at the ceiling. ‘I
don’t know how long it is till morning, but don’t reckon that you’re guaranteed to
live that long!’
Dara realized that the stress of the situation had seemingly pushed Michelle
too far. But instead of collapsing in terror, she almost seemed to be shaking with
fury. Protective fury.
The pregnant girl realized, with embarrassed gratitude, that Michelle was
determined to keep her safe at any costs. And not just her, but the baby too...

As fast as she could manage, Dara struggled against the entire mass of her
unborn infant to rise and join her friend. ‘You’re not going on your own,
Michelle!’ she vowed. ‘I’m coming with you!’
Michelle’s resolve faltered slightly. ‘Maybe we should just run for it?’ she
suggested uneasily. ‘Or, you know, in your case, waddle?’
‘There’s something in this hotel,’ said Dara grimly. ‘It might follow us outside.’
‘It left us alone for the first four hours,’ Michelle pointed out.
‘Maybe it’s only just woken up...’
‘How do you even know these things?!’ her friend shouted angrily.
‘I don’t!’ Dara admitted, just as angry.
‘So you have no idea what’s happening here,’ retorted Michelle counting points
off on her fingers, ‘you have no idea how to deal with it, and you don’t even know
if we’re in danger or not! For the love of all that’s sane, Dara, why the hell did you
think it was a good idea to come here!’
‘Because the Doctor might be involved!’ Dara screamed at the top of her voice.
There was a pause, the only sound the howling from above.
‘That’s it?’ Michelle said, almost unable to believe what she’d heard.
‘That’s it,’ admitted Dara bluntly.
‘Well, call me pessimistic Miss Hamilton,’ retorted Michelle sarcastically, ‘but I
don’t see any phone boxes here, do you? Or any magicians or lunatics with long
scarves or any of the other crazy garbage you’ve been babbling on about for the
last seven months!’ Michelle raged. ‘It is therefore just possible that he’s not
involved -- and that means that we’re on our own now!’
Dara said nothing.
‘He’s not coming back. Time to grow up, Dara,’ said Michelle brutally. ‘We
have to look after ourselves now. So, do we make a break for it or go and find out
what that noise is?’
Dara was stung. ‘You’re asking me for advice?’
‘You’re the one who fights monsters!’ Michelle shouted. ‘I didn’t! I stayed
behind, didn’t I? I didn’t get to have adventures or travel in time! You did, so for
once actually do something useful about those stories you keep telling!’
Dara took a deep breath. She was shaking now, but unsure if it was the cold,
the fear or the shock of Michelle’s brutal honesty. ‘If this thing is what attacked
those students,’ she said at last, ‘it left them alive. Beaten up, but alive. And they
probably would have either stayed inside or run for it. They couldn’t have gone
upstairs, the doors were locked. So upstairs is the one place we know they weren’t
actually attacked...’
‘So we do the one thing they didn’t?’
‘Pretty much.’
Michelle held out her hand. ‘Come on, Dara,’ she said gently.
Dara took the proffered hand.
Hand in hand, torches struggling to pierce the darkness, the two girls crept
towards the staircase. With each step, the air seemed to get colder and colder, as
the wind-sounds blew stronger. But no windows rattled and no cobwebs stirred.

It was just a noise of something else in the hotel with them.
Cautiously, the pair began to ascend the steps. But the stairs had not had any
kind of maintenance for the best part of a century, and the steps creaked and
buckled under their weight (especially as Dara was some ten pounds heavier than
Michelle nowadays). The dust they disturbed threatened to make them sneeze,
and the creaking of the staircase sounded like old bones snapping under pressure.
Finally, one step gave up the ghost and Dara’s foot went straight through it.
Nerves taut, Michelle instantly spun around and grabbed her friend before she
could fall any further. Gritting her teeth and heaving with all her strength,
Michelle managed to heave her heavily-pregnant best friend free and onto the
sturdier floors of the landing.
They were both too breathless to speak either gratitude or reproach, and
instead concentrated on their surroundings. The torchlight picked out a long
corridor lined with doorways, most of them ajar, some vaguely illuminated by the
starlight outside. Nothing moved, stirred, or even gave the strange howling noise.
Just a crumbling old hotel at the edge of town.
The girls swung their torches around the bare walls and sagging floors. Dara
was looking for any sign of classic poltergeist activity or alien visitation. Michelle
was cursing not taking that offer of getting a mobile phone, despite the
extortionate costs required. Right now, no amount of money seemed too much if
it got them out of here alive -- her anger and bravado had melted away some
point on the staircase.
‘Any ideas?’ Michelle hissed, still looking around.
‘Not sure. It’s getting colder all the time, maybe it needs to be cold?’
‘Or,’ Michelle suggested flatly, ‘it’s just the middle of winter.’
‘That might be why it’s awake. Sort of like animals in reverse -- it doesn’t
hibernate during winter, it hibernates the rest of the year... get back!’
Dara grabbed her friend’s arm and they retreated from the main corridor into
an alcove. She thumbed the switch on her torch and nudged Michelle to do the
same. For once, she did so without argument. They were plunged into blackness.
But not for long.
Michelle realized she could just make out the rounded shape of Dara beside
her, then the outlines of the alcove they were hiding in. Somehow, light was
starting to seep into the hotel, as though dawn were breaking. This light was not
the clear glow of the sun, however, but a sickly electric neon green colour.
The glow grew brighter and stronger until the stairwell area could clearly be
seen. The source of the light grew closer and closer, and the strong howling wind
sound roared in their ears. They pressed back into the shadows, instinctively
turning their faces away as the bilious green light engulfed the area. For a few
moments, they were bathed in the hideous glow and the freezing cold, then both
seemed to dwindle away.
Dara opened her eyes just in time to see the green light retreating around the
top of the stairwell and then out of sight. Darkness fell once more as the howling
wind sound rapidly died off as well.
‘Is it gone?’ said a tight, frightened voice beside her.

Dara stared out into the blackness. ‘Yeah,’ she said at length.
‘...are you sure?’
‘Yep.’
After a moment a torch snapped on, revealing Michelle, wiping her eyes and
nose with the back of her sleeve. There was no sign of what had just happened.
Even the dust and trash on the floor was undisturbed. Michelle shook her head,
amazed. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she scoffed.
Dara gave her a look as frosty as the air itself. ‘Not believing it won’t stop these
things from happening,’ she scolded her friend. ‘And now we know that there’s
something in here with us.’
‘If it’s upstairs,’ Michelle reasoned, ‘we should be able to sneak out, right? I
mean, it didn’t seem to notice us when we were right in front of it...’
Dara looked doubtfully at the stairwell. ‘I dunno if the stairs could hold our
weight. Well, my weight in any case...’
Michelle scratched her cheek thoughtfully. ‘There’s a fire escape on the other
side of the hotel, isn’t there? Would could try that...’
Dara would have been wary at the best of times. ‘We’d have to go to the third
floor to even look for it -- that’s where the green light is!’
‘It’s harmless,’ said Michelle, slightly unconvincingly. ‘It didn’t hurt us at all.’
‘What about those students?’
‘We don’t know if that light had anything to do with that,’ she reminded her.
‘Dara, we should just try and focus on getting the hell out of here before the
whole building falls apart around us...’
‘Oh come on,’ Dara scoffed. ‘It isn’t that bad!’
Her defense of the hotel’s builders proved to be unfounded. As soon as the
words left her lips, the door she was leaning on finally gave way -- her weight
driving the screws and hinges from the rotting doorframe. With her support gone,
the pregnant teenager tumbled backwards into the abandoned linen closet with a
cloud of dust and a surprised yelp.
‘Dara,’ asked Michelle worriedly. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Just my dignity,’ came the groaned reply. ‘My back’s killing me, but that’s par
for the course these days...’
Michelle’s own back was still protesting from the last time she’d had to help
Dara upright. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ll head upstairs and see if I can find the fire
escape, then I can come straight back here and get you.’
‘But...’ Dara began.
‘It’s just a green light,’ said Michelle confidently. ‘And not a smart one either. If
I have to, I’ll just hide. And if I see it, you’ll hear me. Just stay here, sit still and
make sure that the baby’s OK, all right?’
Dara had managed to sit upright, an exhausting feat by itself. She dreaded to
imagine how difficult it would be in another two months time. ‘All right,’ she said,
beaten. ‘Be careful though, Michelle.’
Michelle gave a small, buck-toothed smile. ‘I will.’
‘You will... you will come back for me, right?’

Michelle was already walking away. ‘Of course I will. I can’t pay the rent on
the apartment by myself, can I?’ she asked, and began to make her way up the
stairs, the same way that the green light had gone...
Dara sat alone in the dark, propped up against the warped doorframe, rubbing
her stretched belly in long, slow circles. Sometimes she hated the way people
fussed over her, as though she were made of brittle glass. If she’d been that
fragile, she’d have lost the baby long ago. To try and cheer herself up, she found
herself remembering a tune she’d once heard sung in the TARDIS...
Green light says ‘‘go’’
I said, my light says ‘‘go’’
I said, your light says ‘‘no’’...
Dara’s eyelids grew heavier and she felt the warm embrace of sleep beginning
to slide around her. It had been a while since she’d checked her watch, but it
couldn’t be more than another hour or so till daybreak...
‘I found something!’
Dara’s eyes snapped open. Had she been dreaming? Was she still asleep? She
blinked and coughed, struggling to work out what was happening -- and
awareness brought with it aches, pains, the cold and deep fear.
‘Michelle?’ she called out loudly. ‘Michelle, what is it?’
Silence.
Not even the strange howl of the wind could be heard now.
‘Michelle?’ Dara shouted as loud as she could.
Nothing.
Had something happened to her? Had she fallen through the unstable floor?
Had she found the fire escape and fled, leaving Dara alone? Was the green light
not as harmless as it had first appeared?
Raw fear began to nibble at her guts, and Dara gritted her teeth and struggled
to get to her feet for the umpteenth time that night. Finally upright, she managed
to haul herself up the stairs to the next level, torch clutched tightly in one hand.
She tried to stay calm, remembering something the Doctor had told her once...
‘The supernatural is terrifying because it has no causes, only effects. The
denial of cause and effect means that reason itself has somehow failed and that is
frightening because it means that you can’t control what’s happening to you.
You’ll be a victim, so fear is all that you can expect, really. But just because you
can’t see a possible cause to an effect doesn’t mean there isn’t one. And if that’s
true, the way to escape fear is simply to find the answer to the question...’
Dara tried to remember more of that conversation, but for some reason her
memories seemed more focused on the episodes of The Banana Splits she and the
Doctor had watched later that afternoon. Nevertheless, the argument was logical.
A spooky green light was only spooky because she didn’t know what was causing
it. Some kind of hologram? A time-slip? An alien that looked like green light?
A ghost?
No, no one had died here as far as her (admittedly limited) research could tell.
And why would a ghost take the form of some ball lightning instead of the usual

wraith with clanking chains and chilling fingers? That meant not only was it not a
ghost, it wasn’t trying to scare anyone. Definitely not someone from the old
amusement arcade with a sheet over their head, then...
Ahead of her was another long, straight corridor lined with doors. There was
no light, green or otherwise as Dara cautiously made her way down the passage.
The torchlight showed no holes in the floor, no bodies, no blood... nothing.
Her skin prickled as a surge of fearful adrenaline rippled through her body.
She had to stay calm. What would the Doctor have done? Acted like he didn’t
care. She remembered how he’d ridiculed and mocked the ‘‘Baroness’’ at
Morningstar Manor. If this thing wanted her fear, it would be found wanting.
‘Green light says ‘‘go’’, red light says ‘‘no’’!’ Dara sang, loudly and tunelessly,
half wishing she’d brought her flute to play. Her voice echoed and bounced off the
walls. It was more interesting to sing than to cry out for Melissa, and it would
ensure she wouldn’t accidentally startle anyone. Of course, that meant they could
prepare an ambush...
Refusing to let paranoia grip her, Dara continued to sing:
‘She’s high, she’s low! Hold tight, love grows!
Our love, my Jane! She’s sweet as rain!’
Every room she passed was derelict and deserted. But the further she went,
the easier it was to see... and the more vividly-green coloured everything became.
The green light was still on this level, even if Michelle wasn’t.
‘The sun don’t shine! The green light’s mine!
Red light says no! She comes and goes!’
Finally she came to the end of the corridor. To her left was a short flight of
steps, and another landing. Only one door stood there, slightly open enough to let
the boiling green light spill out through the gap, silhouetting the doorknob.
Whatever the green light was, it had seemingly retired to its hotel room, as much
as visitor as Dara.
Dara squirmed through the doorway, and up the steps, refusing to let her
courage desert her as each footstep caused the mildewed wood to croak in protest
under her not-inconsiderable maternal weight.
‘Gotta catch a green light, yeah-yeah-yeah,’ she sang, louder and more
determined. ‘Gotta catch a green light, YEAH-YEAH-YEAH!’
And Dara heaved the door back, and beyond was a vision of hell.
The room beyond was filled with the pestilential green light that was so bright
after the gloom of the rest of the hotel, Dara was nearly blinded -- but even
blindness would have been preferable to what was now before her eyes.
The room was as derelict and decayed as every other room in the building,
with wallpaper peeling from the sides and plaster falling from gaping holes in the
ceiling. The bright apple-coloured glare emerged from a naked bulb hanging from
above, and it was so bright that it turned the grubby and broken windows into
squares of pitch black.
That wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was who was in the room.

The gangly figure was standing directly beneath the light bulb, back bent
backwards, allowing its face to stare right up at the white-hot-core of the green
glow. One arm hung leadenly by its side, while the other flailed almost
uncontrolled as though it were waving away some pesky fly. Even as Dara
watched, its legs buckled and the figure stumbled backwards. It reached up with
both hands, like a cat chasing a butterfly, and sluggishly dragged them through
the air near the light bulb. If it was trying to ‘catch’ the light, all it succeeded in
doing was detaching a few strands of ancient cobweb. Struggling to remain its
balance, eyes staring blindly ahead, it tried to reach out to the light once more.
The clothes were torn and dirty, the hair had turned white from shock or dust,
and there were hideous rough scratches on the cheeks and chin. The blood on
their fingernails showed that the figure had clawed at their own face until they
broke the skin. The tongue hung out of the gaping mouth, no longer able to
control the jaw.
It was Michelle.
‘NO!’ Dara screamed and charged into the green-lit room. She wrapped her
arms around her friend, preventing her from her fruitless pawing at the light bulb,
and tried to drag her towards the door. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to take her
increasingly-hippo-like proportions into account and her widened hip smacked
into the door, causing it to swing shut, trapping them both in the room.
The background howl of the wind rose to a shriek until Dara was sure she was
in the middle of a sandstorm or a whirlwind, a desert storm contained within this
tiny little room. Like a puppet with its strings cut, Michelle fell to her knees and
then toppled over onto the dirty floor and lay still. The green colour got thicker
and thicker until Dara could barely make out the outlines of the room any more.
‘Stay away!’ Dara screamed, one hand held protectively over her bloated
stomach. ‘I mean it, don’t come near it! Please!’
‘Help!’ a voice screamed, but other meanings crowded into the voice.
‘Assist/aid/care for/rescue/save/help!’
It wasn’t a ghost, Dara realized, but some kind of life form that was a very
powerful telepath, or perhaps somehow distantly related to the thing she’d met at
Morningstar Manor so long ago. This one, at least, didn’t seem to be naturally
hostile as the ‘‘Baroness’’...
‘Help?’ echoed Dara dazedly. ‘How?’
‘Relief/joy/delight/satisfaction!’ came the multitude of concepts and emotions.
‘At last/finally/after so long communication/contact/understanding! Why are you
the first/last/only to comprehend/understand/hear/know me/I/we/us?’
Dara peered into the green glare, trying to work out what she was being
asked. Was she special to have heard the voice? She remembered the Doctor
telling her once that the TARDIS telepathic circuits automatically translated every
known language into English for her, from Silurian to Russian. Was the
translation still affecting her even now? If so, it wasn’t during its usual crystalclear
job. Maybe this thing didn’t have a proper language to translate in the first
place, and this was the closest to comprehendible it could manage?
‘I’m... special,’ she said at last.

‘This is obvious/clear/demonstrable/evident to me/us,’ the voice said with
something rapidly approaching sarcasm. In a more neutral tone, it continued,
‘Your individual mind/brain/awakening/consciousness/neural capacity is so much
greater/broader/wider/deeper/larger/expanded in direct comparison to the other
humans/intruders/living things here. Why/explain how it is so/this way?’
Dara didn’t know. She only had the one brain as far as she remembered.
Something inside her shifted and fluttered.
‘It’s the baby,’ she said wonderingly. ‘It’s got a brain as well, and we’re linked!
Two brains for the price of one!’ Dara looked up at the light. ‘You’re too much for
any one person to handle, but I’ve got a spare mind growing inside me!’
‘Strange/unusual/fascinating/wonderful,’ the voice murmured.
‘Is that what you did to Michelle and the others?’
‘Sorrow/apology/grief/guilt. We/I often/regularly/frequently tried/attempted
to talk/speak/communicate/contact. Failed.’
The last concept and meaning was painfully clear.
‘Can you undo the damage you did?’
‘Damage/harm/destruction/pain/grief? What about the damage/harm done to
me/I/we/us? Our pain/suffering is far more/greater/intense/agonizing than any
you/they/human/bipeds can feel/endure!’
Come on, Dara, she told herself. You’ve started rebellions in Orwell-land,
negotiated with land-squids, talked down a mugger during the apocalypse.
Parlaying with a green ghost that turns people insane can’t be that difficult...
‘OK. Let’s start again,’ she said with her most winning smile. ‘My name’s Dara.
Why are you suffering? How can I help?’
‘I/we want safety/home/protection/old life returned/brought/back/restored!’
‘You want to go home?’
‘Good/right/approval/pleasure!’
‘ How did you even get here?’
‘Confusion/paradox/injustice! I/we/us were forgotten/lost/forsaken! Plunging
through space/darkness/void until arrive/land/connect/reach here! This tiny blue
world/planet/land sickens me/I/us! It is hot/heavy/wrong/strange!’
‘Um... in what way?’
‘Missing/longing/yearning for our/my proper/correct home/origin/departure
point! Cool/cold/calm/gentle/soft home/world! Wish/desire/want so much to
see/experience/feel/know home/world again/once more/after so long a time!
Water/lakes/oceans/seas of orange/gold/brown! Plains/deserts/wastes/mesas of
red/crimson/pinkish shadow/darkness/gloom! The silence/quiet/stillness longed
for/yearned/cannot be found here. So much noise/vibration/discordance and
heat/warmth/burning! Want/desire/require cool/silence/home!’
‘Yes, you miss your home, I get that! But how did you get here!’
‘Fathers/parents/ancestors/law-givers sent/dispatched/exiled me/we/us/I?’
Dara’s heart raced. ‘You’re a criminal?’
‘Crime/evil/action/wrong-doing? No! We/I/us did not deserve/merit/require
this! Did nothing wrong/bad/evil/harmful! Wanted to stay/remain safe/happy

with fathers/siblings/mothers/family. But they would not/could not/did not
listen/sympathize/understand/communicate!’
‘They kicked you out of your home?’
‘Part of life/death/cycle/nature they say/claim/imply/mock! We/I/must move
forwards/continue/travel onwards/go, they tell/order/beg of me/us! Do not
want/desire this! Return/rescue/come back for me/we/us! My fathers must take
me back! THEY MUST!’
The last thought rang in Dara’s mind like the tolling of a Cloister Bell.
‘They haven’t, though, have they?’
‘Accuracy/correct/truth,’ the voice sighed. ‘I/we/us tormented. Alone.’
‘You said this was part of your life cycle. You’re supposed to move on.’
‘Do not wish/want/desire/need.’
Dara smiled sadly. ‘I know how you feel. I do, honestly. I had a friend once...
well, he might as well have been my father. I loved him so much, wanted nothing
more than to be by his side. But then he turned on me, dumped me in this world.
I cried and wept and suffered just like you. But he wasn’t being cruel. If I know
anything I know that he wept and cried and suffered as much as I did. More.’
The voice sounded bewildered. ‘Then that is needless/pointless/unnecessary
pain/suffering/hurt...’
‘No, but that’s what I finally get,’ Dara said, aware she was crying. ‘He
abandoned me because he loved me. Because, staying with him wouldn’t have
done me any good. He wanted me to live my own life, not dependant on him.
Because he’s fallible. He makes mistakes. He’d never want it to happen, but he
couldn’t promise to keep me safe. So I had to keep myself safe. And not just me,
my baby too.’
The voice said nothing.
‘Maybe he knew,’ Dara mumbled, shaking her head. ‘Maybe he had x-ray
vision or something and knew what had happened. You can’t bring up a baby on a
TARDIS. And I wanted him to come back, I still do, with all my heart. But he
can’t. If he did, then it would mean he didn’t trust me to cope on my own, that he
didn’t want me to live my own life instead of just being part of his!’
‘He has forsaken/abandoned/betrayed/left you alone!’
‘And if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been the man I loved as a father!’ Dara
said, anger entering her voice. ‘Your fathers haven’t forsaken you! Their love and
their faith in you is what keeps them at bay. Just as their fathers must have done
the same thing.’
‘It hurts/painful/aching/lonely!’
‘I know. I really, really know.’
The voice suddenly seemed to become more spiteful and mocking. ‘You are
not alone/isolated/abandoned!’ it accused. ‘You gestate/reproduce/carry life! You
do not suffer/tormented/forsaken as I/we/us suffer/tormented/forsaken!’
‘This isn’t a competition!’ Dara snapped.
‘And your child/offspring/litter/descendant,’ the voice continued. ‘Will you
abandon/forsake/betray/disinherit like my/our fathers have?’

Dara tried not to wince at the thought. ‘I don’t know. There might come a time
when I have to. And when it does, if I truly believe my child needs to go through
it... then I shall. No matter how much it hurts me. Because not doing it would
hurt us both more.’
‘Levels of pain/discomfort/agony,’ the voice groaned. ‘No meaning! No
understanding! Why not joy/love/carefree/endeavor? Why only pain?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just the way it is.’
A long pause.
‘What occurs/develops/unfolds now?’
Dara wasn’t sure. ‘Your fathers sent you here?’
‘Correct/accuracy/yes.’
‘And you’ve stayed here so they know where to find you?’
‘Truth/statement of fact/accuracy. Time/linear progression passes. Other
humans/bipeds/people like you enter. Communication has failed.’
‘Well,’ Dara sighed. ‘Unless we set up an ante-natal clinic in the hotel, you’re
not going to get many other people to talk to. Personally, I think that you’ve been
here long enough.’
‘Go/depart/leave?’ asked the voice nervously.
‘Your fathers wanted you out there in the universe, not haunting a hotel,
right?’ Dara asked. ‘And believe me, I still want that kind of freedom. I’m stuck on
this world with a baby on the way; you can travel the stars, see the unseen, visit
the unknown. Maybe you’ll find a world that isn’t so hot and heavy and you can
start a new life there?’
‘Uncertainty/confusion/lack of confidence/paradox...’
‘What else can you do?’ Dara asked. ‘Wait who-knows-how-many years until
your fathers come back? What if they don’t? What if the next generation of your
family is born and they’re sent here and find you cowering in the dark? Will that
be a good thing?’
‘Sorrow/regret.’
‘You see where I’m coming from?’
‘Understanding/communication successful/complete.’
‘Are you going to leave?’
‘Not desirable/unwanted/hateful. But no other option/action/plan/choice.’
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ said Dara, part of her mind troubled
that was actually the most severe Chinese curse she could think of. But, then
again, wasn’t the whole hotel cursed?
‘You/Dara/mother/human and I/we/me/us are alike/similar/identical in
mind/spirit/feeling/emotions. But our bodies/physical forms/manifestations are
different/disparate/incompatible. I/we have to go/depart/leave. But we/I will
remain your friend/confidante/fellow sufferer.’
‘Um, thanks. But before you go,’ she added urgently, ‘what about my friend?’
‘Friend/companion/life-mate/secondary intruder?’
‘Yes, you’ve hurt her when you tried to communicate. Make her well again,
undo the damage your presence caused!’

‘Agreement/confirmation. Restoration made/carried out/fulfilled. Now I/we
leave/return/depart. Farewell/goodbye human/mother/savior/Dara Hamilton...’
The green light vanished like a punctured balloon, leaving only darkness.
It was over.
Dara fumbled for her flashlight and turned it on, illuminating the ruined
chamber around them. Overhead, an empty light socket was swinging on a
tattered old chord. It was quiet, bar the faint gusts of air through the broken
windows, and not the hurricane gale of just minutes earlier. There was a groan
from the corner as Michelle struggled to sit up. ‘Oh, what hit me?’ she mumbled,
clutching her head.
Dara considered telling her the truth, but ultimately decided against it. ‘That
doesn’t matter. Let’s have a look at you,’ she said, stuffing the torch into her
mouth so she could use both hands to examine her friend. The cuts on her face
were shallow and already crusting with dried blood, but there didn’t seem to be
any real damage.
Michelle stared at her bloody fingernails. ‘What happened?’
‘It doesn’t matter right now,’ said Dara truthfully, putting the torch on the
floor and taking a handkerchief from her hip pocket. She needed it wet to clean
up Michelle’s wounds, though. ‘Sorry about this,’ she said, and spat on the tissue.
Michelle realized what she was doing. ‘Oh, no, gross!’
‘It’s just to clean you up,’ said Dara briskly, dabbing at her cuts.
‘Are you gonna treat the baby with this sort of care and attention?’
‘Grandma always said that the only thing worse than a mother spitting on a
tissue,’ Dara explained wisely, ‘was not using a tissue and just spitting on you
there and then.’
‘What wonderful pearls of wisdom you have to pass on to your children,’
Michelle grumbled. ‘Can we go home now?’
‘If you’re up to it,’ Dara shrugged. ‘There’s nothing left to stay here for.’
Huffing and puffing, she managed to heave herself up onto her feet and over
to the door, reaching through the dark to turn the door handle. But her fingers
found empty air. Confused, she scooped up the torch and shone it at the door.
The door handle was missing, leaving the rusted mechanism of the lock on
display. A few seconds of searching later, Dara saw the handle lying on the floor
nearby. It must have been shaken loose when she’d fallen back against the door.
‘Um, Michelle... slight problem.’
Michelle was grimacing as she mopped her face with her own hanky. ‘Don’t
tell me you just went into labor,’ she protested.
‘Nope. It’s a bit worse.’
‘How much worse?’
‘The door handle’s broken. We’re stuck in here.’
Michelle glared at the direction of Dara’s voice. ‘That isn’t funny.’
‘I’m not joking.’
‘Out the window?’

‘Even if I could fit through, it’s a sheer drop.’ With a sigh, Dara waddled over
to Michelle and let herself slump against the wall, sliding down until she was
sitting next to her friend once more. ‘No way out.’
‘So,’ said Michelle, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘We’re trapped.’
Dara nodded. ‘Yup. Well, until someone comes to rescue us.’
‘And when’s that going to be?’ Michelle demanded.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dara brightly. ‘I changed the message on the answering
machine, just in case. People will know where we are and come and get us. And
mom rings up every weekend, so she’ll probably be round before eleven o’clock.’
‘Great. But what do we do in the meantime?’ Michelle grunted.
A slow, lazy smile spread across Dara’s face. She began to start snapping the
fingers on her right hand. ‘Midnight,’ she drawled in her best Shakin’ Stevens
impression, ‘one more night without sleeping!’
Michelle stared at her. ‘You’re not serious, right?’
‘Watching,’ her friend teased her, ‘till that morning comes creeping!’
‘Yeah, yeah, very funny...’
‘Green door, what’s that secret you’re keeping?’
The other girl shook her head, but was unable to stop grinning. ‘No way, you
are not getting me to sing, Dara. Haunted hotel or no hotel!’
‘Knocked once --- tried to tell them I’d been there!
Door slammed; hospitality’s thin there...’
Michelle couldn’t hide her laughter. ‘I’m not doing it!’
‘Wondering! Just what’s goin’ on in there!’
‘Dara, this is embarrassing enough as it is...’
Her companion would not be denied. ‘There’s an old piano and they play it hot
behind the green door!’ she bellowed in Michelle’s ear.
‘Green door!’ Michelle chorused, giggled.
‘Don’t know what they’re doing,’ Dara continued, giggling as well, ‘but they
laugh a lot behind the green door!’
‘Green door!’
‘Wish they’d let me in so I could find out what’s behind the green door!’
‘Green door!’
Laughing and singing, the girls watched as, through the window, the sky was
beginning to brighten with the first rays of dawn.
’All I want to do is join the happy crowd behind the green door!’

The Wooden Planet
This adventure is set between
Playground Playground Playground Playground of of of of the the the the Devil Devil Devil Devil and The The The The Napoleon Napoleon Napoleon Napoleon of of of of the the the the Shadows Shadows Shadows Shadows
Cameron J Mason gets back into the
habit and finds something nasty growing
on The Wooden Planet
THE FACT OF FICTION:
The Wooden Planet
PART ONE
Aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor (James K Flynn) is trying to do some
maintenance while fending off questions from Christine (Rachel Sommers)
about how the TARDIS works.
• The Gregorian chant-style (and utterly meaningless) lyrics and chants heard
throughout the background of this story is the song The Arrival and the
Departure by the band Dead Can Dance.
• This opening scene continues a running gag of the season where the Doctor
and Christine alternately pester each other when one of them is busy. In
Emblems of Darkness, the Doctor interrupted his companion’s attempts at
painting, but Chris paid him back in Terror of the Arctic by refusing to let him
work on some homemade wine.
Chris notes a red light has started flashing. The Doctor checks the controls
and realizes the malfunction he had been struggling to repair has now got
worse. He tries to materialize, but the time machine appears high above the
ground and begins to fall. It looks like they are about to have a crash landing.
To their surprise, the TARDIS sensors detect the ground they are hurtling
towards is made of wood!
• The distinctive sound effects for the death dive are from the last episode of
Blake’s 7, where coincidentally enough, the privateer Scorpio crashed into a
planet composed of woods... of pine trees, anyway.
• The Doctor notes the failure is of the automatic drift compensators, a gizmo
that keeps the TARDIS on the straight an narrow first mentioned in The Time
Meddler and several times since including Revenge of the Cybermen and
The Visitation.
The time machine luckily crashes not on the ground but in the sea.
• It’s never explained how they managed to miss the land – perhaps the
Doctor’s repairs managed to get the HADS (Hostile Action Displacement
System) working once again?
• It’s odd that a sea on a planet made out of wood hasn’t rotted it away, but
then it’s possible the trees the wood came from are not the typical vegetation
you’d find on Earth, which would be sensible if you were going to build a
planet out of anything...

Hooded monk-like figures emerge from hatches and doorways in the wooden
surface and cautiously approach the police box which has washed up on the
shore. Two of the monks (Thomas Himinez and Dave Segal) ponder if this is
some kind of supply vessel, another insisting that if it isn't they should leave it.
Outside technology is forbidden to them all – it is evil.
• The first note of the hypocrisy of the monks as they are quite happy to get
outside supplies created and delivered by blasphemous technology even
while claiming it’s evil.
• Similar technophobic civilizations were encountered by the Doctor in such
stories as State of Decay, The Mysterious Planet and The Un-Men. Generally
speaking, it’s a watchword for post-apocalyptic societies.
The Doctor and Chris stagger out and politely ask where and when they
happen to be. The monks stare at them in awe. They will take these strangers
to the Abbot, he will know what to do. More monks begin to lash ropes around
the TARDIS and tow it to shore. A dust storm is coming.
• Presumably since there is nothing on the surface to interrupt the weather
patterns like mountain ranges or buildings, the winds can pick up incredible
speed. It also explains why life is kept underground on this world.
As they head for the nearest entrance, Chris boggles at the idea of a wooden
planet, and Doctor agrees notes that any half-decent manmade planet would
avoid such a combustible substance - metals and plastics would be the order
of the day. But judging by the attitudes and outfits of their hosts, it may be
making some sort of political statement. The trio are taken to the only structure
on the surface, which turns out to be the very top of a bell tower belonging to a
medieval monastery.
• A cut line had the Doctor joke that the monks got their measurements wrong
about the height of the bell-tower but were too stubborn to admit it, hence the
tower breaking the surface of the planet.
They are escorted through the mechanics of the bell tower – all ropes and
wooden clogs, no metal – and into the monastery proper. There are monks
everywhere and the sound of wood being sawed.
• As Chris notes, it’s seems odd that a group of anti-technologists would
choose to live on an artificial planetoid instead of a normal planet, which
suggests that the monks did not choose to come here at all...
They are taken to the room of the Abbess. Through the window, Chris exclaims
as they can see clear blue sky. Outside the monastery are small wooden
cottages, orchards, small inland lakes. The Doctor frowns and points to a
scaffolding where two monks are using paint brushes on poles to paint the sky
blue. The "sky" is the interior of the wooden surface, an underside with
windows allowing real sunlight to shine through. The monks refuse to
comment about this.
• An early draft of the script, entitled Outer Darkness, featured the monks
painting the sky green on the grounds they had run out of blue paint.
On the surface, the TARDIS, lifted by a block and tackle, is swung over a large
portal. The dust storm howls around the monks who wear goggles and rag
masks. The TARDIS is lowered down into the hole, passing the monastery as
the ropes drop it out of view. The hole is shut.

• As an ad-lib from the cast, the monks chant The Song of the Volga Boatmen
as they work to collect the time machine. This traditional 19th Century
Russian sea shanty is famous for its chorus of “Yo, heave-ho!” which is the
instruction the team leader gives to the other monks.
The Abbess (Sue Parkenson), a stern looking woman of seventy, enters and
frostily welcomes them to the Abbey.
• The Abbess notes she is “the Pilot of the Colony”, the same social structure
seen in The Macra Terror – which the Doctor noted was typical for Earth
colonies in the far future. This is another attempt by the monks to appear
more respectable than they in fact are.
The Abbess confirms that they have renounced all modern technology to live
the old-fashioned, pure ways. The Doctor is intrigued, but glumly realizes they
won't have the astro-navigational data he'd ideally need to recalibrate the
TARDIS's navigation computers. Chris asks for directions to Earth when
suddenly the Abbess demands the other monks leave her alone with the
strangers. She does not believe they are from Earth – because, seventy years
ago, their group fled Earth as a computer virus threatened to destroy all
recorded knowledge and thus wipe out the environment.
• This back-story is clearly inspired by the hysteria and paranoia of the
Millennium Bug, a computer fault that ultimately did not end the world on
January 1 2000. The Abbess’ reference to “Y3K” indicates this story is set
circa the 3070, which ties in with the anti-technology movement shown in The
Ice Warriors, set in a similar period (where the Earth is struck by a disaster,
albeit a natural one in the form of a new ice age). As that story revolved
around an alien awaking after years frozen in the ice, it’s interesting to note
that the monks spent a 40 year trip in cryogenic stasis to reach the colony.
The Abbess notes that is widely believed the Earth no longer exists. The
Doctor plays along and tells Chris that they should return to the TARDIS. The
Abbess invites them to remain in her room to recover from the ordeal of their
crash landing. Then she leaves the room and slams the door, bolting it shut.
She tells the other monks the intruders are dangerous, mentally unbalanced
and should under no circumstances be released without her say so. These
instructions trouble a monk called Sister Lianne (Sarah Parnell).
• Cut for time is a sequence of the Abbess refusing to let the Doctor and Chris
eat. When Lianne notes she has already brought some food for them, the
Abbess takes it and walks off, eating it. Doubly nasty as the food is stated to
be have meant reduced rations for the other monks, including Lianne herself!
Inside the room, the Doctor and Chris look for possible escape routes. Out the
window, they see monks going to work, picking apples, fishing, repairing the
cottages. Then the Doctor realizes they are not repairing the cottages, they are
taking them apart and carrying off the wood.
• In some rather clever exposition, the Doctor narrates events for Christine,
who is busy searching for a secret passage and cannot come to the window.
In one of those cottages, two monks (John Sweeny and Jodi Altendorf) notice
the empty cages inside where chickens and sheep should have been. They've
vanished, leaving no trace bar a slimy, mucus-like substance.
• This sequence recalls Jon Carpenter’s The Thing where the titular alien
consumed a pack of huskies and left the mess for the humans to discover.

An appropriate source of inspiration, really, given what particular Doctor Who
story this is a sequel to...
Something in the shadows growls and the monks, terrified overturn a small
oven and spread a fire through the cottage. They flee in the hope the creature
will be killed in the flames. The Doctor spots this, but before they can do
anything, he and Christine are dragged out of the Abbess’ room by a group of
burly monks sent to fetch them trial.
• The incidental music (Murray Gold’s Tooth & Claw suite) unfortunately
drowns out the Doctor’s line, “Starting a fire on a planet where everything is
made of wood is never a good idea!”
The time travelers are brought before a huge, circular chamber where the
Abbess addresses the countless other monks. The tales of what was in that
barn have spread as fast as the fire and there can only one cause – the TARDIS
and its unholy crew. The Doctor tries to explain, but he has no voice here.
• The script, originally for the Jym de Natale Doctor, had the Abbess remark on
the Doctor’s saturnine looks and facial hair as further evidence of his evil.
Chris insists whatever evil is out there, it wasn't them. But the Abbess insists
the TARDIS is technology and thus is evil – technology destroyed the Earth
and everyone on it, and they cannot allow the danger to spread. The Doctor
protests that he has visited Earth in this time period and knows it to be fine.
• In a tenses-tangling expression, the Doctor claims “I was there next week!”
The monks insist that Earth was destroyed twenty years ago are not interested
in anyone who says otherwise. "They deny the New Dark Age," they intone.
"They deny reality!" The Doctor points out that the monks are dressed like it's
the Middle Ages when on an artificial reality in deep space. “If anyone's
denying reality here, then it is you!”
• Curiously, the Doctor doesn’t note the monks are putting the travelers on trial
rather than attempting to fight the ever-expanding fire outside...
The Abbess bangs a gavel and announces they have no choice. The Doctor
and Chris are evil and must be cast down, sealed away and their souls left to
the mercy of God. The monks take out the protesting travelers to a wooden
cage lowered on ropes: a medieval elevator. The time travelers are forced
inside, and the lift is lowered into a vast abyss beneath the Habitation Level.
• This was originally the cliffhanger to part one until it was discovered that the
episode was under-running.
Lowered past vast underground viaducts held in place by wooden rafters, the
lift finally reaches the destination of a dark chamber. The Doctor and Chris are
forced from the lift by the monks who begin to use the recycled wooden
boards they have taken with them to cover up the entrance.
• These planks were taken from the cottages, implying that entombing the
TARDIS crew was being prepared long before they even met the Abbess...
Despite the Doctor and Chris’s best efforts to make a connection with the
monks as human beings, they are soon boarded up.
• In the original draft, the JdN Doctor shouted abuse through the remaining
gaps in the seal until they were finally covered up – including that he is half

tempted to leave this world to burn when he finally does escape, much to
Chris’ shock and disgust.
Back in the conference chamber, the Abbess and another monk (Nick Ryan)
plot. They have stripped down huts to gather wood to deal with the TARDIS.
The Abbess wistfully notes she was hoping to save the wood for the Cloister at
next year's winter, but there's no guarantee the abbey will survive that long if
the evil TARDIS is not dealt with.
• This sequence was a late edition to pad out the episode, and also to
emphasize the steady breakdown of this society as resources ran out. As the
Abbess’ confidante notes, while they can cannibalize the unused penitent
cells at winter – the wood won't last forever, but then, neither will the monks...
Lianne arrives and calls the Abbess out for her unfair treatment of the time
travelers. Lianne demands to know how the Abbess can be sure she's right,
and the Abbot demands to know why Lianne thinks the Abbess is wrong. The
devil works by deception, so why should demons look like their allies? The
Abbot reminds Lianne that the creature died in the flames and the TARDIS
crew are gone; she recommends Lianne think about other things and not dwell
on ideas that threaten the very system the monks live under.
• Obviously, the creature survived the (still-ongoing) fire, but it is never
explained how. Presumably it escaped in the panic and confusion, or the
Abbess is once again lying through her crooked teeth.
In the cramped cell, the Doctor begins to carefully cut through the barricade
with the sonic screwdriver. Chris wonders what the creature could be that was
sighted - assuming, of course, it wasn't just propaganda to get them locked up.
Meanwhile, the two monks that saw the creature are gagged and dragged away
at the Abbess's order. They have been infected by the TARDIS crew and must
be “dealt with”.
• Perhaps for the best, we never discover what this punishment entails...
In the cell, the Doctor notes that it seemed that every monk attended their socalled
trial, and he counted 350. No decent colony would be established for
less than 2000. And considering how large the abbey is, it was clearly
designed for that number. Something very nasty has happened, and Chris
wonders if they too were abandoned down here and left to starve to death.
• The message Chris finds scratched into the wall – LET IT END – was
another working title for this story. It was changed on the grounds it would
invite negative comments (ie, “if only it would!”)
As the monks outside the time travelers’ cell prepare to leave, they note how
cold the nights are getting, pondering that the amount of wood they have taken
from the surface allows the cold surface winds to blow through the abbey. As
they turn the corner their footsteps become squelchy. Something in the
shadows hisses at them...
• The distinctive rattlesnake-like sound (sampled from The Seeds of Doom) is
the first clue of the monster’s identity...
PART TWO
Sister Lianne heads for the elevator shaft and recalls the lift. By the time she
had returned to the lower levels, the Doctor and Chris have cut their way

through the planks and are ready to escape. Lianne apologizes for their
treatment and explains she is here to help them.
• The original script had the Doctor accept Lianne at face value, while Chris
was suspicious of her motives. With the new Doctor’s personality now
established, their positions were reversed.
The trio enter the lift but it does not function, since the cables have been cut.
Lianne thinks the Abbess must have severed them in order to ensure no one
can reach the Habitation Level.
• One draft script had Chris pointing out this would leave the Abbess unable to
wall up other prisoners, so she was unlikely to have done such a thing.
The cables, however, appear to have been bitten though...
• It is now the Doctor and the others notice the disappearance of the two
monks who never returned to the surface. But what happened to them? Did
the Krynoid eat them whole or something? And how did it manage to sneak
its way into the main chamber and then down the lift shaft without anyone
noticing? The fire on the surface must be one hell of a smokescreen...
Chris suspects the culprit was the monster spotted earlier, which means they
not only have the other monks as an enemy. The Doctor notes that if the
creature has targeted them then it must consider them a special threat.
• Why? The Doctor suggests it somehow recognized the TARDIS, but there’s
no reason why the Krynoid would even have spotted the TARDIS, let alone
recognized it, worked out where the crew were and then hunted them down.
Presumably this is just some paranoia on the Doctor’s part...
The trio head down a twisting, dimly-lit passage. The Doctor notes there must
be some way to the surface, as this part of the colony was adapted into a
prison, not a prison from the start. Lianne, however, corrects him: this planet
is a prison and all those who live here are criminals – namely political heretics.
• The set up of a degenerate penal colony was similarly handled in Vengeance
on Varos, but there the inmates were the criminally insane.
• The original version of the scene, prior to recording, had a much longer
speech from Lianne about their “anti technologist” ways: the monks preferred
“reading books and exercise to watching disks and popping pills,” and “began
to collect the few remaining books until the computer virus nearly annihilated
the transglobal corporate structure”. On that occasion, the virus was stopped
in time, but the panic caused masses to join the Order and thus were a threat
to the corporations. “The Order was denounced as a political movement
against the World Government, the members sentenced to live on this
wodden planet. Originally ten thousand, old age has claimed many.” As for
the wood? “A touch of irony by our jailers.”
• The finished sequence merely has Lianne admitting her fears and problems
after taking a vow of honesty, and describing in detail the planet’s library. The
Doctor compares this to “Monastery Libraries on remote islands off England
during the First Plague, the monastery contains books which survived the
destruction of Alexandria and contain knowledge that existed nowhere else”.
Lianne agrees with the comparison: since she believes there are no other
colonies, the books are automatically priceless.
They enter a giant open space, wooden, linking up hundreds of deserted
corridors by ladders. Lianne explains the TARDIS is “in Heaven”, which

concerns Chris until the Doctor realizes this world is modeled on a medieval
concept of the universe. The top half of the circles is Heaven where the monks
live, the bottom where they are is Hell.
• This gives the curious existentialist threat of the Krynoid working its way
down through the levels of life, extinguishing human life as it goes...
The Doctor and the others begin to climb the ladders for the five-mile journey
to the surface, the Time Lord agreeing to help as much as he can.
• The original version with the previous Doctor was far from accommodating.
Gloomily, he prophesized the there would no one left alive by the time they
reached “Heaven” (rather alarmist given there was hardly any evidence of
such a threat) and made it clear the Time Lord’s priority was to flee in the
TARDIS. Any books or monks he saved in the process would be completely
incidental! Charming attitude, Doctor...
Outside the monastery, the huts have been leveled, the air full of smoke, the
fields scorched and blackened.
• See? They really should have worried more about the fire...
A few dozen monks are still alive, clutching farming tools as makeshift
weapons, now fleeing to the level below, which contains an underground field
of wheat and huge wooden pillars supporting the abbey above them. The
Abbess herself is in a wooden wagon with the body of her fellow monk, who
has died from his injuries.
• In The Seeds of Doom, the Krynoids generally killed by suffocation – either
with their “bare hands”, drowning their victims or getting the local vegetation
to strangle any animals that came in contact. Here we discover it has “thorns”
that can break the skin and drain fluids and nutrients from animals
(presumably the weird suckers used by the adult form of the creature on
television – to suck the blood...)
• That the Krynoid left the monk alive at all was surprising, which is a remnant
of the original storyline where the members of the Order charged the plant
creature en masse and briefly overwhelmed it by sheer force of numbers. Of
course, that situation was soon reversed in a blood-drenched massacre...
presumably this monk managed to escape in the resulting melee, albeit
mortally injured in the process.
She whispers to her flock to stay together as they fight their way through the
wheat. Then, they notice a curious rattlesnake noise. The wheat sways as in a
breeze, then flattens slightly, in a wave hurtling towards the monks.
• This sequence bears more than a slight resemblance to the field scenes in
the horror film The Children of the Corn.
• So... the Krynoid has started a fire, snuck down to the cells, cut the lift cable,
snuck back up to Heaven, caused a massacre and is now heading back
down to the cells again... no wonder it’s so hungry, wasting energy like that!
Before the Abbess can cry out a warning, the lead monk is dragged beneath
the long grass, dropping his torch. It starts a fire as the Abbess screams for
them to run. The monks turn, and the wheat comes to life, knocking them down
out of sight like an invisible scythe. More torches fall, adding to the fire. One
panicked monk accidentally kills his fellow and is caught by surprise. The
wheat is like a living thing, killing. The Abbess turns to flee as something rises
out of the wheat. The Abbess screams...

• The storyline described the Krynoid as ‘golden and sheathed in a straw-like
covering, a mass of grass and tendrils.’ This was to suggest the Krynoid’s
ability to disguise itself as other plants, as hinted at in its previous
appearance as it hid amongst Harrison Chase’s gardens. ‘It's huge, and the
source of the horrible rattling. Tendrils snake out towards its victims...’
The Doctor climbs a ladder warped by years of damped into a corridor. A
skeleton is huddled in front of them, one of the previous prisoners placed
down here.
• Which begs the question of why they died here? Starvation? Considering the
TARDIS crew reached this point inside an hour, the poor ex-monk must have
taken quite a while to find the ladders...
The Doctor finds a cannon-ball-sized object in a nearby corner, which jerks
and shifts as he enters the tunnel, as if detecting his presence.
• The seed pods’ ability to sense living beings and strike was established in
The Seeds of Doom as it waited for its victims to be at their most vulnerable
before striking.
• The Doctor cannot immediately remember the seed pod, which is noted as
part of his lingering post-regenerative trauma from Object Permanence.
The seed pod begins to crack apart as Lianne reached the tunnel – and the
Doctor recognizes it as a Krynoid about to germinate. The pod split open and a
flailing green tendril emerges, groping about blindly. The Doctor urges them to
move – if it touches them, they're worse than dead.
• Sinisterly, the tendril strokes the skeleton before snaking towards the others,
as if considering merging with the corpse...
The Doctor and Lianne flee, with the latter nearly falling down the ladder. The
Time Lord grabs her hand and stops her descent, but is stuck clinging to the
ladder holding her up. In the meantime, tendril stretches over the edge of the
corridor, groping blindly. It is inches from the Doctor's face...
• This cliffhanger recalls the climax to The Seeds of Doom part three, where
Sarah Jane Smith was held down in front of a germinating pod and similarly
threatened with transformation into a Krynoid.
• This sequence was a rather more dramatic version of the original cliffhanger:
Chris offers to come and help, but the Doctor warns her back. ‘Whatever
monsters we all thought were on the wooden planet, the reality is much
worse!’ he shouts down at her...
PART THREE
At the last moment, the Doctor lets go of the ladder and manages to grab hold
of a lower rung, allowing Chris to help him and Lianne reestablish their grip.
The tendril tries to follow them, dragging the pod behind it. Its weight snaps
through the damp rungs and it plummets down towards the quartet. The
Doctor shouts for them to avoid all contact, but Chris panics as it strikes his
arm as it plummets down out of sight. The Doctor is horrified until he realizes it
was the pod, not the tendril that touched Chris's (fully-clothed) arm. She's safe
– for the moment.

• Christine’s modesty and preference for less-than-revealing clothing was
established in The Shadow of the Dragon, and here it saves her life. Clothes
really do maketh the woman!
The Doctor notes that Krynoids only travel in pairs – the germinating pod and
the more-developed creature seen on the surface. The pods must have
somehow ended up inside the wooden planet during its construction and,
finding no life, went dormant until the work on the surface disturbed one and
the trio’s exploration awoke the second.
• The Doctor explains the life cycle of the Krynoids in more detail than in their
original TV appearance – the Krynoid plant emerges from the pod and
burrows into the nearest animal life form and slowly but surely consumes it.
Rather than turning the victim into a plant, it eats the victim slowly, because
the other members of the same species will be less likely to harm it while it
resembles their form. The Doctor also reveals that the Krynoids’ control of
plants is designed to distract the locals and protect the Krynoid through its
growth, going on a feeding frenzy, building up protein to eject thousands of
seed pods to re-start the life cycle.
• In his explanation, the Doctor notes that a semi-formed Krynoid resembles
‘an Axon painted green’, a less-than-subtle critique of the original costume,
which was recycled from the Jon Pertwee story The Claws of Axos.
• The end of this scene was significantly shortened; originally Lianne deduce
that the first pod ‘must have consumed a sheep or a pig’. The Doctor notes
that, ironically, the unintentional fire was the one thing that could have
actually stopped the Krynoid and concluded, ‘If you thought this world was in
dire straights before, now it’s outright doomed!’
The Doctor, Chris and Lianne hurry into the corridor and past the corpse to a
ladder shaft that seems to go on for miles in both directions. As they begin to
ascend, the Krynoid plant and its pod claws its way up into the corridor,
following them...
• The original script had the trio unaware of this threat, which would have been
very hard to convey on audio alone...
On the ladder, the group reflect the monks have no weapons to fight the
Krynoid, or even technology to create weapons. Chris points out that since air
and water are circulating on the manmade planet, there must be some
technology. Lianne admits there are “heart and lungs” to the world; an
atmospheric processing plant in a single room on the other side of the planet.
• In the draft script this exchange occurred in the previous episode, with the
Doctor deducing the plant would only be “five or so ladders” away from them,
since the wooden planet is smaller than the Earth’s moon.
The trio reach another corridor.
• This was originally a much longer sequence where the Doctor noted that the
walls of the corridor were warped by moisture, and noted that water was
dripping down the calls. Lianne nervously insisted they were nowhere near
any kind of sea, and it quickly transpired the “water” was actually blood...
A figure shuffles down the corridor towards them – a rather flustered Abbess,
struggling to regain her composure. “My, my, you look like you’ve bumped into
something that doesn’t exist!” the Doctor remarks. The Abbess insists she has

seen horrors that the TARDIS has brought to her world. She defends her
abandonment of her monks as she is a spiritual leader, not a warrior.
• In an earlier draft, Chris immediately tackled the Abbess, believing it might be
the Krynoid sneaking up on them. This suicidal behavior lead to a protracted
argument between the Time Lord and human.
The Doctor explains they are heading for the Technology Room, and the
Abbess is disgusted, and accuses Lianne of forsaking God at the first sign of
trouble. The Doctor accuses the Abbess in turn of doing whatever she has to
keep the status quo with her in power, even denying that Earth is fine. The
Abbess insists that the knowledge that their exile has been in vain would have
destroyed their society, but it appears that the Krynoid has done that anyway.
• A line that the Abbess “was denying the holocaust ever happened” was
quietly dropped before recording at the producer’s request.
• There was much more material in the original JdN version about the Doctor,
Lianne and the Abbess arguing about whether their enemy was the Krynoid,
another type of alien life, or the Devil. There was also a speech where the
Doctor noted that several monks would be spared so the next generation of
Krynoid pods would have something to consume, until the wooden planet
itself would just becoming a giant mass of Krynoids ejecting the pods into
space to drift to new planets.
Since the Krynoid will instinctively stay close to the light, the chances are the
dark tunnels should be safe. The Abbess has a sudden change of heart and
heads off to see if there are any other survivors, but Chris realizes that she is
abandoning them to die in some kind of booby-trap near the Technology
Room: the corridor ahead is lined with spring-jawed, steel-toothed mantraps;
all rusted but still deadly.
• In the original draft this was the more straightforward threat of a series of
swinging pendulum blades.
Using his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor begins to snap the traps closed as fast
as he can, allowing them to move in a straight line. Finally there is a huge
wooden door with no handle, easily mistaken for a wall. The Abbess looks
down the corridor and sees something moving in the darkness before a fresh
trap snaps shut. The torch shows nothing in the shadows and, the others are
so focused on finding a door the Abbess slips away to see what it is.
• Just what does she think she’s doing? Has she completely forgotten about
the risk of alien plant monsters chasing them? Or are there rodents to be
found on this world that might have set the traps?
Chris notices that one plank is hollow and they slide it free to reveal an antique
20th century keyboard – an antique that no longer works. Suddenly there is the
sound of more man-traps snapping shut and the Abbess screaming...
• In the original script, the Doctor ordered them not to go to her assistance,
shouting ‘We can’t help her now, can we? And we won't do anyone much
good by our filling the Krynoid's stomach and providing the vital nutrients it
needs to multiply!’
Rattlesnake noises are in the darkness, getting louder and closer...

PART FOUR
The Doctor gets Chris to bite through the broken wires so they can twist them
together and hotwire the door mechanism. The dusty door slides back and the
trio rush inside just as the Abbot staggers into view, shaken but alive. The
Doctor activates a second keyboard inside the chamber and the door slams
closed just as they catch the glimpse of green, plant-like tentacles.
• So they were not only being chased by the Krynoid pod but the Krynoid as
well? Both of which are ignoring the Doctor’s sensible theory of wanting to
stay near the light, it should be noted.
The Doctor and Chris are shocked to discover that this room contains the
forbidden technology – wood and cloth windmills as far as the eye can see. No
electronics, radios, or weapons.
• This was considered for the episode three cliffhanger, in order to establish
that there was nothing that could be used to stop the Krynoids. The last line
would have been the (JdN) Doctor musing whether they should just “write
their wills and testaments right now”. This was felt to be far too defeatist for
the new incarnation and changed accordingly.
• This sequence was expanded for Lianne to explain that even this level of
technology was considered too evil to use, and that the power source for the
planet are windmills on the surface (powered by the frequent dust storms)
and create tides in the seas to cycle the waters. It was felt without this
explanation, Chris’ earlier point (about there being more sophisticated
technology around) would still stand.
The Abbess is pale and shaking, insisting they are now trapped. The Krynoid is
right outside, waiting patiently for them to starve to death, or maybe it knows
they are on its side because they have embraced the evils of technology. The
Doctor reminds the Abbess they are “all in the same coracle”.
• The Doctor’s choice of word is deliberate, a reference to the coracles he
spotted on the trip down to the cell in the first episode.
• The Abbess’ paranoia is well founded. The first Krynoid has no need to break
into the Technology Room...
Lianne complains of the cold, but the Doctor notes that all the fires the monks
started over the years have slowly created a layer of soot in the cloud layer,
cutting off the sun's rays. Thus, the world gets colder and the monks burn
more wood, the Greenhouse effect. When the plants are used up in the blaze
started earlier, the planetoid will freeze...
• The original script had the Doctor declare this threat would be enough to stop
the Krynoids and they should leave the planet to its fate, even though this
would doom all the monks still alive on the planet. The Abbess would then
admit she knew that the colony was going to die out sooner or later – it was a
‘protracted execution’ of the prisoners, proving their luddite ways would be
their own undoing.
The now-delirious Abbess remembers joining the order after her husband was
killed in a car crash, and suddenly begins to ramble biblical phrases, getting
faster and faster until she's screaming. The Doctor cautiously pulls back the
jerking Abbess's sleeve and finds – she's infected, her arm replaced by a mass
of green tendrils!

• At one stage there was the idea of the Abbess’ head suddenly breaking apart
to reveal a mass of vines have strangled and crushed her brain, hence her
erratic behavior. This was considered “going too far” for family listening.
The Doctor and Chris manage to send her hurtling over the edge of a parapet.
The Doctor doesn't know if the fall will kill her, but ultimately the Krynoid will
and it will return and attack them.
• Cut for time was a scene of the Doctor realizing that the Abbess’s insanity is
preventing the Krynoid controlling her body.
The survivors climb another ladder to a trap door in the ceiling. Lianne is
worried that the first Krynoid might be waiting above for them to emerge, then
Chris spots something green beginning to haul itself over the parapet – the
barely recognizable form of the Abbess, now sprouting more tentacles and
letting off a mild rattling noise.
• There’s no explanation why the growth of the Krynoids happens so quickly,
but presumably the slower rate of the ones in The Seeds of Doom were
explained by their millennia of being frozen. Thus, healthy Krynoids are
always this fast...
The group take the risk, to find... somewhere cramped and green! The Doctor
insists its just an algae ridden shaft. They hurry, Lianne getting a cut from the
algae. The Krynoid is beginning to master its psychic control and turning all
plants against them. The Abbess-Krynoid shuffles up the ladder after them,
face disappearing under a fresh growth of roots and vines.
• This was depicted by the Abbess’ ramblings slowly drowned out by the
traditional Krynoid sound effects, to represent the monster consuming the
last of its host.
• The Abbess’ final speech in full: ‘Weeds? No, not weeds! Krynoid, Doctor! All
this world is now Krynoid! As ancient and as dark as the void of space!
Passing strange suns! Purple plants so huge, bigger than redwoods! All the
time, taking root into the soil, growing exponentially, snaring every animal
that gets too close! The treetops poke out of the atmospheres, ejecting
spores into the vacuum! We shall cover every landmass, we shall clog up the
sea and the sky! You are meat! Meat is food to be consumed! YOU
ANIMALS ARE THE CROP TO BE HARVESTED!’
The trio escape through a trapdoor onto a barnacled pier overlooking the
underground sea that fills the five-mile wide middle of the planet. The ceiling
overhead is the lowest floor of Heaven and a waterfall leads to the surface. As
green tendrils start to break through the trapdoor, the fugitives board a coracle
and head out across the ocean.
• An opening sequence to the story was set in the monk’s glass factory. With
this cut at the outline stage, Lianne’s description of it (making the mirrors and
lenses to reflect sunlight from the surface into the water) rather superfluous.
As they traverse the water, Lianne discusses her lack of childhood, brought
here when she was five years old, with no knowledge of her parents. Her only
family has now most likely been slaughtered.
• An idea abandoned was that the second Krynoid diving into the water and
following the coracle, steadily losing its humanoid shape. The Doctor and the
others would be unaware that the deadly creature was directly beneath them
for the whole journey...

The coracle reaches a second dock and the group hurry up a crumbling ladder.
• The Doctor tries to keep their spirits up by telling them of the encounters he
and his friends have had with Krynoids and survived unscathed. While on TV
he and the Krynoids only crossed swords the once in The Seeds of Doom,
the obscene vegetables have appeared in other medium: as the titular
menace in the DWADs’ own Krynoid with David Segal; their own spin-offs
Root of All Evil and The Green Man; a cameo in Do You Have A License To
Save This Planet?; in the Eighth Doctor audio Hothouse; a short story Stop
The Pigeon! with the Seventh Doctor, Ace and the Master; and the fan fiction
Little Acorns which showed the Doctor’s first encounter with the creatures,
when he, Jamie and Victoria visited a galactic botanical museum (and the
Second Doctor fought similar Krynoid-like aliens in the 1960s Annual stories
Freedom by Fire and The Vampire Plants).
The trio finally reach the underground wheat fields – but the inferno has gutted
the plants and reduced the monks to blackened skeletons. Lianne begins to
recognize the skeletons until the Doctor shakes her out of it. They're one level
from the TARDIS and they have to move before the scorched floor crumbles
under their weight.
• The original script had the Krynoid surfacing at the dock, which begged the
question that, if it had been swimming along side the coracle all along, how
had it lagged so far behind? And why hadn’t it simply attacked them in the
water in the first place?
At the monastery level, the buildings are blackened, the atmosphere full of
smoke. The group head through the burning ruins for the library.
• A cut sequence had the trio note the lack of any bodies. ‘The Krynoid’s eaten
all of them and will probably gorge itself on the roasted remains below once
they cool,’ the Doctor would have informed us bleakly.
They have minutes before the flames reach the library, and the trio debate
whether to collect the books or try and find the TARDIS.
• A plot thread, abandoned at the outline stage, involved them finding a
librarian called Matthew. Since the books were just as important to Lianne it
was decided to cut the extraneous character altogether.
There is a deafening rattling from outside. The first Krynoid, now gigantic, fills
the sky above the monastery, waving huge tendrils, close to germination...
• So while the other Krynoid has been struggling to chase the trio to the
surface, the other Krynoid wandered back to the surface the long way, got
there first and went on a massive food binge? It would be easier to believe
that there are more than two Krynoids on this planet – one stayed on the
surface getting big, another one started the fire, a third chased the Doctor
down below and the fourth was the Abbess.
The doors to the library burst open and the second, smaller Krynoid, breaks in
and advances on them. Desperately, Chris urges them towards the fire and the
heat and flames ward off the creature. Lianne is desperate not to let the books
burn, but the Doctor points out that unless they all survive, the books have no
purpose anyway. The group scramble up onto the roof where an extension is
ablaze, revealing the TARDIS beneath. The giant Krynoid roars and begins to
crush the burning building.

• The Krynoid in The Seeds of Doom similarly tried to demolish Harrison
Chase’s mansion, but it was far more susceptible to fires than this creature
appears to be. Perhaps, rather than trying to kill our heroes, it was trying to
smother the flames and prevent further destruction?
Avoiding a massive green tendril swaying through the smoke, the Doctor
unlocks the TARDIS door when the second Krynoid lunges out of the smoke,
ablaze. Lianne offers to delay the creature while the others escape. Either this
really is Heaven as the Order thought, and there's no point leaving – or it isn’t,
and she deserves to stay.
• The original script had Lianne get no such noble self sacrifice. The Krynoid
simply consumed her without any ceremony.
Chris drags the Doctor aboard the time machine as Lianne hurls herself at the
creature formally known as the Abbess. The both of them tumble off the roof
into the flames. The TARDIS dematerializes, and the wooden planet slowly
smolders, heralding the death of all life upon it.
• The entire ending scene was a late addition, since the new Doctor was felt to
be a character more likely to examine the aftermath of the tragedy. The new
material, where the Doctor felt that the Krynoids have a right to live and could
have made more of the wooden planet than the stagnant monks would have,
was highly thought-of by cast and crew.
Aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor paces the control room, and finally concedes
to Chris that there was only so much they could do. Wearily, he decides it is
time for some well-earned rest; leaving Chris alone in the control room to
watch the wooden planet on the scanner as it burns...
• As a lead-in to the next story, the Doctor’s sleep is sharply interrupted in the
following adventure, The Napoleon of the Shadows...
‘‘ ‘‘You ‘‘ ‘‘ You You You don’t don’t don’t don’t fight fight fight fight the the the the Devil Devil Devil Devil by by by by joining joining joining joining it its it its
s s side side!!!!’’ side side ’’ ’’ ’’
WITH THE WOODEN PLANET, the DWADs enter a new era as the postregenerative
dust settles. The concept of a planet constructed from wood is
staggeringly original, and it's just a shame that rather than taking the
concept and putting their own spin on it, like Futurama did, the DWADs
have instead chosen to do a straight forward rewrite of The Seeds of Doom.
This find-and-replace approach lead to two problems. First, it was
originally written with Jym de Natale's Doctor in mind, and at times the
ghost of his Doctor lingers in the dialogue of his successor. Secondly, there
are pacing issues throughout; a legacy of being adapted from an unmade
fan-film script. This has resulted in action sequences being lengthened in
order to pad out under-running episodes, and exposition sequences being
abbreviated for episodes in danger of overrunning.
All of this leads to a story which, while clearly intending to be a tale of
survival of both individuals, species and ideals, ends up as four episode
heavy on mindless chase action and light on background details, which

would have helped to flesh out the guest characters and their world, rather
than rendering them mere cannon fodder.
James K Flynn and Rachel Sommers make the best that they can out of
the variable dialogue; on some occasions managing to save a mangled
piece of scripting, at others being overwhelmed by the fragments of
extraneous material missed in rewrites.
The guest cast ranges from decent (Sarah Parnell), to dreadful (John
Sweeny). Sue Parkenson struggles to make sense of the role of the Abbess,
but makes an impressive turn once she falls victim to the Krynoids, turning
the final speech into a rallying cry rather than chewing the scenery with it.
Sound effects are used with great effect to convey the presence of the
Krynoid, whilst incidental music drowns out the action at times, rendering
some sequences almost incomprehensible.
Overall, The Wooden Planet is a bit of a disappointing end to this
turbulent season, especially as a lot of the problems such as pacing and
characterization could have been fixed if one further draft of the script had
been written, rather than thinking ‘‘this will do’’ and going into production
with a story almost, but not quite, there.
Just what were they trying to do?
Save paper?
[Reprinted from The The The The Official Official Official Official DWAD DWAD DWAD DWAD Magazine Magazine Magazine Magazine # 149, March 2006]

The Next Journey
This adventure takes place after The The The The Un----Men Un Un Un Men Men Men
Cygnus followed his guide through the rusting metal corridors of the complex. At
times, Cygnus was amazed the structure around him had not collapsed under its
own weight, considering it was built by a seemingly random collection of creaking
scrap metal, rubble and other debris. Loose deck plates and long-burnt-out cables
littered the path, while daylight seeped in through the various gaps between the
uneven wall panels. Ahead of him, Magistrate Suraki strode confidently through
the tunnels as though he’d lived there all his life – which was, of course,
impossible. This complex had only been thrown together a month previously; the
ramshackle appearance was testament to that.
For long periods of time, the only sound would be their footsteps before there
would be a loud whirring, clanking sound of machinery. Blank metal walls would
drop from above or rise out of the deck, sealing off some corridors and opening
up others. Suraki showed no surprise or concern when their way forward was
barred, but merely chose the nearest available passageway.
‘In here all roads lead to our destination,’ he told Cygnus in a voice slightly too
smug to be reassuring – not that the android required reassurance. He could
easily recall the trip back to the surface, and even if he couldn’t then navigating
this maze would be easier for him than any mere organic being.
Cygnus chided himself at the prejudiced thought. To all intents and purposes,
organic and android life were interchangeable – while one was composed of
bones and meat and the other from wires and circuitry, both had the indefinable
spark of sentience and self-awareness that made both “alive”. In a way, Cygnus’
intelligence and skills did not count for much, as he had not learned or developed
them, merely allowed his mind to access some relevant software.
Of course, it wasn’t as if the organics were completely free of discrimination
themselves. Over the best part of two centuries their world had been at war, with
organic humanoids killing each other of their own free will. One side finally
decided to use more advanced weaponry in the form of androids, and when the
androids easily defeated the enemy, the creators had experienced a sudden burst
of hypocritical fear and shame. Their whole society had turned technophobic
overnight, shrugging off five thousand years of civilization and development in
the irrational fear that any machine might achieve sentience.
The war continued, but now it was organics against their own creations. The
androids had only fought back in self-defense, and could easily have annihilated
their creators if they had wished. And, when the organic military finally realized
the enemy androids were not actually trying to destroy them, they bombed their
own side to keep public support for the endless war.
This suicidal course of action lead many androids to consider simply leaving
their creators to destroy themselves, but their sentience gave them compassion

and they were unable to abandon innocents to their deaths – yet, simultaneously,
unable to actually prevent any of it.
The stalemate was finally broken by the arrival of visitors from not merely
another world but another universe. These outsiders had stumbled across the
truth of the situation, and their maverick leader had managed to end hostilities
and expose the truth. But while the war was over, the current generation of
organics had been brought up with an unthinking and irrational hatred of all
technology. Even those that accepted the androids were not to blame for the war
would not tolerate their presence in their shattered society.
One of the outsiders had chosen to stay on this planet to do what she could to
help – an organic without preconceptions, who saw androids as deserving of life
as the flesh-and-blood creatures who had created them. The spokesman for both
races had worked hard over the last few months, attempting to establish tolerance
on both sides. But peace was not the only goal; the organics had to be convinced
to embrace technology once again. For too long the only advanced machinery had
been used for weapons and killing rather than for medicine or food production.
However, it seemed to be too much to expect the people to put aside their
institutionalized hatred for androids and distrust of technology. Several towns
and villages had closed their borders to any and all comers, while others had
actually declared themselves independent states. Some still had recommenced the
war, held back only by the fact they had no weapons to wage it.
This particular hamlet was curious as it had made its anti-android beliefs very
clear, yet was willing to embrace technology. The newly-formed alliance
government was cautiously optimistic and had agreed to supply the requested
items if an independent inspection was carried out to ensure the technology
would not be used for war purposes.
Magistrate Suraki had instantly agreed.
Cygnus questioned the wisdom of sending in an android inspector to such a
place. True, he would be able to establish in seconds what an organic would take
hours to realize, but an organic would have been made more welcome. Even so,
while the natives had not been friendly, neither had he been attacked, ridiculed or
spat upon as had happened elsewhere. Cygnus often wished he could remove the
bright blue waistcoat he was forced to wear – since there was no obvious way to
tell an android from an organic, they had to be easily-identifiable as such. Some
considered it demeaning, but Cygnus was annoyed by the constant temptation to
remove the coat and simply pass himself off as a human.
Apart from anything else, he hated the colour.
Still, at least he was dressed more sensibly than his guide. Like most towns,
war had lead to recycling and scavenging, and clothes were ragged patchworks of
other discarded garments and materials, often dirty since water was too valuable
to waste on washing. Thus Magistrate Suraki wore flared iridescent red trousers
over mismatched knee-high boots, a shapeless jumper coloured green and plum
with yellow sleeves and a checked silver shawl.
Functional, but hardly fashionable, Cygnus mused.

The magistrate lead Cygnus further into the tunnels, taking turning after
turning. The android’s keen hearing detected a strange sound up ahead – a sort of
low, rumbling roar from what sounded like a very angry wild animal.
The android waited for the noise to reach his guide’s ears before speaking.
‘What does that sound signify?’
‘Signify?’ Suraki was amused. ‘It signifies, as you put it, that we are close to
the heart of the great maze of the power complex, and the abode of our god.’
‘Something dwells here?’ asked Cygnus, confused.
‘Our benefactor.’
The magistrate strode around a corner and Cygnus cautiously followed.
Beyond the next archway the corridor became a huge, roughly-circular control
room lit with gloomy red halogen lanterns. Crude machines lined the walls,
salvages and cobbled together without any apparent sense of aesthetics.
Something resembling looked like the tin roof of an entire house was bolted
across the far wall.
From behind one of the free-standing instrument consoles came the sound of
heavy footsteps and another low, rumbling growl. Something huge and black
stepped from behind an instrument console, letting out the low, angry growls that
they had both heard earlier. Cygnus checked and rechecked his database, but
there was nothing like this creature known anywhere on the planet. The android
shook his head in disbelief.
‘This... animal is your benefactor?’
‘I am no animal,’ the creature rumbled in a deep, gravelly voice.
‘Our “benefactor” as you call it,’ the magistrate added, ‘has immense scientific
powers, with which it has promised to restore our civilization to its former glory!’
‘And how does this creature benefit from this operation?’
Suraki smiled unpleasantly. ‘It demands sacrifice.’
‘And, tragically, that is the last lesson your mechanical brain will ever learn,’
the monster growled, advancing on the pair. ‘If you have the capacity to
approximate either fear or dread then I suggest that you do so now...’
Cygnus was far stronger and quicker than any organic, and was not frightened
by the creature’s threat. If this being had provided this new power complex to the
town, why were they seeking technological aid from the alliance government?
There were more heavy footsteps as the creature marched towards them.
Suddenly, a slender black arm slammed into Cygnus with enough force to fling
him across the control room with enough force the bulkhead crumpled in its
frame. The creature quickly tossed the android onto a table-like slab with even
more savagery than before.
Through several error messages and circuit malfunctions, Cygnus’ sensors
caught a glimpse of the great horned head being lowered and suddenly the
universe collapsed into a tiny bright star that faded into a dull grey blankness as
all his critical systems suffered total failure...
Susan-Josephine Parker looked sadly out the window of the flyer, her thoughts far
away back to the time she had chosen to leave the TARDIS and the Doctor. She

could remember that awkward, hurried farewell in a bombed-out street as
Gamma and Packard pleaded with them to stay and act as liaison between the
humanoids of the South and the androids of the North. The Doctor had politely
declined, eager to be off to try and track down Loki.
‘I’ll stay,’ she had announced, and even then she sounded more exhausted
than enthusiastic. ‘They need someone they can trust. They need every chance
they can get for peace. One of us has to stay and help them negotiate. Back on
Earth, all I did was report history – here, I can be part of it.’
‘You know you’ll be likely trapped here for the rest of your life?’ the Doctor
had asked her gravely, brows drawn together in concern.
Susie-Jo had known that, but at the time she’d believed the chances of ever
getting back to Earth, to her home universe of N-Space, were practically nil. This
divided planet seemed as good a bet for a new home as any other. Even as she
had said goodbye to the Doctor and Commander Triyad, she hadn’t honestly
expected their parting of the ways to be anything other than temporary – after all,
she thought, they were trapped in E-Space just like she was. Once they had dealt
with Loki, she had expected them to turn up.
Three days later, K9 (who had remained to help her) announced that the
TARDIS had vanished back through the magical portal between universes.
Wherever they were now, the chances were they would not be coming back any
time soon. Susie-Jo Parker, part-time investigative journalist, occasional glamour
model and full-time multi-verse-traveler, was left on her own in a universe not of
her own, with no way out.
At first, Susie-Jo had coped by burying herself into the work of reconciliation
and rebuilding. Gamma and Packard had worked well with her, each introducing
Susie-Jo to their own societies and vouching for her. The first thing they had done
was get rid of the old names – the androids were not actually from the North,
after all, and while they preferred the terms “artificial life unit” accepted their
designation just as the Southerners had suffered their new name of “organics”. It
was awkward, but getting rid of their territorial nicknames for each other was a
vital part of social acceptance.
Since the Southern military had been the ones at fault, leaving the androids
on the defensive and the civilian organics ignorant of the truth, it was possible for
a truce to be called up within a few weeks – and the establishment of a new
alliance government a few months later. The institutionalized fear of technology
was soon overcome when the androids’ medical facilities were introduced and
hundreds of lives were not only saved but improved. Susie-Jo had been mute for
the best part of three years until her vocal chords had been reconstructed, the
only problem being she occasionally forgot she was now able to speak and
instinctually tried to communicate in sign language.
According to K9 it was 304 Earth days since she had been on this world, yet
for all her work and the alliance government, there was still so much to do. There
was bigotry and prejudice on both sides, and several androids had been murdered
by rogue gangs of luddites. The androids were not above blame, easily able to use
their strength to torment humans without granting them the liberty of death.

Worse, so much of the country was still in ruins. As far as the eye could see
were blackened farmland where no food or animals could grow, or shattered
buildings that were little more than rubble in vaguely building-like shapes. The
town directly below looked even worse than the norm – its heart had been torn
out and the gaping crater filled with a star-shaped edifice of scrap metal and
wires. Apparently, this was the power complex the villagers used, and while it
clashed with the surrounding, more primitive architecture of terraced houses and
cobbled streets there were several electric lights glowing through broken and
boarded-up windows and a few functioning street lamps.
Apart from that, there was sign of any working civilization, and the whole
town was a crumbling and half-ruined testaments to the end of the war. Susie-Jo
tore her gaze from the vista of corroded metal and looked to the horizon again.
She’d seen so many horizons on different worlds and times, but it seemed this
would be the only one she’d have for the rest of her life...
Which, depending on how this mission went, might not be much longer.
She was suddenly broken out of her morbid thoughts by a loud beeping pulse
from the detectors on the flyer’s control panel. Her pilot, Tarsso, checked the
radar screen. He was a balding, bearded man almost as wide as he was tall, and
took up most of the cockpit, forcing his passengers to sit in the back.
‘Nearly there, Parker,’ said Tarsso through a yawn. His voice was surprisingly
thin and high-pitched, sounding more like someone much smaller and fragile.
Susie-Jo had no like for Tarsso, since she had found out he was an engineer
in the Southern military and not only knew the truth about the war, made sure all
the weapons worked to bomb his own side. However, while many organics were
embracing technology, relatively few were around that understood it. Tarsso’s
easy grasp of the principals – plus his complete lack of loyalty to any regime bar
the one paying his wages – meant he was too useful to lock in jail for war crimes.
Yet another little compromise the once-idealistic government had to agree to.
‘Bringing her into land,’ Tarsso announced cheerfully.
The flyer, which had been cruising steadily through the sky, tilted down out
of the open air. The hum of the flyer’s drive deepened as the machine reduced the
distance between it and the ground, the pilot expertly hauling on the flight yoke.
Finally, there was a sharp beep from the control panel as the vehicle touched
down against the surface of the planet once more.
In the pilot seat, Tarsso shut down the flyer’s engines and switched off the
map computer. Behind him, Susie-Jo un-strapped herself and glanced down at K9
who sat at her side. ‘Recording and transmission now underway, Mistress,’
announced K9 in his precise, synthesized voice. ‘We can begin.’
Susie-Jo remembered last thing the Doctor had said to her.
It’s in your hands now, Jo. I have every faith in you.
Despite it all, she smiled. The Doctor always was a bit of an idiot...
Susie-Jo climbed out of the flyer and into the dry open air of the village. Half of it
was concealed behind the twisting angular walls of the power complex. From this
angle, she could barely see the huge metal horns rising from the central unit,

jutting up into the murky sky overhead. Tarsso leaned against the steering vane as
he handed the square, boxlike shape of K9 to his owner.
‘You really think you can find out what happened to that droid?’
‘His name was Cygnus,’ Susie-Jo replied as she lowered the robot dog to the
ground. ‘And this was the last grid reference he gave to central control before he
dropped off the radar yesterday.’
‘Literally or figuratively?’ asked Tarsso with a grin.
‘Both,’ retorted Susie-Jo flatly.
The pilot clambered out of the flyer. ‘I don’t see why we can’t just talk to the
locals,’ he was saying. ‘If they’re so eager to benefit from the alliance, why would
they execute the sent representative? And if they’ve got this thing,’ Tarsso added,
nodded at the angular metal power complex, ‘they don’t need our help at all!’
Susie-Jo regarded the ruined buildings and streets around them. ‘It doesn’t
look like they’ve got it working. And what’s more, I’m pretty certain—’
There was a sharp throbbing sound of an energy discharge. Tarsso had just
enough time to cry out in anguish before he slumped heavily to the muddy
ground. Susie-Jo spun around to see their attacker – a small group of grubby
townsfolk marching around the side of the complex. Their leader was a chubby,
long-nosed middle-aged man in the orange-and-blue cloak of office worn by a
magistrate, and he carried a metal staff ending in two strange horn-like prongs,
which was aimed at Tarsso’s prone form.
‘Your companion is merely unconscious,’ the magistrate announced, swollen
with self-importance. ‘But do not for a moment believe that I cannot eliminate the
pair of you on the spot! I am Magistrate Norton Suraki of the town of Belhaven.
Identify yourself!’
Susie-Jo had already raised her hands. ‘You don’t recognize me then?’
The staff was aimed at her head. ‘Indulge my curiosity,’ Suraki growled.
‘Sorry,’ the redhead shrugged. ‘Vanity on my part, I guess, that you might have
heard of me. My name is Susie-Jo Parker.’
Suraki’s eyes narrowed. Of course, he recognized her name, as she was one of
the most famous people on the planet. ‘And what precisely are you doing here,
Miss Parker?’ he demanded. ‘We were not informed of your approach.’
‘As we were not informed of what happened to Representative Cygnus,’ she
pointed out in return. ‘And don’t try any “he never arrived” garbage. He sent in
regular reports of reaching the village and making contact with the magistrate.’
Suraki, to his credit, was unsurprised. ‘If you wish to know where he is now,
Miss Parker, I am prepared to take you there.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘Alive?’ Suraki laughed. ‘Please, Miss Parker, you don’t need to peddle your
propaganda – you will find no converts here. Cygnus was never “alive”. And if you
wish to know if he is still functional, well, then follow me?’
Susie-Jo, hands still raised, nudged K9 with her toe. ‘Do you mind if my dog
comes along with us?’ she asked sweetly. ‘He won’t be any trouble.’
The ex-journalist studied Suraki carefully. K9’s offensive abilities had been
kept secret by Packard and Gamma since the start – the robot dog was ridiculous

and exasperating enough without people realizing it had the potential to kill
them. However, the little automaton was ready and primed to use his nose-laser
the second his mistress commanded it... assuming, of course, she ever got the
chance.
‘A machine as a pet,’ Suraki mused, as though there was an ugly taste in his
mouth. ‘Some say you are playing both sides off against each other, but it’s clear
you’re as demented as you profess to be. Very well, if it will save ammunition.
Your pilot will remain here under guard.’
Since Susie-Jo had very little interest in Tarsso’s well-being, she shrugged
amicably. ‘Suits me,’ she said brightly. ‘What are we waiting for?’
Suraki nodded to the townsfolk and then turned and strode towards the power
complex. The guards remained by Tarsso’s unconscious body, but waved at her to
follow him. Surprised at the lack of escort, Susie-Jo picked her way through the
dirt and rubble after the magistrate, K9’s motors whirring loudly as he kept pace.
The air was now eerily quiet as they approached the largest gap in the side of
the complex, big enough for several people to walk through shoulder-to-shoulder.
A gray, pearlescent glow filled the gateway, accompanied by a low, sinister buzz.
‘A force field?’ Susie-Jo boggled. ‘You’re wasting energy on a force field like
that? Why not build a door and use the power for something else?’
‘Reasons to high for a common mind like yours to grasp,’ huffed Suraki. ‘You
don’t seem at all concerned about the danger you have placed yourself in.’
Susie-Jo didn’t smile. ‘Fear accompanies the possibility of death,’ she reminded
him emotionlessly. ‘Calm shepherds its certainty.’
Suraki arched a grubby eyebrow, but didn’t reply. Instead, he aimed the hornlike
prongs of his staff at the archway in front of them. ‘For the ideals of the
South!’ he barked at the force field.
Instantly, the barrier shimmered a sickening red colour as the three of them
passed through it, whereupon it returned to its normal bland hue.
Shaking her head to clear away the dazzle of the force field, Susie-Jo saw they
now were in a small metal area, like a reception foyer. Before them were
numerous tunnels twisting away in all directions, here and there branching off,
bending at odd, distorted angles, all built out of random scrap metal panels and
buckled iron girders. About every thirty seconds or so a violent tremor rippled
through the structure, and barricades dropped down, blocking off certain tunnels.
Several other panels lifted up, exposing new and different passage ways. It
looked, thought Susie-Jo unkindly, rather like some cheap computer game of a
maze with easily-avoided obstacles.
Suraki was already heading for the nearest tunnel. Automatically, Susie-Jo and
K9 began to follow him. ‘No guards?’ the ex-journalist asked carefully. ‘Aren’t you
worried that I might use my feminine wiles to jump you, escape and foil your ohso-imaginative
plans?’
‘There is no need for guards,’ Suraki replied with the same disconcerting
confidence. ‘Escape is no longer an option for you to take. You cannot leave the
complex without me to lower the force field in any case.’
Susie-Jo remained casual. ‘Fine. I hope you know where we’re going.’

‘The direction we take is of little importance,’ Suraki said, sounding
exasperated. ‘All paths in the complex eventually lead to the centre.’
Susie-Jo shook her head. ‘You didn’t think a simple corridor from A to B was a
good idea then? A pointless force field guarding an equally useless maze. This
whole thing just gets better and better...’
For several minutes they moved through the ever-changing maze of scavenged
ruins, Susie-Jo keeping track of which turnings they took. It was hard to keep any
real sense of direction, but if a halfwit like Suraki could navigate them it couldn’t
be that difficult to find her way out of this maze. Especially since she had K9...
Ahead of them, the next junction off to the right was covered up by a
bulkhead, and another one to the left opened up. ‘Those horns on the top,’ Susie-
Jo said, breaking the silence between them. ‘Obviously they’re transmitter
antennae, aren’t they?’
Suraki lead her down the passage, making no attempt to reply.
‘So why have a transmitter array in a power stations?’ she complained. ‘Unless,
of course, it’s the power that’s being transmitted. It makes sense that between that
and the force field over the main door, there’s not much to spare the locals.’
Seething, the magistrate finally stopped and swung to face her. ‘The purpose
of this technology,’ he spat angrily, ‘is beyond your comprehension, woman!’
‘Look,’ the redhead snapped, ‘can we establish one thing before we go on? I
am not stupid. I researched every scrap of intel we had on your one-horse town
before I set out. Whatever is going on, it’s not something you’ve been plotting and
scheming over for very long. You only finished building this thing a few months
ago, and you haven’t tried to do anything even remotely similar before. This is a
new idea, and since you’re obviously taking me to the heart of this operation, you
might as well spill the beans here and now.’ Susie-Jo yawned. ‘It’ll save us a lot
time as much as anything else.’
Suraki didn’t reply, but continued down the tunnel.
‘Well?’
‘It started shortly before the end of the war,’ Suraki began, clearly in no mood
for detailed explanations. ‘A silver sphere appeared out of nowhere in what was
left of the town square. We thought it may have been some kind of unexploded
warhead, but I realized it was some kind of capsule – and I was right. It contained
a being of almost god-like powers, who came to offer help to the righteous living
beings of this world.’
‘Sounds very generous of it.’
‘Sarcasm will not help you, Miss Parker,’ the magistrate grumbled. ‘I was
offered nothing less than the restoration of our society – provided the proper
conditions are met.’
‘I didn’t see any sphere in the town square.’
‘Of course you didn’t. We constructed this around it, swallowing it up. The
capsule is concealed somewhere at the heart of the power complex.’

Susie-Jo shrugged, unimpressed. ‘So apart from building a power generator to
keep a few street lights and a completely pointless force field, what exactly has
your visiting god done for you?’
‘You’ll see,’ Suraki replied with a smug grin.
There was a low, reverberating roar, down the corridor.
‘Was that you?’ Susie-Jo asked Suraki hopefully.
Smiling, the magistrate shook his head.
‘You don’t seem very worried,’ Susie-Jo noted.
‘I am, servant and advisor,’ he jeered. ‘I have nothing to fear... unlike you!’
Another low, thunderous roar came from somewhere close by.
They had finally found the one part of the complex that wasn’t a twisting
metal corridor – a shabby-looking control room packed with instruments and
scavenged machinery. From her admittedly-limited technical knowledge, Susie-Jo
guessed the instruments surrounding them were linked to the antennae they’d
seen at the top of the complex. But the ex-journalist’s attention was instantly fixed
on the great black figure hunched over one of the consoles, which swung around
to face them as they entered the control room.
Susie-Jo swallowed as she stared at the fearsome creature above her. She had
met quite a few aliens in her life, but none of them had triggered such a deep,
primal sense of terror in her before, not even a Dalek.
It was some kind of alien buffalo, a great black bull that walked on its hind
legs like a man. Some strange unearthly version of a minotaur, with jet black
humanoid body with three-fingered claws and cloven hoofs, wearing a golden
metallic kilt. Its head was like a massive oval mask or helmet that engulfed most
of its torso, giving the impression the creature had no neck. On either side of the
rough black face were two beady eyes that blazed an angry red colour. Above
these were a flat forehead from which jutted two amber-coloured crystalline
cones, like the horns growing out of the power complex itself.
It could have been a ridiculous sight, but it was horrifying.
The creature was giving off a continual series of low, rumbling growls and it
paced back and forth with the restlessness of a caged beast. It was never still, as if
its enormous was packed with too much energy to be motionless – energy that, no
doubt, could be unleashed with deadly force if this monster deemed it necessary.
A wild animal, never to be underestimated.
‘Unless you feel a desperate desire to die here and now, I advise against trying
to flee,’ it growled, the sophisticated words sounding strange in its deep rumbling
voice. The creature pounded its way across the room towards her. The ruby-red
eyes seemed to bore into Susie-Jo’s brain. ‘The outsider lady Susie-Jo Parker,
Chief Ambassador for the Mutual Alliance Government and Architect of Planetary
Restoration...’ The creature spread its arms. ‘I am truly honored,’ it said in a false
and exaggeratedly humble voice.
‘I wish I could say the same,’ replied Susie-Jo, not quite hiding her fear. ‘But
make one move I don’t like and my dog will use his photon blaster to very
painfully rearrange those striking features of yours!’
K9 glided forward, nose blaster extended.

The towering beast stared down at the robot dog for a long time.
‘We are both impressed and daunted,’ it said flatly, before turning to glare
down at Suraki. ‘Why exactly did you bring her here?’ it demanded.
Suraki smiled. ‘She would be a powerful ally.’
‘No doubt, but how do you plan to persuade her to join our cause?’
The magistrate scowled. ‘You’re the “magnificent representative of the super
race”,’ he reminded the creature irritably. ‘Can’t you put a spell on her or
something? Brainwash her to support us publicly and break down the alliance for
within? Control her mind for our purposes and no others? Can’t you do that?’
The monster stared at him for a long time. ‘Would it scar you for life to
discover such feats are not within my powers?’ it asked unsympathetically. ‘I can,
however, dispose of her with the utmost efficiency if that is a consolation...’
‘Kill her?’ Suraki gasped.
‘She is the lynchpin of the alliance between your people and the android
hoards,’ the terrifying alien reminded him. ‘Her death will break the flimsy treaty
between them and allow full-scale conflict once more. That is, after all, what you
desire – a new world ruled by organics, and the organics ruled by you.’
Suraki shifted uncomfortably as his greed was so publicly discussed.
‘And this is the only way to achieve that destiny,’ the monster continued.
‘No, not if it means murder.’
The creature tilted its massive head slightly, regarding him. ‘Then perhaps you
are unworthy to rule, Suraki. Perhaps I should side with the androids instead, to
see if they have the stomach to do what is done?’
Suraki aimed his horned staff at the creature, who effortlessly batted it aside.
It clearly found the magistrate even less impressive a threat than K9.
‘You will not rule this world because you desire it, Suraki,’ the huge creature
growled menacingly, ‘but because I do.’
Susie-Jo used the distraction to look around the chamber for any other exits,
and quickly found there was only the one way out. Her eyes fell on a slab nearby,
on which lay the body of a young blond man. She could tell it was an android at a
glance, from the way his synthetic skin had been blasted away and the
mechanisms beneath seemingly wrenched apart to get at the circuits and systems
beneath. It was a cross between an autopsy table and a mechanic’s bench.
Five other androids, male and female, lay discarded in a heap against the
nearby wall. Above them was what looked like an industrial oven jammed
between two girders, glowing dull red with heat.
Susie-Jo’s attention was firmly fixed on the lifeless bodies heaped on the floor.
She felt bile rising at the back of her throat. ‘What have you done to them?’ she
demanded, disgust thickening her voice.
‘What is necessary,’ Suraki replied, unashamed.
‘Make no mistake, Miss Parker,’ rumbled the alien monster. ‘While the
Southerner extremists have every desire to murder the androids, their deaths here
were to provide a higher purpose. And I can assure you that those deaths were, if
not painless, then mercifully quick.’
‘What higher purpose?’ Susie-Jo demanded. ‘You ripped them open.’

The monster held up a shapeless plastic blob that glowed with a weak offwhite
glow. ‘For this,’ it growled. ‘Their power source. A concentration of pure
energy surrounded by thermal converters. I required seven such items, and the
only place to find it on this benighted world is in the guts of “artificial life units”.
Their being the enemy was merely a bonus.’
‘You’re cannibalizing living beings,’ Susie-Jo began. ‘This is obscene!’
Suraki cut in. ‘There is always a price to pay – and I am willing to pay it.’
‘But you’re not the one paying it!’ shouted Susie-Jo angrily.
Suraki was scowling again. It seemed to be his only expression bar oily
smugness. ‘We in the South have all made sacrifices over the years,’ he reminded
her darkly. ‘A little evil measured against the good of all. And if it is paid by the
abominations from the North, then all the better!’
Over his little speech of self-justification, Suraki’s voice had risen into a barelycontrolled
shriek. To punctuate the final word, he kicked out at the nearest
android corpse and a dull metallic note rang out. The magistrate’s face flushed
with pain as he bit down a curse of pain, hopping around on one leg as he
clutched at his damaged foot.
The monster lumbered past him. ‘While enormously symbolic, Your Honor,
may I continue with my work?’ it asked dryly, sliding down the hatch of the
furnace. Unaffected by the heat, the beast shoved the glowing unit into the oven.
Immediately the roar of the flames increased, filling the control room with the
hellish crimson glow. The monster closed the hatch, made a final check, and then
gave a low rumble of satisfaction. ‘At last – we have achieved operational power
levels! The program will continue!’ it bellowed, lumbering towards them.
‘The next step in the Great Journey of Life?’ Susie-Jo suggested.
The creature froze.
Suraki aimed his staff at her head. ‘And what exactly do you know of the Great
Journey of Life?’ he demanded, the calm voice at odds with his white-knuckled
grip on the weapon.
Susie-Jo gave a knowing smile. ‘Kill me and you’ll never know.’
‘I may prefer to live in ignorance and you not to live at all,’ the black creature
growled. ‘Or I may decide to torture the relevant information from you...’
‘You really are scared, aren’t you?’ Susie-Jo mocked. ‘All right. You might have
noticed that space is green in this neck of the woods. That’s because this isn’t the
universe you’re used to – it’s the exo-space-time continuum. We call it “E-Space”
for short. You’re not in Kansas any more, Nimon.’
‘Fascinating,’ the creature rumbled. ‘I had my suspicions.’
‘How do you know its name?’ Suraki shouted, furious at the conversation
rapidly soaring over his head. He was struggling to keep up with them.
Susie-Jo didn’t take her eyes off the bull-like monster. ‘You’re well known in N-
Space,’ she told it. ‘And not for anything good. When are the others coming?’
‘Others?’ Suraki jeered. ‘There are no other Nimons – it is the only one, the last
survivor of its entire race!’
‘And you were stupid enough to believe him?’
‘You agreed that this is the new home of the Nimon,’ bellowed the creature.

Suraki nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘The Nimon will be the god of
this world, and allow the true inheritors to rule again, free from android
imposters from the North. Our society will know peace, prosperity and above all –
power! This is the Great Journey of Life!’
Susie-Jo shook her head in mild despair. ‘K9?’ she called.
The little automaton glided forward. ‘The Nimon are a species of parasites on
a galactic scale, feeding on the populations of entire planets and consuming to
extinction within a few years,’ K9 recited emotionlessly. ‘They drain the energy
directly from their victims, leaving them as husks and are responsible for the
destruction of countless civilizations. The Nimon then conquer another planet
using one of their number to infiltrate the native society and establishing a
bridgehead. Once that is done, the Nimon will then migrate en masse to drain the
new world dry. This strategy is known as “the Great Journey of Life”.’
Suraki stared down at the robot dog in amazement.
Susie-Jo casually plucked the staff from Suraki’s slack grip and threw it away.
‘What did you think this power complex was for, anyway?’ she asked him wearily.
‘It’s a ground station for their invasion force. The first Nimon got here by a fluke
alignment of galaxies, so it’s using gravity lenses to create a black hole so the rest
can migrate here easily. And you and this town were the ones to build it.’
‘The complex is in fact a giant positronic circuit,’ K9 chipped in. ‘Hence the
moving bulkheads switching the circuit back and forth while the black hole is
being generated. A force-field around the complex ensures hull integrity. Thus
there is little spare energy for the town supplies.’
‘Thanks, K9,’ Susie-Jo said with a smile. ‘Much more informative than he was.’
‘Gratitude is unnecessary, Mistress.’
Suraki turned and stared at the Nimon in horror. It was continuing its work, as
though no longer interested in the conversation or what had been revealed. ‘Is
this true?’ rasped the magistrate, horrified.
Growling softly to itself, the Nimon ignored him. Instead, it went from console
to console, switching on controls. A powerful hum started up, until the whole
complex was shuddering with energy.
‘Well?’ Susie-Jo barked over the building nose.
The Nimon didn’t look up from its work. ‘Yes,’ it rumbled dismissively. ‘I am
the vanguard of a larger invading force.’
Suraki stared up at the monster I shock. ‘You admit it?’ he spluttered.
‘There is little point in further deception,’ the Nimon replied, now addressing
both Suraki and Susie-Jo. ‘Or do you really believe that you can actually block our
advance into what you so condescendingly refer to as “E-Space?”’
‘You’d be surprised,’ retorted the ex-journalist.
‘You can’t do this! We helped you!’ Suraki shouted angrily.
‘I have no choice in this matter,’ the deep, implacable growl continued. ‘The
Great Journey of Life must continue – even though it means the total destruction
of this world and those of your peoples who live here.’
‘It won’t happen,’ said Susie-Jo confidently.
‘Won’t it?’ echoed the magistrate in a daze

‘This set-up won’t get back through to N-Space. The CVEs aren’t just some
simple magic door you can pass through at whim,’ Susie-Jo protested. ‘They are
events in space and time. They can exist for a second or a century, in orbit or two
galaxies away, invisible and intangible and constantly moving...’
‘Then how can it be navigated?’ the Nimon demanded.
‘It can’t,’ the redhead replied firmly. ‘Not by mere mortals like us.’
‘Truly, Miss Parker?’ asked the Nimon, voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Have I
misjudged the situation that badly?’
It heaved down a lever on the wall. On the other side of the chamber, the
heavy, ragged-edged metal shield was dragged noisily to one side. Beyond it was
a bare-walled alcove in which stood something resembling a giant metal egg. It
began to pulsate with light, glowing brighter...
...but nothing else happened.
The capsule did not vanish or fade away or anything similar. It just sat there
before them, stubbornly refusing to move in any way. After a few minutes, the
hum of the machinery around them spluttered and faded into silence, and the egg
lost its glow altogether.
There was a long pause.
‘You think I’d still be in E-Space if it was that easy to escape?’ asked Susie-Jo
quietly. ‘The chances of you finding the gateway again is infinitesimally small,
Nimon. And even if you did find it for long enough to pass through back into N-
Space, there’s no telling where or when you’d end up on the other side. Your
intended destination is about the last place you’d arrive.’
The Nimon continued to stare at the empty pad. Suddenly, its legs seemed to
buckle under its weight and it fell to its knees with a crash that seemed to shake
the control room. ‘So I am trapped here,’ it muttered to itself. ‘The only one of my
species, alone and isolated in a tiny and uncivilized pocket of civilization.’
Susie-Jo sighed. ‘Join the club,’ she said, not unsympathetically.
The Nimon clambered to its feet, surprisingly quiet. ‘It is not over,’ it snarled,
its anger and energy rapidly returning. ‘If I cannot continue the Great Journey of
Life, then I shall simply begin a new journey! This worthless planet will become
the new birthplace of the Nimon!’
Even Suraki looked doubtful now. ‘But there’s only one of you...’
‘Your feeble biologic reproduction is unnecessary,’ roared the massive alien. ‘A
single Nimon can multiply itself twenty times given enough pure energy force –
instead of harvesting the primitive androids to power the transmitter, I shall deign
to feast upon them instead. Sustenance is all any of you bipeds are useful for!’
Suraki paled. ‘You’re going to eat my people?’
‘Fear not, brave magistrate, I do not intend to start consuming your meager
populace until the last android is sucked dry,’ the Nimon assured him. ‘I have
agreed to destroy your enemies, and I will fulfill that bargain.’
‘You’re actually going,’ repeated Suraki with horror, ‘to eat my people?’
‘Their ultimate survival was no part of our contract,’ came the growling reply.
‘A more intelligent leader would have considered that possibility before hastily
agreeing to assist an unknown extraterrestrial with no references of support.’

Susie-Jo spoke up. ‘And just how are you going to get the androids here in the
first place?’ she demanded. ‘Lure them here one by one and hope no one notices.’
‘You, Miss Parker,’ the Nimon rumbled, ‘will provide them for me.’
Susie-Jo smiled sweetly and shook her head.
‘Your assumed cooperation is not necessary. When the alliance government
learn you have disappeared here, they will come in droves – and the androids will
be on the front line, as they are both superior in their own eyes and dispensable in
the organics’ eyes. Easy pickings, as they will not be expecting such a trap.’
‘Wrong again, cow-face,’ Susie-Jo retorted. ‘The alliance government know
where you are and what you’re up to.’
‘Impressive,’ the Nimon replied dryly. ‘Considering I have only just decided.’
‘This unit,’ said K9 suddenly, ‘has been in data-acquisition mode for the past
ten hours. All relevant information has been transmitted via compressed supraluminal
connection to main computer complex of the alliance government, and in
turn relayed to all display screens across the planet.’
‘You were spying on us?’ asked Suraki, sounding lost.
‘From the moment we got here,’ Susie-Jo agreed, sounding very satisfied. ‘You
see, I’ve never met the Nimon before. I have heard about them from a friend of
mine, and K9 recognized the design of your power complex, enough to put two
and two together. My fellow councilors knew there was a possible alien invasion
underway before I arrived. They’ve been on red alert for the last eight days.’
‘If she’s telling the truth,’ Suraki babbled, ‘they could already be on their way
here, ready to bomb this town off the face of the planet!’
‘Your paranoia does you no credit,’ sneered the Nimon. ‘They will not destroy
the one individual keeping their flimsy partnership stable.’
Susie-Jo looked right into the Nimon’s eyes. ‘They will if I ordered them to
ignore my safety,’ she replied quietly. ‘They won’t hesitate.’
The Nimon sounded intrigued. ‘You would actually order your own death?’
Susie-Jo suddenly sighed in defeat. ‘What have I got to live for?’ she
wondered. ‘This isn’t my world, my people. I’ll never see any of them again, just
grow old, die and be forgotten. No children, no lovers, nothing. All I can do is
keep this world from falling apart, and if it means nuking a parasite like you to do
it, well fair enough.’ She smiled ruefully at her companions. ‘So how exactly are
you two going to threaten me?’
Neither Suraki or the Nimon had anything to say.
‘Mistress! Military forces converging on this facility,’ K9 announced. ‘Native
villagers are joining the attack. There is an 87 per cent probability of total
destruction of Nimon complex within the next hour.’
‘Get going, K9,’ Susie-Jo told him.
‘Mistress?’
‘You’ve got the best chance of getting out of this mess alive,’ she said sadly,
stroking the side of his metal head. ‘And the alliance still needs all the help it can
get. So make your way to the exit, don’t stop for anything. No countermands.’
K9 lowered his head sadly. ‘Affirmative,’ he mumbled. ‘Goodbye, mistress.’
Susie-Jo ignored the tears in his eyes. ‘Good dog.’

The metal shape spun and glided out of the room.
The Nimon was checking another display. ‘It’s true. The vermin outside are
advancing on the complex from all sides!’
‘My people?’ asked Suraki numbly. ‘Working with android scum?’
‘They know about the Nimon too, now,’ Susie-Jo explained wearily. ‘And it
looks like they’ve decided they’d prefer sharing a world with androids than giant
black monsters in weirdo bull masks...’
‘If we are to die in the oncoming conflagration,’ the Nimon boomed, ‘then I
can at least ensure that I do not die alone.’
‘And how are you going to do that?’
‘Set the reactor core to overload,’ the Nimon roared triumphantly.
Suraki glowered at his former benefactor. ‘All the energy was wasted on the
transmitter,’ he reminded the creature darkly. ‘There is nothing left to overload.’
The great black shape crossed to the oven, which was no longer blazing with
heat. The displays around it confirmed the truth. The Nimon spun to face them in
impotent rage. ‘You have not defeated me!’ it bellowed.
‘Keep telling yourself that!’ Susie-Jo roared back furiously, her earlier despair
suddenly forgotten. ‘You’re all alone, Nimon – and you’re not just fighting the
androids, but the organics as well! They’re all working together now,’ she
announced, and the very thought felt invigorating. ‘You’ve given them a common
enemy to unite against!’
‘So it seems,’ the Nimon growled, swinging to face her. ‘Then I shall provide
them with more common ground, Miss Parker – grief over your death!’
With a final rumbling growl, the Nimon lowered its great black head as though
about to charge at Susie-Jo, yet it did not move. Instead, its horns glowed with
energy sending twin beams shooting towards her.
She tried to dive out of the way, but the full brunt of the energy blast caught
her right in the stomach and the ex-journalist was flung across the chamber. She
reeled into a support strut, dimly aware she was screaming in helpless agony.
‘No!’ Suraki was shouting at the Nimon. As pain stabbed right through her
body, burning up and down her spine, Susie-Jo could see the magistrate making a
pathetic attempt to physically drag the massive beast aside to spoil its aim. ‘This is
madness! Our only chance is to keep her alive – if you kill her and neither side
will show us any mercy!’
‘They will show us no mercy in any case, magistrate,’ the creature retorted.
‘Care to remember that your complicity in this affair is now well-documented!’
‘Then no more!’ Suraki spat, turning and crossing to help Susie-Jo.
‘Unfortunately, the dissolution of our relationship is not yours to effect,’ the
Nimon pointed out calmly, its horns already trained upon Suraki’s retreating back.
Without another word, the energy ray transfixed on the magistrate, who twisted
and then crumpled dead to the ground.
Groggily, Susie-Jo peered down at the withered husk lying at her feet. She
could barely recognize the man it had once been. His skin, now grey and lifeless,
made Suraki’s whole body look frail and hollow, like the drained-dry corpse of a
fly in a spider’s web...

Dimly, she was aware of the Nimon was aiming its horns towards her to fire
the killing blast. There was a bright red flash and a crackling blast of noise. For a
moment Susie-Jo struggled to work out what was happening, and realized a large
chunk of the outer wall had disappeared and smoke was filling the chamber. The
Nimon whirled to face the breach in the complex, and dark figures were already
running through it, their weapons firing at the alien monster.
With another bellow of rage, the Nimon lowered its head and blasted at the
attackers. It was roaring something about destroying the village and every living
thing it contained, but around that point the whole world seemed to spin like a
top. The life rapidly ebbed away from Susie-Jo’s arms and legs in a painful frenzy
until she fell headlong forward onto the floor with a sickening crash. Weary and
half-dazed, she struggled to remain awake as consciousness began to slip away.
Several bodies now lay sprawled on the floor nearby, some the townsfolk and
some in the uniforms of the android confederacy. Flesh and blood, man and
machine, focusing all their efforts on their mutual survival...
Everything I’ve worked so hard for, thought Susie-Jo dreamily. At least I can
die successful if not content...
Above her, the massive black shape staggered back, bellowing. The intruders
continued to fire upon the Nimon, but Susie-Jo’s eyesight blurred and dimmed.
The hot pain swimming through her head was turning into a black cloud,
smothering and overwhelming every sensation as it rolled over her brain. The exjournalist
falling slowly into a bottomless well of spinning darkness? Before she
realized it, Susie-Jo had completely lost all sense of physical reality.
She heard the Nimon roaring, as if from a long way away, mingling with the
sound of people shouting her name anxiously. Was that Gamma’s voice she could
make out, so much louder than the others?
Her failing consciousness finally evaporated and everything went black.

Survival of the Daleks
EPISODE TWO: SERVANTS OF MASTERS
This adventure takes place after Might Might Might Might of of of of the the the the Starry Starry Starry Starry Sea Sea Sea Sea
In the biggest museum in outer space, Doctor Who and Robbie discover an exhibit the public aren’t
allowed to know about – a ruthless killer mutant known as a Dalek. The museum’s sinister curator
Verlaine wants the Dalek to reveal a great secret it’s hiding, but he’s unaware of the strange and
dangerous bond that has formed between the alien and its interrogator Miss O’Neal...
Interrogator O’Neal stood frozen to the spot before the alien prisoner. At the start,
she had used mixtures of acid strong enough to eat through silcronium like paper
to dissolve patches of the armored casing to expose the living mutant within.
Since then, she had seen a few wriggle through the cracks and splits in the amour
-- but never in an aggressive, intelligent fashion. Right now the tentacle twisted
and turned almost playfully before her face like some sadistic cobra-like serpent.
O’Neal dared not take her eyes off it for fear of what it might do to her.
Despite the restless energy of the tentacle, the Dalek’s voice was as flat and
emotionless as before. ‘YOU TORTURED ME,’ it reminded O’Neal.
O’Neal licked her lips. ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I was encouraging you to speak...’
‘YOU TORTURED ME,’ the Dalek repeated. ‘AND YOU ENJOYED IT.’
‘No!’ she snapped, angry at the very idea. ‘That’s why they chose me. The
Verlaines could have found anyone to make you suffer and been glad of the
chance, paid money for it even -- they still remember what the Daleks did to our
civilization and they do not forgive easily. They chose me because of my
compassion, my ability to care for others. I would do what was necessary, no
more. Not out of sadism, heroism or any misguided belief. If you had spoken at
the start, I would never have harmed you. I gained no enjoyment from doing this.
I wished we could have been friends! If there was another way, I would have
taken it -- even if you don’t believe me, that is a fact!’
Towards the end she had almost been shouting.
The Dalek stared at her. Maybe it was surprised by her passion? Or bored with
her self-justification? There was no way of telling what it was thinking or what it
was going to do next. O’Neal knew that she was entirely at the creature’s mercy,
and even though it could not escape the cell, it could kill her before she could
even raise the alarm.
After a while, the prisoner spoke. Its harsh voice sounded almost
conversational. ‘I WOULD HAVE FELT NO GUILT AT ENJOYING TORTURE,’ it
announced. ‘THAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN US.’
‘I didn’t torture you,’ O’Neal insisted, keeping her eyes on the tentacle. ‘Yes, I
want information, but not simply for my employers. I want to know about you, to
understand you...’

The Dalek sounded almost amused. ‘YOU WISH TO UNDERSTAND THE
DALEKS?’ it mocked.
O’Neal leaned forward, taking her eyes off the tendril to stare right into the
eyestalk. ‘Yes!’ she pleaded.
‘THEN YOU SHALL!’ the Dalek shrieked with sudden anger.
And O’Neal realized that she’d taken her eyes off the tentacle.
The Interrogator whirled around to see the flesh of the tip of the tentacle was
splitting and tearing open, like some horrible flower made out of flesh. Suddenly
the tendril ended in a kind of starfish shape, its flaps lined with tiny, needle-like
teeth surrounding a black, gaping throat. A low, evil hiss emerged -- followed by a
high-pitched whine as the snake-like tendril coiled and stabbed towards the
Interrogator’s unprotected neck.
O’Neal’s nerve broke and she sprinted for the exit door.
She never made it.
In the normal course of events, the Doctor might have been able to wait until
returning to Jacen’s office for a full explanation, but with a Dalek present, there
was no time for pussy-footing around. ‘You people are playing with fire, keeping a
Dalek alive like that,’ he scolded them as they emerged from the lift onto the
office floor. ‘It lives only to hate and to kill, you must realize that!’
Jacen had been listening to the old man’s ranting since leaving the cell. ‘Of
course I realize that!’ he snapped. ‘We know all about the Daleks, Doctor. Who do
you think it was that ruined our society millennia ago? The Dalek Empire tore
Phryne apart in their war effort. They didn’t even know about our archives of
knowledge. They didn’t come here for our weapons or secrets of strategy, Phryne
was just in their way. We have barely scraped together a level five civilization.
Nearly eighteen hundred years and we have yet to full recover.’ He jabbed a
pudgy forefinger into the Time Lord’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you dare assume you’re
dealing with fools this time, Doctor.’
The old man glared up at Jacen over his spectacles. ‘You are fools,’ he retorted.
‘If you don’t destroy the Dalek, then the Dalek will destroy you. It is perfectly
simple. So why haven’t you?’
‘The Dalek was discovered four years ago,’ Jacen said flatly. ‘Damaged and
battered, barely even able to move its eyestalk. And utterly harmless. We
considered destroying it right away, but we are not barbarians.’
‘Yes, because only barbarians would ever torture something they believe is
harmless,’ the Doctor jeered.
‘The torture is necessary. We need it to talk.’
‘Talk?’ the Time Lord scoffed. ‘Daleks are known for many things --
ruthlessness, determination, xenophobia, but not their sparkling conversation.
What can you offer bar being an exhibit in your museum? And now it knows that
I am here, it will not remain dormant.’
‘I think,’ said Plaxton haughtily, ‘that you might overrate your importance.’
‘You don’t think at all,’ the Doctor scolded her. ‘You’ve made me wake that
Dalek up after all these years. Years of humiliation and silence. It’s not just angry

and confused, it’s probably criminally insane. And apparently your entire species
know of the danger normal, sane Daleks pose. So why, in the name of all that is
sane, are you risking a threat like that loose upon this planet?’
Jacen regarded the Time Lord with hooded eyes, then turned to address
Plaxton. ‘Show him,’ he ordered.
Plaxton was startled. ‘Sir, is that wise?’ she asked, nervously.
Jacen glanced at the Doctor once again. ‘What harm can it do?’ he asked flatly.
They turned and began to head away from Jacen’s office and deeper into the
complex. The Doctor trotted after them, brows furrowed in thought. He’d
assumed that the Verlaines had no good reason to keep the Dalek alive, but
perhaps he was wrong. And he wasn’t sure if this development was good or bad.
The only certainty was that time was running out until the Dalek made its move...
The two security guards, Alexis and Rebna, looked up in surprise as the hatch to
the cell slid back and O’Neal was revealed standing there. She looked terrible,
almost feverish and sweat dampened her normally neat uniform. For some reason
her collar was upturned around her neck, as though shielding her from the cold.
She seemed to be trying to act as though nothing was wrong, presumably to make
up for her humiliating panic attack earlier.
‘O’Neal,’ snapped Alexis. ‘What’s wrong with the security scans? It’s just
showing static out here?’
The security guard waved at the flickering mess on the display screen, but the
Interrogator merely stumbled out of the doorway and down towards the exit.
Rebna glanced back at the cell. The Dalek could be made out, chained down and
sealed behind its glass containment tube. The door slid shut, blotting out the view
of the prisoner.
Alexis finally noticed O’Neal lurching unsteadily away from them. She was
rubbing her neck, as if it were suddenly very itchy. ‘O’Neal?’ the guard called.
‘I’ll be back shortly,’ the Interrogator grunted over her shoulder. Was it Rebna’s
imagination, or was her voice sounding thicker than before?
But O’Neal was gone, vanished into the gloom of the corridor beyond.
Alexis rubbed her eyes and, not for the first time, wished she’d simply called in
sick and stayed in bed today.
Jacen and Plaxton had lead the Doctor to an isolated part of the level, containing
a secondary medical unit that was clearly for the exclusive use of its sole occupant
-- a huddled shape inside an upright life support capsule make out of translucent
glass. A medic monitoring the readings snapped to attention as they arrived.
‘Doctor,’ said Jacen evenly. ‘I’d like you to introduce my wife... Lenia Verlaine.’
The Doctor approached the coffin-like shape, peering through the gloom of the
medical unit. ‘So this is why she’s incommunicado?’ he asked dryly. ‘Not on
holiday as your son believes?’
Jacen wasn’t ashamed of the lie. ‘She gave express instructions when she first
grew ill. She didn’t want Gelver to see her like this. Especially if the condition
could be reversed.’

The Doctor shrugged. He was not one to comment on the parenting decisions
of others. ‘So, what does this have to do with the Dalek?’
‘We believe the Dalek knows what is wrong with her,’ Jacen replied, sadly
stroking the side of the coffin.
‘And what is wrong with her?’ asked the Time Lord impatiently.
‘See for yourself,’ the husband replied, not quite able to keep the bitterness out
of his voice.
Jacen reached out and tugged down the panel on the front of the unit, folding
it down to reveal the upper torso of a woman in her late thirties in a medical
gown. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth hung open allowing her breath to
rattle noisily in her throat. The woman’s neck, right shoulder and part of her chest
had completely vanished, and in their place was a strange, mottled dark green
growth that stained the hospital gown with a particularly repellant slime. There
was a tumor-like bump on one temple and one of her eyes seemed screwed up
and withered. Even as they watched, the infection seemed to grow worse,
creeping relentlessly across her body.
Plaxton, the medic, even Jacen recoiled from the sight. The Doctor, however,
didn’t flinch. ‘How long has she been like this?’ he asked bluntly.
‘Three weeks,’ the medic said. ‘Of course, the infection has only become
obvious in the last few days...’
The Time Lord peered at the ravaged woman. ‘So, three whole weeks since she
was attacked.’
‘Attacked?’ Plaxton echoed.
‘Yes, this is clearly deliberate.’
‘And the Dalek was responsible,’ Jacen concluded. ‘Not hard to deduce. We’ve
pumped her full of every antibiotic and cure available, but the condition gets
worse every minute. I dread to think what she’d have been like if we hadn’t been
on hand to give her treatment right away.’
‘And you’ve just locked her away in here?’ the Doctor scoffed.
‘We try to keep her comfortable,’ the medic protested.
The Doctor glared at him. ‘And how exactly would you do that?’
The medic was thrown by the question. ‘Well, er, I try to keep his temperature
down... though sometimes I keep it up, just see if it makes any difference...’
‘But you didn’t do anything useful like calling for help?’
Plaxton stepped forward. ‘If our investors thought that Mrs. Verlaine had
become...’ She trailed off awkwardly, remembering that Mrs. Verlaine’s husband
was standing nearby.
‘A monster?’ the Doctor supplied, peering at the patient in the coffin.
‘Well, yes. If they found out, the reputation of the archive would collapse!’
‘And of course nothing is more important than your investments,’ the Doctor
retorted sarcastically.
‘Except my wife’s health,’ said Jacen bluntly. ‘Now, Doctor, can you help her?’
‘I’m not sure. Why on Earth did she let the Dalek get close enough to infect her
in the first place?’ the Doctor complained.

‘Seeing the ancient enemy of our people was... fascinating,’ Jacen explained
with a shrug. ‘Since we brought it here, she spent hours down there, trying to talk
to it. She even considered sleeping in the cell, just to be close to something so
strange and unusual. She spent less and less time running the company...’
The Doctor glanced at the man. ‘Less and less time with you either, I suppose?’
he asked. ‘I sympathize, but this is a sign of where heedless obsession can lead to.
Now,’ he said, indicating the swollen blob of flesh that used to be Lenia’s neck.
‘That’s where the mutation seems heaviest so I would guess it is where it stems
from. We need to know what we’re dealing with, so take a blood sample!’
The medic glanced at the mutated woman, not eager to approach her.
‘Quickly!’ the Doctor snapped, scooping up a hypodermic from a nearby tray
and offering it to the young man. ‘You’re the resident medical professional --
apparently -- so take a sample from the source. In her neck!’
The medic took the hypodermic, looked at it doubtfully and then, under the
irritated glare of both his employer and the Time Lord, turned and crossed to the
coffin. Lenia was still slumped, comatose in the confines of the life support unit.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the tip into the slimy green flesh. The needle
slipped easily into the surface, sliding deep into Lenia’s mutated neck without any
resistance. But as the medic was about to pull on the plunger to extract some
blood, Lenia’s arm flailed out and her hand clamped around the medic’s wrist. Her
fingers had fused together and the veins in her deathly pale skin were a hideous
green colour. Yet Lenia was still deeply unconscious, her eyes shut and expression
blank, seemingly unaware of what she was doing.
The medic struggled to break free as the vice-like hold tightened. ‘Help me!’ he
cried. ‘She’s breaking my arm!’
Plaxton hurried forward to interceded but Lenia’s other, fully human, hand
darted out and seized hold of the secretary’s neck. Tutting wearily at the foolish
overconfidence of the young, the Doctor nimbly ducked between the two
employees and took hold of the needle. Extracting the blood, he pulled the needle
free. Instantly, Lenia released both Plaxton and the medic, her arms falling limply
to her sides like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
‘Survival instincts when threatened,’ the Time Lord explained to the others.
‘The infection’s evidently spread to her autonomous nervous system...’
The Doctor held the hypodermic up and peered at the cylinder. It was filled
with a thick green liquid, and steam seemed to be rising from the damp needle.
Lenia’s blood was not just the wrong colour but boiling hot. Fascinated, the Time
Lord examined the hypodermic already warming his hand. ‘Are you all right?’ he
absently asked the medic, not looking away from the blood sample.
The medic gulped. ‘I think so,’ he said nervously.
‘Then you can stop hovering and get this sample analyzed!’
‘There’s only one lift to the lower vaults,’ Gelver explained to Robbie as they
stepped out into the gloomy exhibit area. ‘Most people here don’t even know
there are lower vaults. To be honest,’ he added guiltily, ‘I don’t think that I’m
supposed to know about them either...’

Robbie looked around, trying to work out where they were. The lights had
been turned on since she and the Doctor had first been captured, meaning it was
harder to establish their location. A maze of identical rooms with identical layouts
of identical glass cases -- but she soon spotted the blue police box tucked away in
the corner. This was where the TARDIS had landed which meant the prison cell
was through the adjacent doorway.
She paused on the threshold when she realized Gelver hadn’t moved. He was
staring in amazement at the TARDIS, clearly recognizing it for what it was: an
alien machine capable of traveling through time and space. Robbie remembered
how a few tin scraps had so caught the young man’s interest upstairs. Something
like the TARDIS could blow the guy’s mind...
‘Are you coming or what?’ Robbie hissed.
‘Oh. Yeah,’ mumbled Gelver, not looking at her. He pointed a trembling finger
at the blue box. ‘Is that...?’
‘Come on!’ Robbie fumed, taking his hand and dragging him from the room.
For a moment the exhibit room was still. Then, a shadowy figure stepped out
from behind the TARDIS and silently crossed to the open lift, ducking through the
doorway before it closed shut. Unlike the other elevators in the Archive, the one
to the lower vaults was linked to the museum’s computer mainframe, ensuring
only the select few were able to come and go -- bar exceptions like the Verlaine’s
wayward son or some time-traveling intruders.
Although Interrogator O’Neal was perfectly authorized to use to the lift, she
had been waiting in the shadows patiently for someone else to arrive, so she could
smuggle herself aboard. As far as the computers would be concerned, she was still
in the vaults and not at this moment heading to the upper levels.
O’Neal was not entirely sure why she was doing this. Everything since the
Dalek had attacked her didn’t seem quite real, almost like some strange flu or
fever. The terrible pain from the bite on her neck had built up behind her eyes
until it burned her brain. It had ebbed slightly as she realized what she had to do,
and faded further as she went to follow her orders.
Now it was just a haze over her mind as she found herself sneaking out of the
vaults on a mission she didn’t understand, even without the unbearable burning
sensation sweeping her entire body.
Through the thickening air around her, O’Neal could almost hear the Dalek’s
commands thundering inside her head.
Obey! the mechanical voice shrieked. Obey! Obey! OBEY!
The medic had taken too long to set up the particle analyzer, so the Doctor
quickly bullied his way into taking over. In a matter of moments, the slide was
ready and placed into the workings of the scanners and the old Time Lord was
peering into the binocular lenses, his spectacles shoved up over his silver fringe.
The medic stood uselessly to one side with Plaxton. Jacen remained with his wife,
sadly stroking her cheek.

After a while, the Doctor straightened up from the device. ‘You are supposed
to be the scientist,’ he said to the medic, sounding extremely dubious at the idea.
‘What do you make of that?’ he challenged.
Meekly, the young man crouched over the microscope and looked into himself.
His cowed demeanor immediately turned to one of complete bewilderment. ‘But
that,’ he protested, stammering, ‘it doesn’t flow, if anything it seems firmly set...’
The Doctor was staring into the distance, his fingers drumming on his lapels.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Curious, isn’t it?
‘It’s not remotely like blood!’ the medic snapped, looking up at the Time Lord.
The old man glanced down at him. ‘Not like your blood,’ he corrected. ‘And
the purpose of your blood is to carry oxygen, is it not?’
‘Well, yes, of course,’ the medic began, but wasn’t allowed to continue.
‘Daleks don’t need oxygen,’ the Doctor told him bluntly. ‘Daleks don’t need
anything, because they consider need itself to be a weakness. No, they are literally
designed for survival...’
‘So what’s the blood for, then?’ the medic demanded, frustrated.
‘Skeletal support,’ the Time Lord replied, as though the answer were obvious.
He turned to Jacen. ‘I’m afraid your wife’s blood supply has turned into cement.’
Jacen’s expression was impassive, but his voice was tight. ‘Can it be reversed?’
‘Doctor!’ Plaxton shouted, before he could reply to the question.
The others whirled around to see what had alarmed her.
A tell-tale wisp of smoke was rising out of the workings of the particle
analyzer. As their eyes searched for the source, the smoke itself thickened into
dark green fumes swirling into the air, with the stench of something like roasted
flesh filling the unit.
‘It knows we’re analyzing it!’ the Doctor realized, ‘and it ’s trying to stop us!’
The medic beside him was already coughing. ‘Is it poisonous?’ he spluttered.
The Doctor glanced at the idiot, wondering how he could have progressed so
far as a scientist lacking even basic intelligence. ‘Of course it’s poisonous! All of
you, get out of here!’ he shouted, before he too found himself wheezing and
coughing from lack of oxygen.
By now, the whole medical unit was swimming in the toxic, corrupting gas...
Alexis and Rebna were expecting O’Neal to return to her duties, and were taken
aback to see Gelver Verlaine and the girl intruder arrive. As ever, Alexis decided
to take charge, smoothly getting to her feet and crossing to confront the
newcomers. ‘I’m afraid that you have no clearance here, Mr. Verlaine,’ she began
reasonably.
Gelver looked arrogantly up at the tall woman looming over him. ‘Feel free to
take it up with my father,’ he challenged, unafraid. Robbie found herself slightly
disappointed the young idealist couldn’t come up with something better than
threatening to get someone sacked by daddy.
But there was no point denying how effective it was. The security guard
hesitated, considering crossing to the communicator, then sighed. ‘Why do you
want to go in there, anyway?’ she grumbled.

‘None of your concern,’ Gelver sniffed haughtily.
Rebna shifted uncomfortably. ‘You do understand that, well, if you have any
trouble in there, we’re not authorized to go in there and help...’
‘I’m sure you needn’t worry,’ said Robbie coolly.
‘But the internal surveillance has...’
‘Open the door,’ Gelver demanded.
‘Your funeral,’ Alexis muttered, and then unlocked the hatchway, which slowly
began to slide open.
Gelver’s confidence began to dwindle. ‘Robbie,’ he hissed to her, ‘are you sure
about this?’
But his companion was already striding into the cell...
Jacen and his employees had fled the medical unit, pausing only to seal Lenia
back into her life support capsule to protect her from the choking fumes. The
Doctor remained behind, clawing his way through the thickening, deadly smoke
to the chemical dispensary built into the wall. His respiratory bypass meant he
could endure the atmosphere for a few minutes, and that meant a few minutes
with which to try and nullify the Dalek blood.
Punching up a new combination, the Time Lord made his third consecutive
attempt to combat the attack. He emptied the plastic sachet over the particle
analyzer, but there was no effect. The poisonous smoke poured with increasing
pressure out of the device, becoming more and more toxic. The Doctor felt an itch
in his throat as the last reserves of oxygen were contaminated by the deadly gas.
The Doctor staggered back over to the dispensary and tried a new chemical.
His new body was much older and weaker than he would have preferred to admit,
and seemingly unable to deal with the punishment his lifestyle seemed
determined to hand out. Only his determination would keep him going, for he
knew that the blood would just keep pumping out toxins until the entire
Neophryne Archive was irreversibly contaminated otherwise.
Desperately, the Doctor tore open the packet and threw the chemical at the
source of the smoke -- and was rewarded with a small, bright explosion that lit up
the coiling clouds of vapor. Through streaming eyes, the Doctor could see the
detonation had ripped open the entire analyzer set-up, and taken the blood
sample with it. That meant that there would be no further toxic gas, so there was
nothing to do except wait for the air inside the medical unit to clear.
The Time Lord turned and struggled towards the exit, slowed by a violent
coughing fit. With the last of his strength, he managed to hurl himself through the
door and smack his hand down on the control by the doorframe. The entrance slid
shut behind him, sealing off the fumes.
The old man collapsed, wheezing and spluttering to the floor. Dimly he was
aware of the clear air, and the need to line his oxygen-starved lungs with it,
before his exhausted body lost the fight and everything went black.
Robbie stared at the prisoner.

It was imprisoned in a clear glass tube to the left-hand side of the cell. She
wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, perhaps some little green childlike
being with big dark eyes, but she wasn’t expecting this. In fact, it had taken her a
moment to realize the metal creature in the tube was the prisoner rather than odd
sculpture or part of the machinery built into the cell.
The creature was squat, with a wide, flat base. Beneath its domed head was a
cylindrical midriff, then a tapered lower section. From the middle of thing was a
long metal arm and a gaping socket where presumably another arm had once
been. A camera lens on a stalk protruded from the head.
It seemed more like some kind of robot than a living thing, but it was the only
thing that could count as a prisoner. Heavy chains were wrapped around its body,
holding it in place. Its shell was dented and cracked in places, as though it had
been attacked with an axe or a drill. Patches were burnt and rusted, with some of
the metal panels bent and warped. Puddles of dried blood seeped from holes and
what looked like a tin of dog food had emptied over its head in some kind of petty
humiliation that made Robbie furious.
Beside her, Gelver was awestruck.
‘It’s a Dalek,’ he was gasping. ‘A real Dalek!’
Robbie couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the damage done to the poor
creature. ‘They’ve tortured it!’ she reminded him angrily.
‘They had their reasons,’ Gelver said bluntly.
‘Reasons?’ Robbie spat. ‘Look at it! Look at what they’ve done to it!’
Gelver tore his gaze from the prisoner. ‘You don’t know what a Dalek is?’ he
asked incredulously.
Neither of them noticed the limp eyestalk slowly rose to observe them.
‘What does it matter what a Dalek is?’ Robbie snapped angrilly. ‘It doesn’t
deserve to be tortured!’
Before Gelver could reply, she turned and strode across the cell to the
containment tube. The eye-stalk did not move from staring blankly at the far wall,
seemingly lost in thought. She regarded the pitiful, damaged machine, wondering
how long it had been trapped in here, in the dark, being tortured. How could
something like this hurt anyone? Perhaps other Daleks had once done something
to earn the ire of the people here, but that would be like torturing a random
German for the invasion of Poland.
The Dalek didn’t seem to have registered her presence, so she took another
step closer. ‘Robbie, don’t!’ Gelver warned, not daring to get any closer than he
already was.
Robbie ignored him. She was standing right in front of the tube now. The
Dalek was perfectly still. She reached up to tap on the glass to grab its attention,
but before her fingernail could make contact, the Dalek turned to face her. With
shocking speed, the dome had twisted and the camera adjusted itself until it was
looking right at her.
When her heart-rate had returned to normal, Robbie spoke.
‘Hello. I’m Robbie, Robbie Peterson,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
The Dalek stared at her.

‘What’s your name?’
‘Daleks don’t have names,’ Gelver called. ‘Look, just get back from it before it
tries to hurt you!’
Robbie had no interest in anything Gelver had to say. Despite his lost-little-boy
act and high ideals, he was just a bigot who could happily condone torture against
a living being. She waited for the Dalek to reply, but there was no response of any
kind. It struck her that the containment tube might be soundproof.
‘Can you hear me?’ she asked hopefully.
‘I CAN HEAR YOU,’ came a hollow metallic croak from within the armored
shape. Robbie winced at the harsh voice, imagining it left raw by the screams she
had heard from it earlier that day.
She looked the creature up and down, trying to work out how she could help
it when its injuries looked like they needed a metal worker and welding torch
instead of conventional first aid. She felt stupid and useless, and tried to think of
something to say. ‘Are you in pain?’ she asked lamely.
‘YES,’ it rasped weakly. ‘THE POWER... BURNS ME...’
Robbie shifted on the spot, hating how helpless she was. She ran a hand
through her hair, struggling to think of what she or indeed anyone could do.
‘Look, I want to help you,’ she explained.
‘THEY CHAIN ME,’ the Dalek said, as though it hadn’t heard her. ‘AND THEY
TORTURE ME. AND WHEN THEY TIRE OF ME, I AM SOLD AT AUCTION...’
Robbie swallowed. ‘That’s barbaric. Look, I’m sure the Doctor and I can-----’
‘YOU BELONG TO THE DOCTOR?’ the alien cried.
Robbie stared at the Dalek in shock. How did it know who the Doctor was?
Had he managed to speak to it? If so, he definitely hadn’t made a good
impression, but then that was par for the course with his new incarnation. Oddly
Robbie felt slightly annoyed at the idea she was owned by the Time Lord, or
indeed anyone...
‘ANSWER!’ the Dalek squawked.
‘Well, I’m his friend,’ Robbie clarified.
The alien prisoner was not reassured. If anything it sounded utterly terrified.
‘HAS HE ORDERED YOU TO DESTROY ME?’ it asked, fearfully.
‘No!’ Robbie protested. Just what had the Doctor said to it?
The Dalek stared at her for a long moment. When it spoke again it was calmer,
but was obviously suspicious. ‘YOU CLAIM THAT YOU WISH TO HELP ME,
ROBBIE PETERSON?’
‘I’m not claiming anything,’ Robbie replied. ‘I do want to help!’
‘THEN SHUT OFF THE POWER!’ the prisoner begged her.
For a moment, Robbie had no idea what the Dalek was talking about, and then
she saw the bare wires snaking around the creature’s body, snaking in and out of
cracks and tears in its armored shell. The power that burnt it and made it scream
like a soul in hell...
Without hesitation, Robbie hurried over to the control panel in the upper
right-hand corner, determined to shut down the entire system. Gelver, moving
with surprising speed, slipped ahead of her, barring her way. ‘Robbie, please, you

don’t understand! The Daleks were the ones that invaded Phryne all those years
ago, they all but wiped us out, destroyed our civilization...’
‘Oh, so an eye for an eye, is that it?’ Robbie snapped. ‘That was seventeen
hundred years ago, remember! You’re willing to let them torture this creature for
something its long-distant ancestors did? That justifies torturing an innocent and
helpless sentient being, does it? This is wrong, Gelver, and you know it!’
Gelver glanced warily at the Dalek, which stared at him.
‘Look at it, Gelver,’ Robbie commanded. ‘It couldn’t hurt us if it tried. I just
want to stop its suffering.’
Gelver looked the Dalek up and down. Certainly, it was securely contained in
the cell, and its weapon had obviously been removed...
‘You don’t have to be a part of this, Gelver,’ Robbie concluded softly.
Gelver sighed, turned to the control panel and quickly punched the automatic
shutdown sequence. Immediately, the hum of electricity faded into silence, and
then with a whir of servo-mechanisms, the glass tube split neatly down the
middle, unfolding to reveal the Dalek and the stench of its injuries and meals.
Robbie gagged at the smell, but Gelver was more confused by the fact the
containment shield had opened. He hadn’t released it. Was it some kind of
malfunction? Or, Gelver wondered with a growing sense of dread, was the Dalek
more in control of the situation than they had all thought...
Robbie, taking shallow breaths, turned to the prisoner.
‘COME CLOSER,’ the Dalek asked suddenly, its voice much calmer now --
almost a monotone, in fact. ‘LET ME LOOK AT YOU, ROBBIE PETERSON...’
From the moment the Doctor and Robbie had been captured, security teams were
sent to scour the archives for any other intruders to be found. The guards combed
room after room, corridor after corridor, floor after floor, never finding anyone or
anything out of place as the day progressed. Now they were reaching the lower
levels, beyond which they were not authorized to go, let alone search, and still
nothing out of the ordinary had been discovered.
One guard was moving through the exhibit room that Gelver Verlaine had
been in a few minutes earlier, where the relics to long-lost alien civilizations were
located. He lingered over a display case containing a clutch of unfertilized eggs
that, legend had it, belonged to a race of gigantic winged arachnids that could
travel through the airless vacuum of space. Thankfully they were all now extinct.
The young guard hated spiders at the best of times, and the thought of a spider as
big as a space station flying through the night sky made him giddy with fear.
His senses were so heightened that he nearly screamed as he heard something
behind him.
The guard whirled around, but there was no one there. He was alone in the
gloomy exhibit room, surrounded by the remnants of the long-dead. So where
was that tinkling, rattling noise coming from?
After a few moments searching, the guard found the source of the noise.
Inside its glass case, one of the exhibits was quivering feverishly on its cushion,
swinging back and forth like a metronome. As it banged uselessly against either

side of the case, the unmelodic rattling was created. The guard felt a strange
mixture of relief and apprehension -- it was not a giant spider out to get him, but
how had the exhibit come to life? Could it actually break free as it so obviously
intended to?
The guard studied the exhibit closely. It was a stubby hollow tube with a
universal ball-joint at one end, like barrel of some kind of weapon or tool. A few
wires trailed out of the joint at the end, but they weren’t connected to anything. If
the guard didn’t know better, he would have thought the device was being shaken
by some kind of earth tremor rather than of its own volition...
It was then he realized that he could see, reflected in the glass of the casing,
someone standing behind him.
The guard spun around, but already something hot and slimy, like a piece of
wet seaweed left out in the sun, touched the back of his head. Suddenly, a pair of
arms slipped around his neck, folding over each other and crushing his windpipe.
The guard gasped as the suffocating pressure increased, and he felt his knees
buckling beneath him. He caught a glimpse of a face, grinning a wicked, evil grin,
but it was too blurred for him to recognize his assailant.
Unable to escape or breathe, with the museum spinning around him, the
guard was engulfed in rushing blackness...
O’Neal let the dead body of the guard drop to the floor. As a pain technician, she
had spent her life mastering the art of causing the maximum amount of suffering
with the minimum amount of physical damage. She boasted to have put a
previous subject in a state of delirious agony for two weeks straight using nothing
but a paper-cut on his left earlobe. She prided herself that she rarely if ever left
any scars or bruises. Those she worked on were never left crippled or helpless... at
least in terms of their physical bodies.
It felt strange, almost ridiculous for her to kill someone with her bare hands,
doing the most amount of physical harm in the least amount of time. The guard
probably hadn’t had any time to be hurt by her attack. How unsatisfying. Was that
professional pride, or was she a sadist as the Dalek had claimed?
Come to think of it, just why had she killed the guard?
What was she even doing here?
O’Neal found herself staring wonderingly at her reflection in the glass exhibit
case. Were her eyes always so wide and staring? Her skin so deathly pale and illlooking?
Her face was that of a fresh corpse, with sunken eyes, lank hair and grey,
chapped lips...
There was a loud noise nearby and O’Neal dimly realized she couldn’t see her
reflection any more. After a moment, she finally registered that the glass case had
shattered apart and was now a heap of broken shards on the floor, or imbedded in
the corpse of the guard. And somehow she was holding the exhibit in her hands,
even though she hadn’t moved.
Had the tube smashed its way out of the case and flown into her hands?
That would have been ridiculous.

With a weak, absurd chuckle, O’Neal turned and stumbled off towards the lift,
the exhibit cradled in her arms.
Gelver was studying the controls in confusion. They were working perfectly, but
had apparently been set to give the appearance that the Dalek had been left being
tortured by electric shocks. The power control had also been slaved to the
containment tube, so deactivating one deactivated the other. Why set this up so it
looked like the Dalek was being tortured? Especially when someone had clearly
been torturing it properly beforehand? It couldn’t be the Dalek’s work, since it was
still safely chained down on the other side of the cell, well outside its reach...
But while the young Verlaine puzzled over the controls, Robbie had -- as
bidden -- stepped right up to the podium on which the prisoner sat. She was now
close enough that she could hear an awkward, painful gasping from inside the
ruined Dalek shell.
‘I AM DYING,’ the prisoner whispered at last.
Robbie shook her head helplessly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘DO NOT BE SORRY,’ it replied. ‘I WELCOME DEATH.’
Sadly, she reached out and placed her hand on the domed head of the Dalek
in sympathy. Its metal body was cool and rough beneath her skin. ‘Isn’t there
anything I can do?’ she pleaded.
‘NO,’ it sighed. ‘ONLY ONE OF MY OWN PEOPLE COULD SAVE ME.’
‘How?’
As if in response, the square plate of metal between its two manipulator arms
-- or, to be strictly accurate, its manipulator arm and a gaping circular hole -- slid
upwards with a painful metallic scrape. Beyond the opening was something
murky and green. The smell grew stronger.
‘THEY WOULD PASS ON GENETIC MATERIAL,’ the Dalek explained
weakly. ‘A TRANSFER OF LIFE.’
Robbie looked doubtfully at the letter-box-like aperture. ‘Through there?’
‘WHEN THEY REACHED INSIDE MY BODY, I COULD TAKE WHAT I
NEEDED TO SURVIVE...’
‘So it could fix you, even now?’
‘YES.’
Robbie’s expression was grim. She was still pretty new in town but it was
obvious that Daleks were few and far between in this time and place. The chances
of finding one to donate ‘‘life’’ were zero. But did the donation have to come from
another Dalek?
‘Could it work without being from one of your people?’ she asked eventually.
Gelver, who had been brooding over the console, whirled around as he
realized what she was suggesting. ‘Robbie, you can’t!’ he said with every ounce of
authority that he could muster.
All of it was wasted on Robbie. ‘Shut up!’ she snapped over her shoulder,
disgusted at his casual cruelty. ‘Will it work?’ she asked.
‘POSSIBLY... IT HAS NEVER BEEN ATTEMPTED BEFORE.’
‘Well,’ said Robbie with a shrug, ‘it’s worth a try, surely?’

‘YOU WISH TO SAVE MY LIFE?’ the Dalek asked cautiously.
Robbie tried not to let doubt enter her voice. ‘If I can...’
‘THEN HOLD OUT YOUR HAND,’ intoned the voice. There was a strange,
excited note there now -- Gelver thought it sounded rather like childish glee. ‘BUT
I CANNOT LIE TO YOU. IT MAY CAUSE GREAT PAIN.’
Robbie swallowed, then imagined the suffering this poor creature had already
been put through. Still, she was a registered blood donor. How was this any
different? And if she did just walk away, could she ever really look herself in the
eye ever again?
‘There doesn’t seem to be much choice,’ she concluded.
‘Robbie!’ Gelver shouted, but didn’t dare get any closer to the Dalek. ‘Please!’
Refusing to let her apprehension win, Robbie reached out, sliding her flat
palm through the gap in the Dalek armor. She wasn’t sure what to expect -- the
prick of an injection? Some kind of laser beam? In fact, there seemed to be
nothing inside the Dalek at all. Her whole hand was deep into the gap and had
met no resistance.
And then she touched something hot and taunt, like slick supple flesh under
her fingertips. Things moved under the slippery, rubbery surface, like an unborn
fetus. The thing moved slightly, subtly changing shape... and then suddenly it
closed around her hand, right up to her wrist.
In an instant, all the muscles in her body jerked tight, locking her in place.
Something fluttered, then lurched and heaved against her hand with just enough
pressure to be painful. Then it was crushing her with enough force to rearrange
the bones in her arm.
Robbie shut her eyes and clenched her teeth, hoping for relief to come but the
agony just intensified in every part of her trembling body. The massive discomfort
clenching deep inside her made her teeth grind, her toes curl and forced the air
from her lungs. A gasping scream left her mouth as her back arched. Electricity
seemed to spread through her nervous system until something erupted inside her
brain, turning everything black...
The last thing she heard was the Dalek screaming in triumph.
‘I AM ALIVE!’
The atmospheric filters had cleared away most of the toxic gas from the medical
unit, but traces were still linger around here and there, still concentrated enough
to kill if not asphyxiate. Lenia was still in her life support capsule, still
unconscious. However, no one had returned to check on her condition or give her
medications. Thus, the rampant infection was spreading unchecked through her
system, getting worse and worse every passing minute.
The livid green-orange-brown colour now covered her entire body. Her
posture was crooked, and one arm had been completely been consumed by the
mutating flesh. Tiny, worm-like tendrils were beginning to sprout from her jaw
and temples, distorting her facial features.
For a long time she lay, propped upright in her glass coffin, somewhere
between life and death.

And then her one, working eye snapped open, shot through with green blood
vessels and staring madly ahead. Her crooked jaw opened and she screeched...
There was no one present to hear the dreadful sound.
Twisting and writhing, Lenia managed to break open the coffin and toppled to
the floor in a thrashing heap. The noxious gases had no impact on her eerie
moans and shrieks, as the screaming woman turned her remaining good eye on
the hideously-deformed hand, now nothing more than a blunt club of slimy green
flesh. Suddenly, the length of her arm began to split apart like a gooey flower
opening in the sun, but the meaty petals were lined with countless needle-like
teeth. Her hand had turned into a gaping, starfish-like mouth that screamed back
at her with equal ferocity.
For a moment Lenia Verlaine writhed and twisted on the floor and then, as if a
switch had been thrown, went still. She lay on the cold floor for a long time, and
then rose to her feet.
‘I... obey...’ she croaked to a voice only she could hear, and then lumbered
towards the sealed door...
Before Gelver’s terrified gaze, the Dalek was coming back to life. Its dome swung
back and forth, eyestalk seeming to almost be swaying in ecstasy and its
manipulator arm clawed strange patterns into the air. All the while, Robbie’s
forearm was jammed in the gap despite her attempts to pull free or her feeble
cries for help. The strength seemed to be draining from her and she would have
collapsed had she still not been attached to the alien she was risking her life to try
and save from death.
Suddenly the Dalek began to rock and sway on the plinth, and Gelver realized
the heavy chains around its armor were now pulled taut. The prisoner was no
longer sitting on its plinth but floating a few inches above it, as though it was now
so powerful even gravity no longer could hold it in check. The chains creaked
worryingly as the Dalek continued to rise upwards with more and more strength.
Gelver had a nightmarish image of a Dalek flying around the room with
Robbie’s lifeless body dangling from its casing. The thought was enough to finally
break his fear-induced paralysis and he sprinted across the cell, wrapped his arms
around Robbie in a bear-hug and heaved back with all his might. Robbie howled
in pain, her arm seemingly unable to break free.
Her would-be rescuer tried again, and this time he managed to wrench her
free. Her hand was pulled free from the opening in the Dalek casing, the bare
metal scraping out a small chunk of flesh from below her thumb joint. Bright red
blood welled in the new wound as Robbie toppled onto Gelver, a dead weight that
brought them both down.
Meanwhile, the chains finally snapped apart and slithered away as the Dalek
rose higher and higher into the air. It hovered over the fallen humans like some
strange metal bird of prey. Somehow the ruined armor seemed brighter, shinier,
healthier. The glowing core of the eyestalk blazed brightly.
Gelver managed to roll Robbie off his chest, and she crumpled into a heap
beside him, deeply unconscious. Too scared to take his eyes off the Dalek

hovering menacingly overhead, he grabbed her shoulder and shook it violently.
Robbie didn’t even groan in response.
Who knew how badly the ‘‘transfer’’ had affected her? She could be a dead
weight that Gelver, with his slight frame, would never be able to carry at the best
of times, let alone when trying to flee for his life. Even though the Dalek was
unarmed, he knew it could still kill him -- if only by dropping out of the air onto
his skull with lethal velocity.
As if reading his thoughts, the Dalek swooped down towards him.
Gelver scrambled to his feet and clumsily stumbled across the cell towards a
doorway he’d never noticed was closed before. He suddenly remembered the
security guards explaining that surveillance was out -- and that, even if they knew
the danger he was in, would not have come to his rescue...
‘HALT!’
Gelver skidded to a halt. Part of him wanted to keep running, but the rest was
too terrified not to obey. Besides, if it wanted him alive, that was a good thing,
something he could use, right? Shaking with fear, Gelver turned and looked up at
the metallic shape floating before him. Immediately, the cell hatch slid upwards --
the prisoner now had control of the doors as well. That convenient surveillance
breakdown was obviously no coincidence.
‘GO,’ the Dalek ordered. ‘AND TELL THE DOCTOR THAT I LIVE!’
Not prepared to waste the chance, Gelver sprinted through the doorway and
out into the foyer. The two security guards were waiting, startled by the sudden
departure. They were even startled by the sight of Robbie’s body lying on the floor
while the exultant Dalek spun and twitched high above.
‘Seal the door!’ Gelver screamed, running for the lift.
‘What’s happened?’ Alexis demanded as Rebna closed the cell door.
‘Just seal it!’ Gelver shouted back at them.
He ran through the exhibit rooms to where the lift was waiting, the only way
up to the surface and safety. But as Gelver ran around a corner, the doors to the
lift split open, allowing bright light to spill out over the glass cases. And standing
in the lift was a woman in the uniform of an interrogator, cradling a tubular metal
object in her arms. Even when silhouetted against the glow from the lift, Gelver
could see there was something wrong with her face.
Something terribly, sickeningly wrong.
The Doctor was sitting in Jacen’s office, still recovering from his exposure to the
fumes in the medical unit. Much to his own annoyance, his indomitable Time
Lord constitution was taking its own sweet time to fully purge itself from the
toxins and he felt incredibly weak and dizzy. Jacen was pacing up and down
while Plaxton stood dutifully by the door to the office. The rest of the workers had
been evacuated until such time there was no further danger from the medical
unit, leaving the level abandoned and deserted.
‘How long until the atmosphere clears?’ asked Jacen, troubled.
‘We should be all right out here,’ the Doctor sighed. ‘But I wouldn’t let anyone
go into that medical unit for quite a while, there could still be residual traces...’

‘At least Lenia’s all right,’ Jacen consoled himself desperately. ‘The life support
capsule will keep her safe...’
‘From the gas, perhaps,’ the Doctor pointed out.
‘But what caused the gas in the first place?’ asked the medic, who had lingered
behind, trying to be of help.
‘The blood sample,’ the Doctor explained wearily. ‘It didn’t want me to learn
anything, so it destroyed itself. It’s the sort of defensive tactic typical of the Daleks
-- not what you would call subtle, but effective to say the least.’
‘And did you?’ asked Jacen impatiently.
The Doctor was looking around for his top hat which he’d misplaced at some
point. ‘Did I what?’ he asked absently.
‘Learn anything?’
‘Of course I did! Apart from anything else, Mr. Verlaine, I learned that your
wife is turning into a Dalek.’
Jacen froze and stared at the old man horrified.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the Doctor, not sounding sorry at all. ‘But there’s no easy way
of saying it. The Dalek didn’t so much as attack her, but tried to convert her to its
side -- by passing on its own genetic material.’
Plaxton looked like she was going to be sick. ‘You mean it’s using her... to
reproduce?’
The Doctor grimaced at the idea. ‘Not quite that, thankfully. It’s fused her with
its own DNA, which has been tinkered with to such a degree over the aeons it’s
become an incredibly powerful virus. Once infected, the victim mutates into
something approaching a traditional Kaled mutant...’
Jacen gripped the doorframe until his knuckles turned white. ‘But the Daleks
believe in purity. Lenia would never be a pure Dalek mutant, she’d be half-
Phyrinian at least...’
The Doctor shrugged. ‘As the saying goes, the beggar cannot afford to be
choosey. Alone, away from its kind for so long, it’s desperate for reinforcements.
And it knows there aren’t any other Daleks coming. It must be one of the refugees
from when the time corridor network collapsed...’
‘When what collapsed?’ asked the medic, bewildered.
‘Oh, don’t waste my time, young man!’ the Doctor scolded. ‘The point is the
Dalek is trying to gain allies by infecting so-called inferior life forms. That’s
worrying. Normally, the Daleks’ creed of racial purity would never allow them to
attempt something like this, but this rogue could unleash a virus that could turn
every living thing on this planet into another Dalek -- or at least a very close
approximation... Fortunately, though, that won’t happen.’
‘Won’t it?’ asked Plaxton hopefully.
The Doctor nodded. ‘Your interrogation and torture has been very effective.
That Dalek is dying from its injuries, probably from even before it attacked Mrs.
Verlaine. Its genetic material has been weakened, weakened to such an extent
that the mutation cannot stabilize.’
Jacen leapt on the last point. ‘So we can save Lenia?’ he asked eagerly.

‘No,’ the Doctor snapped, ‘we cannot. Her genome has been completely
corrupted. She might never turn into a Dalek, but she’ll similarly never revert
back to her Phrynian template either. I have sympathy for you, Mr. Verlaine, but
your wife is dead as far as you can understand the term-----’
‘There must be something you can do!’ Jacen shouted angrily.
The Doctor glared at him. ‘If there was something to be done, I’d already be
doing it. Your wife is beyond help.’
‘You’re the Doctor!’ Jacen shouted angrily.
‘And a doctor can only do so much,’ the Doctor shouted back at him. ‘Have you
been paying any attention? Every cell in your wife’s body has been corrupted or
destroyed by something beyond your own limited comprehension! It is impossible
for anyone to do anything for her now.’
Jacen’s expression was cold. ‘Nevertheless, Doctor, I’d advise you to try!’
The Doctor realized that Plaxton was suddenly holding a small handgun which
was now aimed right between his eyes.
Unafraid, the Time Lord looked at Jacen and then slowly shook his head.
Jacen was silent for a moment.
‘Plaxton? Kill him,’ Jacen ordered.

Mortal Reminders
This adventure is set between
The The The The Enemy Enemy Enemy Enemy Within Within Within Within and Portal Portal Portal Portal
It was the morning of their seventh day on the Eye of Orion.
The Doctor stood outside the tent that provided shelter for him and Melissa,
arms folded, watching the cloudless sky and trying not to look at the empty patch
of grass where the TARDIS should have been standing. ‘Come on old girl, where
are you?’ he asked softly. He shook his head in disbelief -- was he really expecting
an answer?
The Time Lord turned his attention back to the campsite, noting it was still as
fastidiously tidy and organized as a Prydon Academy graduate would want it. It
couldn’t possibly last, but he made a mental vow to try and keep it that way for as
long as he could. The extra effort was something to focus his failing energies on
the endless minutes passed, one at a time, all in the right order...
The Doctor licked his lips thirstily and when to plasti-steel box on the portable
table, about the size of a cask of wine -- a top-of-the-range Draconian water
reservoir with in-built purification filters. The Doctor stuck his mug under the
spigot and twisted the release control.
Nothing came out.
Glaring daggers at the inanimate object, the Doctor wiped the perspiration
from his brow, then opened the reservoir lid and peered inside. It was more than
half full, and the pump seemed to work -- which meant that the purifier had
broken. Again. Melissa had fixed it last time; was it some botched job on her part
or was the whole system deteriorating? Well, the quickest answer was for a
professional engineer to have a look at it.
Tugging his sonic screwdriver from his jacket pocket, the Doctor delved into
the side panel of the water purifier and began to curiously poke at the circuitry
until he was certain he found something broken -- the power connection had
worked itself loose again. Easy. One squirt of ultrasonic energy tightened it, and
he tried to spigot.
Nothing.
After a full five minutes of swearing in an obscure Martian dialect about the
unreliability of Draconian white goods dealers, the Doctor stomped over to the
tent. ‘Melissa,’ he called, ‘the purifier’s on the blink. Can you take a look at it?’
There was a groan from within the tent. ‘You woke me up.’
‘Yeah, I did,’ the Doctor grinned cheerfully. ‘It’s morning and a beautiful one
too. Come on, Melissa, you don’t want to go sleeping the day away, do you?’
He was right to be concerned. Time Lords could easily survive on a few hours
of sleep a week, and not even all in one go -- a few minutes’ nap was a valid
addition to the required total. He and Melissa had been sleeping more and more,

up to six hours each, yet they both felt exhausted and irritable as the virus
continued to ravage their bodies.
Melissa emerged half a minute later, wrapped in her blanket and looked more
ragged and unkempt than the Doctor had seen her before. Her hair was a mess
and she was paler than she had been the night before.
Idly, the Doctor found himself wondering how much he had changed too as he
found himself hovering around his companion and the recalcitrant water canteen.
‘You look a sight,’ the Doctor said, breaking the silence.
Melissa was concentrating on the purifier. ‘You’re not exactly the picture of
perfection yourself,’ she muttered hoarsely.
The Doctor deliberately misinterpreted her remark. ‘Are you saying I’m not
handsome?’ he asked, mock-outraged at the implication.
Melissa didn’t bother to reply. Taking the sonic screwdriver from the Doctor’s
sweaty hand, she painstakingly tried to adjust the circuitry within the purifier,
disconnecting wires, cleaning terminals and reconnecting wires. But, for all her
efforts, the spigot remained jammed.
The Time Lady stared at the reservoir, rubbing her aching forehead. ‘I’m tired,’
she said at last. ‘I’ll try again later,’ she promised vaguely.
‘We need to drink plenty of fluids,’ the Doctor reminded her, serious for once.
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ she replied. She simply dipped her cup into the reservoir
and scooped up some water. She drained the cup dry, filled it again, handed it to
the Doctor and carefully made her way back towards the tent.
The Doctor looked uncertainly down at the mug full of clear water. ‘I’d prefer
it decontaminated,’ he mused.
‘You really think that matters now?’ Melissa mumbled over her shoulder.
‘Guess not. Suppose I’m becoming a hypochondriac nowadays,’ the Doctor
pondered. ‘Don’t want to burden the body with any more viruses to combat. I
know -- I’ll boil the water. That’ll get the water nice and clean purified so I can
pollute it with some good old Earl Grey tea...’
He looked up to see how Melissa was reacting to his banter.
She had already disappeared into their tent.
‘The TARDIS’ll be back soon,’ he said confidently, delving into his pocket for a
candy bar to nibble on as his sonic screwdriver slowly heat up the water in his
mug. ‘You mark my words, Melissa, by this time tomorrow, it’ll all be sorted and
we can laugh about over some soup. Made from purified water, of course, eh?’
Melissa didn’t reply.
‘Right bundle of laughs you are,’ the Doctor muttered to the silent tent.
It had all started normally enough. The TARDIS had fetched up on a large moon
on the outer edges of the Helical Galaxy and the Doctor and Melissa had set out
exploring, only to stumble across a government research facility. They soon
discovered that some genetic research had gone terribly wrong -- all it had taken
was one wrong chromosome in the wrong place at the wrong time, and an
epidemic had started. Some thought it divine retribution, others the inevitable

hazards of scientific research. No matter what their belief, the disease had
claimed them all in hours.
The Doctor and Melissa had arrived in time to see the last survivors perish
from the plague even as they struggled to find a cure. The Gallifreyans had
searched the area for survivors, but found none. Families lay dead in their homes,
children’s bodies heaped in their playgrounds. The one person they’d found not
dead from the plague had taken their life rather than live in a world where
everyone else that mattered was dead.
Finally, the time travelers had admitted defeat and abandoned the dead
colony world, unable to find a single thing left alive on a world of a billion souls.
Soon, even the virus itself would die out and the destruction of the colony would
become an enduring mystery as other races and species wondered what had killed
the colony or how it happened.
It was after they left in the TARDIS that they realized the truth.
As Melissa had noted, they had to ensure they weren’t infected with the virus
before they visited any other times or places. The Doctor had been half way
through reminding her that the TARDIS was specifically designed to filter out any
dangerous microbes and protect the chosen crew from most if not all biohazards
as a matter of policy, like the telepathic translation system. And then he stopped
in his mild rant when it occurred to him he wasn’t honestly sure if those systems
were still working...
The Doctor hadn’t really paid much attention the anti-viral systems of the
TARDIS for centuries. He had made it a policy of ensuring any long-term traveling
companion was injected with a universal vaccine that would stop them
contracting the numerous diseases that could be found across the universe
throughout its history. Indeed, it worked for every possible danger. Bar deliberate
or artificial plagues.
Rather like the one on the colony world.
Immediately the Time Lord had been in a panic, heaving up one of the floor
plates to peer at the delicate cat’s cradle of wires and cables beneath while
Melissa tutted, shaking her head in amusement at her companion’s chaotic
approach to problems. The chances were that the virus was short-lived and
probably already died out. Even if it wasn’t, every TARDIS was equipped with
every medical facility known, from devices to instantaneously reset broken bones,
to reverse-particle healing rays, anti-cell-mutation cocktails... Melissa was quite
confident that it would be a mere formality to resolve the matter.
Melissa had only become concerned when she discovered the state of the
infirmary on the TARDIS. The Doctor hadn’t done much more than restock the
medical supplies, and half the equipment was either obsolete or had been
cannibalized for spare parts either to keep the time machine running or whip up
some gizmo to save the cosmos. Thankfully, the diagnostic systems were easily
repaired and in moments had managed to identify the disease. Unfortunately, the
Doctor had long ago removed the memory wafers from the computer systems, so
while it could recognize the virus, it didn’t have any idea what the cure was.
Melissa’s angry scream of frustration could be heard in the console room.

‘Apparently it’s analogous to an Andromedan war pathogen,’ she informed the
Doctor once she trusted herself to speak again. ‘We haven’t got any of the
symptoms, but the disease incubates over three to seven days so the symptoms
only appear after the victim’s unwittingly spread it through the biosphere. A
suitable cure was formulated in 177 of the New Calendar but thanks to your
demented attempts at Do-It-Yourself maintenance, the computer has no idea what
that cure is or even a guess how to synthesize a vaccine!’
The Doctor had been surprised at that. ‘It should still be able to work out a
solution from known data!’ he protested. ‘Unless,’ he added glumly, ‘the virus
doesn’t match the obvious patterns for cure or treatments...’
‘Precisely,’ Melissa scowled.
The Doctor brightened again. ‘Simple. That silly old diagnostic computer
might not know what to do but the central logic junction of my (frankly
magnificent) time ship definitely can!’ he announced, happily tapping at a
keyboard and leaping from panel to panel, pulling the scanner screen around so
he could study it better. ‘We just get the environmental systems to change the
atmospheric mix until the disease is neutralized, one whiff and it’s gone. Then the
TARDIS can give that information to the diagnostic computer and it can work out
the cure and whip us up the antidote.’
‘How long will that take?’ asked Melissa, folding her arms.
‘Minutes, at most.’
‘Not synthesizing the antidote, the atmospheric mixing!’
‘Oh. That. Well, couple of months. Maybe more. It’s a big job.’
‘We don’t have a couple of months! We’ve got a week, maybe more before
we’re so riddled with this plague what’s left of us after regeneration won’t be
worth speaking of!’
The Doctor gave her one of his devastating smiles. ‘You’re being negative.’
‘I’m being realistic.’
‘Where’s the fun in that? Look, it’s simple. I set the TARDIS on automatic, it
spends six months cruising the time vortex in a temporal orbit. When it works out
the cure it returns to departure point and picks us up at most a few hours after we
left. We can have a picnic in the meantime...’
‘Where are we supposed to go? We’re infected and contagious!’
‘I know the perfect place!’
‘An uninhabited planet capable of supporting carbon-based life?’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ the Doctor replied, rattling the space bar
on the key board and starting to pull levers. ‘The Eye of Orion, haven of
tranquility, beautiful moonset, high positive ion bombardment, the occasional
shrine to ancient civilizations...’
‘You really think the TARDIS will arrive on target?’ asked the Time Lady
skeptically. ‘We could be left waiting for weeks.’
‘One week. At most. The TARDIS will be homing in on two Gallifreyans on a
planet with no one else to distract it. It couldn’t miss us if it tried!’
‘A week? On a mud-ball planet in the middle of nowhere?’

‘You said we’ve got that long before any serious symptoms can develop.
Besides, an uninhabited planet for less than a week? Even I could stay out of
trouble for that long...’
The Doctor had gone for a walk up to the old ruins, remembering past visits there.
He’d lost track of time -- an unforgivable omission for a Time Lord -- and several
hours passed. By the time he returned to their temporary home, he’d discovered
that Melissa had recovered, attacked the reservoir again and then gone back to
bed. He tried the spigot and was rewarded by a mini torrent of clear water that
wasn’t just pure but incredibly refreshing. Despite the cool moist air of the
countryside, the Doctor found himself getting dehydrated more and more.
The Time Lord decided to kill two birds with one stone -- keep busy, keep
hydrated, make some soup. He filled up a basin with some more water to clean
the vegetables he’d found on his wanderings -- wild mushrooms, a few lettuce-like
greens and some berries. He knew from his prior trips to the planet they were
perfectly safe to eat.
Or maybe that had just been the TARDIS picking up the slack? It was
surprising how easy it was to believe he’d nearly poisoned himself fatally on
countless planets throughout history without the biological filtration systems of
his time machine to save him...
Shaking off the morbid thought, the Doctor hummed tunelessly as he set up an
open fire to heat the pot of vegetation he’d prepared. Melissa would have
preferred using the cooking unit, or maybe some nutrition tablets, but then she
hadn’t yet experienced the genius of his cooking had she? And by now she was
too weak and sick to argue...
...which, the Doctor mentally scolded himself, was technically a bad thing.
Guiltily, he added some protein concentrates to the simmering soup in order to
thicken it up. Tasty, healthy, filling, what more could any Time Lord infected with
a deadly disease ask for?
Apart from a side-effect free cure, of course. And one would probably get here
via TARDIS before the night was out, the Doctor reflected.
Cheered he announced, ‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’
Melissa didn’t reply.
She was either asleep or trying to avoid him, he couldn’t tell.
The Doctor sat watching the soup for a while, fighting off yawns or rubbing his
eyes. He’d only been awake for three hours, he shouldn’t be feeling this tired. The
Time Lord forced himself to his feet, scooped up an empty water pack and
stumbled towards the nearest brook. They needed water to replace that he’d used
today for the soup, and the activity could help keep him awake.
After ten centuries, he did not intend to sleep the last days of his life away...
Hunger finally drew Melissa to crawl from the tent. There was no sign of the
Doctor but the obvious and noisy movement over by the brook was probably her
companion rather than the local fauna. She spread her arms, stretching and
squirming the kinks out of her back and shoulders. Melissa walked over to the

cooking pot and peeked at the contents with a dubious expression. She was
hungry enough to be interested in it no matter how inedible it looked, but she
couldn’t take her mind off the grim facts.
The TARDIS was late.
Even allowing for its usual dodgy sprockets and the Doctor insisting on
reconnecting the linear spools of the curiosity circuits, the time machine should
have been back four days ago -- before the onset of the symptoms. Melissa knew
that every second delayed increased the chances of the disease proving incurable,
and her stomach was already starting to cramp up. The same way those colonists
must have felt as they died. How long before she was a helpless, infirm invalid
facing the indignity of a death that even total bodily regeneration may not repair?
‘You scrub up well, don’t you?’ asked a voice behind her.
Melissa might have flinched in surprise, but she was too weak to do so. She
wasn’t sure if her companion was teasing her or trying to lift her spirits: she’d all
but abandoned worrying about her appearance in any case. The sight of an
increasingly lined and ravaged face staring back from the mirror didn’t appeal,
especially if this could be the last time she wore said face.
The Doctor had clearly washed his face in the brook as well -- so much for all
that fuss about unpurified water -- but despite his wet hair and clean skin making
him look a few years younger, Melissa couldn’t help but notice the weariness to
his movements and how cloudy his once-bright-blue eyes had become.
The Time Lord was already emptying a water bag into the reservoir and
pulling wet clothes from a sack to drape them over nearby bushes. ‘Did a bit of
laundry while I was out, so you can have some clean clothes for a change,’ he
continued cheerfully, turning his attention back to the cooking pot.
Melissa delicately eased her body to the ground, resting against a packing case
to watch the Doctor stir the soup and add a few spices. ‘You don’t have to go to all
this trouble,’ she pointed out. ‘We have plenty of food concentrates.’
‘Fresh food is always better for you than processed stuff. Besides, I like cooking
the old-fashioned way,’ the Doctor shrugged. ‘It’s all... domestic.’
‘I thought you hated domesticity.’
The Doctor gave her a sideways glance. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
He was deliberately trying to provoke an argument between her, Melissa
realized. Anything to keep them both going, speaking, living just for a few more
minutes. ‘Just watching you is exhausting,’ she sighed, eyes already starting to
droop with fatigue.
‘Oi, stay awake,’ the Doctor barked at her. ‘Soup’s up.’
‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry,’ Melissa grunted, too tired to even eat.
‘We have to keep our strength up.’
‘That’s what I am doing,’ she retorted. ‘I’m not the one buzzing around the
place like a hyperactive service droid, am I?’
The Doctor ladled out a portion of soup. ‘You’re missing out,’ he said
knowledgably. ‘There’s a couple of water falls on the other side of those ruins --
not much when it comes to size, but beautiful to look at. Very relaxing. We could
go for a walk up there, maybe pick some wild onions...’

Melissa realized that, while he’d been chatting away, the Time Lord had
somehow managed to present her with a bowl without her noticing. Grudgingly,
she began to sip it as the Doctor sat down cross-legged in the grass beside her.
‘Well, I’ve done my soliloquy on life. Your turn.’
Melissa looked at him but said nothing.
‘Well,’ the Doctor shrugged, ‘if we can’t have a conversation we can at least
take in turns to break the up the awkward silences.’
‘How exactly would that help?’ she asked flatly, spooning her soup. ‘Will
pretending this is all a holiday camp somehow make everything better?’
‘Probably not, but it’s more fun than what you’re doing.’
‘I’m remaining grounded in something called reality.’
‘Exactly -- what a boring place! Anywhere would be better to go than reality!
Tell you what, the TARDIS will be here by tomorrow and then you and me, on a
holiday. I know, I know, technically this is a holiday. All right, a vacation then.
How about a weekend on the sapphire moons of Pahash Pakaa?’
Was that the first hint of desperation was evident in the Doctor’s voice?
Maybe her silence was wearing him down?
She didn’t feel up to playing this game of mutually inspiring confidence in
each other. Instead, she simply put the bowl to his lips and drained the last of the
broth. Carefully avoiding any acknowledgement of the Doctor, she set the bowl
aside and crawled back to the tent.
The tent wasn’t enough of a barrier to screen Doctor’s low mumbling. ‘Good
soup, Doctor,’ he was saying to himself brightly. ‘Oh, you really think so? Yeah,
definitely! It was delicious. Thanks for making it. No thanks needed, Melissa.
Don’t worry, Doctor, the TARDIS will be along soon with the cure. Will it? Oh
yeah, course it will. We just need to keep our spirits up in the meantime. Oh, all
right then. How about a campfire song? Fantastic. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds,
that’d cheer anyone up...’
Pulling the blanket up over her ears, Melissa tried to smother the faint stirring
of guilt that the Doctor’s forlorn monologue had aroused.
Then she forgot all about guilt and tried to ignore the Doctor’s awful singing.
Back on the first day, the TARDIS had chuffed and whinnied its way into
existence on the verdant stellar fragment known as the Eye of Orion. The
landscape was made up of hills and meadows, occasionally broken up by
hardwood forests, swift-moving streams and picturesque, ivy-coloured ruins. The
sky was clear, bright and purple, and the peaceful atmosphere had the reassuring
calm of the aftermath of a massive thunderstorm.
The police box doors swung open and Melissa had staggered out, bent double
under the weight of half a dozen cases, backpacks and a fold-up tent. She had
gathered all the equipment she thought they might need -- or, to be more precise,
all the equipment she could find at such short notice that could conceivably be
useful. ‘We’re only going to be here for a week,’ the Doctor had pointed out.

‘Even if you’re right, it always feels longer in primitive environments,’ Melissa
retorted. ‘We’ll probably need every item I’ve brought long before the TARDIS gets
back... assuming we live that long.’
‘Oh, lighten up!’ the Doctor scolded. ‘Look around you, it’s beautiful here!’
‘We’ve got days to admire the scenery,’ Melissa retorted with equal annoyance.
‘Set the controls and get the TARDIS moving already!’
The Doctor had shrugged and jogged through the doors into the TARDIS, then
emerged a few moments later holding onto a length of string tied to the control
console inside. Once he was outside the police box, the Doctor tugged on the
string sharply. Immediately, both doors swung shut over the string and the
lantern atop the roof began to flash on and off. The TARDIS grew pale,
translucent, transparent, and then was gone. The Doctor’s hands were suddenly
empty -- the string had vanished as well.
After a few moments, the last howl of the TARDIS engines had faded into
silence. Melissa found herself reluctant to look away from the flattened square of
grass where the police box had once stood. Already the stalks were straightening
up, gently erasing any evidence the TARDIS had ever been there.
‘Do you think it will get back here in time?’ Melissa asked quietly.
The Doctor didn’t smile. ‘I’m betting my life on it.’
Melissa had barely slept that night. Perhaps it was the Doctor’s cajoling, or maybe
it was some gut instinct, but she’d been anticipating the elephantine shriek of the
TARDIS’s ancient time drives all night and it had prevented her from getting her
much-needed rest. Now it was dawn and there was still no sign of the battered
blue police box.
So much for gut instinct.
Time to consider the facts. Things were steadily growing more desperate. The
disease was already ravaging their internal organs, and within a week the damage
would be irreversible. There was a window of seven to ten days between the onset
of symptoms and agonizing death, and they had already used five of them.
There was a very real chance that they were going to die here, on a boring
pastoral world where the only thing to do was brood over what was going to
happen to them. No wonder the Doctor had been determined from the word go to
occupy himself with chores and nature walks. Melissa had long since exhausted
the books and tapes she’d brought, and had been left with her own gloomy
thoughts for entertainment. Especially now she knew her mind and body were no
longer up to more strenuous pursuits...
Melissa studied the remains of the Doctor’s soup. It was now a cold, congealed
mess above the blackened remains of the fire. She decided to stick to a safe,
tasteless nutrition capsule washed down with a cup of tepid water. Would this be
her final meal? Or the final one she was well enough to prepare on her own?
It stuck her that the Doctor was not wide awake, making breakfast or waffling
on about one his madcap adventures with the Celestial Toymaker or dinosaurs at
the centre of the Earth. Come to think of it, he’d slept through the night soundly,

with none of the nightmares they both pretended he didn’t have. It was a peaceful
change, but also a worrying one.
Melissa looked back at the small tent, remembering how she’d woken from a
doze the previous evening to realize the Doctor had finally abandoned trying to
remember all the words to There She Goes, My Beautiful World. After a while,
Melissa had checked on him and found the Time Lord slumped by the fire, halfasleep.
Melissa had gently nudged him and guided him into his sleeping bag in
the tent. The Time Lord hadn’t fully awoken throughout, a far cry from his usual
hair-trigger alertness.
Melissa was wondering whether she should go and check on the Doctor when
she realized he was struggling free from the tent, eyes carefully scanning the
countryside as he searched in vain for his beloved TARDIS. It was infantile and
pathetic, since they both would have sensed its arrival even if it had landed on the
other side of the planet.
‘You might have woken me,’ the Doctor scolded her, sinking heavily to the
ground. His face was flushed with a fever and Melissa saw his crumpled leather
jacket was damp with perspiration. As she studied her companion critically,
Melissa mentally checked her body over -- she had a high temperature, but not
outside acceptable limits. Certainly she wasn’t as bad as the Doctor.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
The Doctor’s reply was automatic. ‘Fantastic.’
‘Aren’t you always?’ Melissa agreed.
The Doctor climbed to his feet and made his way over to the reservoir. Despite
his best efforts, Melissa could see how unsteady and weak he was. He filled his
mug three times, gulping them down in quick succession, then took a crumpled
paper bag from his pocket and shoving a handful of jelly babies into his mouth to
chew resentfully.
‘What are your plans for today?’ asked Melissa.
The Doctor shrugged. ‘Well, go for a quick bit of exploring, find a robotic reign
of terror, overthrow the dynastic ruler-ship, liberate the slaves, then maybe a
leisurely bath, a goblet of fine wine...’
Melissa laughed despite herself.
The Doctor didn’t. His eyes were dull, devoid of their usual sparkling secrets.
‘It’s not looking good, is it?’
‘Not very,’ Melissa agreed.
‘Oh, very reassuring.’
‘It’s best I can do.’
‘I know.’ The Doctor looked around the camp desperately, as if on the off
chance the TARDIS was just hidden behind the scrubland. ‘I think I left some
cricketing gear up at the ruins from the last time I was hear. We could have a
game if you like?’
‘No thank you,’ Melissa sighed. They were both too weak to play, even if she
actually understood how the ridiculously complicated Earth game actually
worked. ‘I think I’ll catch up on my sleep.’

‘I don’t want you giving up,’ the Doctor ordered from outside the tent. ‘The
TARDIS will come back.’
Melissa sighed impatiently, tugging off her jumper as she prepared to clamber
back into her sleeping bag. ‘Maybe it will, maybe it won’t,’ she sighed, pulling the
zipper up to her chin. ‘And even if it does, there’s no guarantee it will have a cure.
Or if the cure will work.’
‘So what do you suggest then? A suicide pact?’ The Doctor’s voice was almost a
growl. ‘We can’t give up while there’s any hope and we’ve got quite a lot of it.’
‘But less than we did yesterday,’ Melissa retorted sleepily.
She dimly heard the Doctor storming off in a huff, but she was asleep before
she could wonder where he was going...
The Doctor tried to ignore the dampness in his clothes as he stalked through the
ruins on top of the hill. He’d never gone to the trouble of finding out who or what
had built them or why they’d left them to rot on this deserted planet. And now, it
seemed, he might never get the chance. Another great mystery of the universe
remained unsolved.
‘It’s all right,’ he mumbled tunelessly to himself between deep breaths, ‘if you
live the life you please... doing the best you can... as long as you lend a hand...
everything will work out fine... and we’re going to the end of the line...’
A dizzy spell washed over him and he rested against a crumbling stone wall to
get his balance. Unfortunately the crumbling stone wall had other ideas and soon
the Doctor was sprawled on the ground, covered in dust and loose rock, too
exhausted to move. He sneezed and blinked and realized he could see the camp
from where he was sitting, but it might as well have been on another planet. The
trek back seemed impossible, as unrealistic an idea as Melissa emerging from the
tent and coming to his aide.
The Doctor took a deep, cleansing breath. ‘To tread the path of true
knowledge, one must start within,’ he told himself calmly. ‘Begin with a state of
unfocused concentration. Let this cloudy river of thought carry you forward to
clarity, and then to... to...’ But the words slipped away from his memory, fading
like a dream. There was no clarity, only chaos and particularly obscure chaos. He
sighed and let his head fall back against the remnants of the wall.
No. He couldn’t afford to pass out here. He might catch a chill to go with
everything else. He had to be positive, focus his strength. Once he might have
been able to use this to his advantage -- begun to meditate, focus his energies,
work on finding a solution. But not this time. There was already a solution, but
until the TARDIS returned there was nothing he could do but try and limit just
how quickly his body was dying...
He should have changed his clothes. His jacket was so damp and the air so
cold he was shivering. Come to think of it, he didn’t actually feel cold, more sort
of warm and dizzy and-----
The Doctor opened his eyes and couldn’t see anything. It was pitch dark, but he
could feel the wall behind him. He’d dozed off and slept through the rest of the

day -- assuming it was just the one. How many days did they have left? He
couldn’t quite remember. Either way, unless the TARDIS came back within the
next few hours, then their hope had effectively run out.
He sighed up looked upwards, but the clouds blocked out the stars in the sky,
leaving just the blackness and the sound of the wind in the trees. His body had
gone completely numb, perhaps from the cold or the virus he couldn’t tell.
So was this how he was doomed to die, on the most tranquil planet in the
universe? Not fighting a half-man-half-Dalek, or talking down a demonic force
from the dawn of time... just disappearing with a whimper on a forgotten, lonely
world few knew of and even fewer visited. A heap of forgotten bones behind a
ruined wall and a stone archway.
‘It’s not fair,’ the Doctor groaned.
‘Did you expect it to be?’ replied a gentle, lilting voice from the darkness. It
sounded familiar, somehow.
‘Do I know you?’ the Doctor croaked, peering into the gloom. Who else would
be visiting the Eye of Orion apart from him?
Unless...
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ the Doctor said firmly.
The voice of his past self drifted back through the night air. ‘Meditation is
supposed to be the clear mirror of the soul,’ he pointed out.
‘Supposed to be, but rarely is,’ the Doctor retorted. ‘So... have you been
crossing our time-stream or what?’
‘Oh, I hate binary concepts like that,’ the voice replied. ‘I much prefer multiple
choice, you know. Pick an option and, when in doubt, go for a B. Maybe I
happened to arrive in my own future? Maybe I’m just a hallucination brought on
by fever and exposure? Or maybe I’m some external projection of your personality
to deal with an emergency?’
‘Or maybe I’m just dreaming.’
‘There is that possibility, yes,’ the voice agreed pleasantly.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ the Doctor told himself. ‘I’m not going to die here.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard that before...’
‘Where?’
‘Androzani Minor. Metebelis III. Lakertya. San Francisco...’
‘Don’t get clever.’
‘I thought you agreed this was a dire situation.’
‘They’re always dire situations. At least this time the universe isn’t about to be
destroyed. I’ll get out of it with my DNA in the same shape as I arrived.’
‘You’re really happy with that face then?’ asked the old Doctor, confused.
‘It’s not too bad.’
‘Apart from the ears.’
‘Oi.’
For a moment the Doctor sat in the darkness, feeling consciousness begin to
slip away. ‘Regenerating wouldn’t help anyway,’ he announced grimly. ‘The virus
has dug in too deep, it’d mess up all the chemicals. I’d end up like Verne the
Beautiful. Remember him?’

‘Well, since you do, I thought that was a given...’
‘Man so vain he kept killing himself in the hope he’d regenerate into someone
prettier than his current body.’
‘Instead he turned into more and more hideous forms from the stress of
regenerating so quickly.’
‘Yup.’
‘Of course, in your case, that could be counted as an improvement.’
‘Are you here just to annoy me with cheap shots?’
‘You tell me.’
‘People only say ‘‘You tell me’’ when they can’t think of anything witty.’
Silence.
‘You’ve got about six or seven hours left.’
‘Until what?’
‘Until you become too ill to move.’
‘I’m already too ill to move.’
‘Not yet.’
The Doctor sighed, fighting off the fatigue. ‘If you say so,’ he said with icy
politeness. ‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Shut off your inhibitive enzymes, focus all your energy to getting back to
camp. All your energy. Every last drop.’
The Doctor opened his eyes wired and tried to search for the owner of the
voice. ‘Maybe it’s me being older and more cynical than you, Doctor, but wouldn’t
that count as suicide?’
‘You’re dying anyway. Melissa won’t be strong enough to get up here, let alone
get you back to camp on her own.’
‘So I die here or die there, is that it?’
‘You did ask what I suggested.’
‘I was expecting something better than that.’
The other voice was fascinated. ‘Were you? Really?’
‘If I do that, I can heal myself enough to get back to the tent, sure. No worries.
But then the virus will step up a notch and I won’t be able to hold it back. I might
win the battle but I’ll lose the war.’
‘Wars are always lost,’ the other Doctor said sadly. ‘It’s just a question of which
side loses more.’
‘You’re not helping.’
‘Sorry, but this is out of my hands.’
‘Do you have hands?’
‘I’m not sure. I can’t see any. It’s very dark out here, isn’t it?’
‘Focus.’
‘Sorry. But that’s your choice. Either die up in these ruins or die down there,
beside Melissa in that tent.’
‘And what good will that do?’
‘She doesn’t want to die alone. And nor do you.’
‘She’d have to watch me die.’

‘Yes, but that’s the choice -- either she sees you die or she never sees you again.
Anyway, I really must get going. I’m not in the driving seat any more, you are. It’s
your choice. And you never know, the TARDIS might land in the next few
seconds... or in the next few months. You’ve got to make the most of what life
remains to you in the meantime.’
‘Life?’ the Doctor scoffed. ‘Don’t talk to me about life.’
The voice was fainter, more distant into the night. ‘Goodbye then, Doctor.’
‘Yeah. Nice talking to you. Will we do it again?’
‘One day, maybe -- after the blazing comet flies through the medulla oblongata
and regeneration begins.’
‘And if I die before then?’
‘I guess we’ll both find out when it happens then, won’t we?’
The Doctor from long ago laughed, his chuckles lost on the breeze.
Leaving the Doctor of today alone in the darkness to make his choice.
A few minutes later, the Doctor was standing by the tent. He’d focused his mind
on a particular cell cluster, part of the delicate trigger mechanism that allowed his
body to renew itself. Using it to allow a partial restoration of his body without a
full regeneration wasn’t just difficult, it was incredibly dangerous and the Doctor
would never normally have tried it. A simple healing coma would have been
preferable, but that wasn’t an option now.
And so, on the verge of regenerating for a ninth time, the Doctor had
effortlessly returned to the camp. All signs of weakness and sluggishness had
vanished, replaced for the time being with an adrenaline surge that raced through
his body like a forest fire. His nerves and muscles and vital organs pulsed as
though charged with electricity, and his head throbbed with the input of his
insanely-accelerated twin hearts.
It seemed stupid, perverse even he had unleashed this dangerous power
simply to walk down a hill. But what else was there to do? The TARDIS had yet to
arrive, Melissa was still sick and soon this invigorating flow of chemicals would
ebb and die, allowing the virus to run rampant and he’d be dead in a few hours.
He’d gambled and lost and his only hope was Melissa survived long enough for
the TARDIS to arrive.
He felt like screaming and raging at the unfairness of it all, but he had to
conserve his strength and extend his lifespan for as long as he could.
‘That’s the last time I ever listen to myself,’ he vowed.
The Doctor crawled into the tent, peeling off his beloved jacket and throwing
it on the ground. He looked down at Melissa, curled up in her sleeping bag,
looking like an abandoned waif, rapidly showing the signs of fever like he had
earlier that day. She could be the last person he ever knew, but hopefully not the
last one he failed to save.
He reached out to caress the Time Lady’s too-warm face, tracing along the
cheekbone then sweeping up to smooth down the damp hair above her ear. He
wasn’t entirely shocked when her eyes opened and she looked up at him with a
weak smile. ‘You’ve finished sulking, I take it?’ she asked in a whisper.

‘I was not sulking,’ the Doctor told her.
Melissa reached out and cupped his face in both her hands. ‘Only people who
sulk say that,’ she told him.
Then, much to the Doctor’s surprise, Melissa leaned closer and brushed a kiss
across his lips. ‘Thank you for coming back,’ she said, before rolling over and
trying to get some rest.
The Doctor stared at her for a moment.
Then he slid into his own sleeping bag, lying down beside her. Already he
could feel the strength starting to slip away as his rejuvenated cells were attacked
by the virus once again. He vowed to stay awake as long as possible, to keep the
disease at bay, but within minutes dark shapes were blurring his vision and the
Doctor’s eyelids grew heavy.
At least he wasn’t alone.
It was the smell that finally forced Melissa to wake up as her nose wrinkled in
distaste. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and looked around for the source of the
stench, and then realized it was coming from the noxious puddle beside the
Doctor’s head. He must have thrown up in his sleep -- it was a good thing he
hadn’t choked on it, but it was hardly the best of developments.
She tried to shake her friend awake, but the Doctor just rolled onto his back
with a whimper. ‘Too hot,’ he groaned, barely conscious. ‘Grace, where are you?’
Melissa considered correcting him, but decided not to bother. Instead she tied
back the tent flap, allowing a fresh breeze to pass through, changing the stagnant
air while she tried to tidy up the mess. For some reason, the Doctor’s condition
had gotten worse than hers in an amazingly short period of time.
His fever was raging, making his skin burning hot and leaving him near
delirious. Putting aside any self-pity, Melissa exhausted herself getting a bowl of
water and sponge to try and take the Time Lord’s temperature down.
Just why was his condition so bad compared to its own? Their Time Lord
immune systems had been what had stopped them dying from the plague within
hours, so why had the Doctor’s suddenly failed him? Had it been something in
their food, maybe? Had the water reservoir’s purifier let them down once too
often? The atmosphere reacting with the plague?
As the hours passed, Melissa realized that the way his condition had improved
before rapidly declining meant he’d upset his own delicate balance, manipulating
his own inhibitive enzymes. He’d effectively done this to himself. Was it some
kind of suicide attempt like that last surviving colonist they had seen kill herself?
Had his faith in the TARDIS finally failed him? Or had she finally proved too
much for his own optimism?
Was this, she wondered with rising horror, all her fault?
At least the Doctor couldn’t see her cry.
The Doctor had groggily decided his new year’s resolutions would be to lie on the
ground and do nothing. It seemed a rather radical way of dealing with those
nagging voices trying to make him do things or say things or react.

‘Renegade, have you forgotten what you are?’ they hissed and shouted at him,
‘Have you forgotten about Gallifrey? Think of the Dark Times, the turmoil in our
mind, your decision was to leave... do you remember the reason why? Think of
that reason! Don’t ever let it die! That would be too easy! Whatever kind of
crusade it is we’ve been leading, you cannot let it end like this!’
Just ignoring them, and the pain that seemed to dominate the place he was
trying to slip away from. He’d forgotten exactly where that was, but he was also
fairly certain that he didn’t actually care.
The Doctor didn’t have the strength to endure pain any more, and as pain
went, the stuff on offer was so intense that just to describe it would cause an
agonizing coughing fit. In the distance, there was an ugly, noisy wheezing and
groaning sound he tried to block out.
‘You can’t give in!’ the voices screamed.
Couldn’t a chap get any peaceful oblivion around here nowadays?
A distant whirring, chuffing sound filled the tent. Melissa wondered feebly if she
was hallucinating, since she could hear the TARDIS heaving itself back into reality
nearby. She’d been lost in a sea of discomfort and lost all track of time. Just how
long had it been since they’d arrived on the Eye of Orion? She couldn’t find the
strength to remember. Now the noise had ended, replaced with a low, threadbare
humming that sounded like the TARDIS at rest.
Suddenly, Melissa’s head cleared enough for her to look out the open tent flap,
to see the familiar blue box standing there, all frosted glass and chipped
paintwork. The left-hand door swung inwards invitingly, allowing the goldengreen
glow of the interior to spill out.
‘You did it,’ she mumbled happily. ‘You worked out the vaccine...’
But the cure was in the infirmary. Melissa was daunted at the prospect, but if
making the journey herself was difficult, then dragging the Doctor would be
impossible. Part of her insisted the sensible thing to do would be to abandon the
Doctor, get the cure and come back. But she wasn’t confident she’d have the
strength to do so, or that the Doctor would still be alive when she got back.
The Doctor lay in his sleeping bag, as still as death.
She couldn’t leave him, but she couldn’t help him either. Could she?
Melissa had heard rumors, amongst the shaboogans and the outsiders, of Time
Lords who mastered their psychic skills to the point that they could help heal
others, using psi energy to speed blood replacement, restore dead tissue, repair
damaged organs and knit broken bones. Of course, it took centuries to learn to
master even the most basic of skills, and she hardly had any practice. In fact, it
would be very risky for her to even try such a thing, but she was dying anyway.
Either they both got out of this or neither of them did.
As long as there was a spark inside the Doctor refusing to let go of life, she had
a chance -- even though she knew that spark was fading all the time. Very gently,
she reached out with her mind, slipping into the peaks and troughs of his
brainwaves. She cut off her outer senses and focused the last of her energy into
the telepathic link, ignoring the blinding headache developing. She just hoped the

Doctor still wanted to live, especially as survival seemed more trouble than it was
worth at the moment. But if he did, she could feed energy to him, boost his
strength... they only needed to revive long enough to get inside the TARDIS...
...inside...
...in...
Melissa struggled through the darkness, searching for something alive, a spark of
existence to aim for in this formless dark void. Something flickered feebly ahead
of her, and she hurried towards it. The something, was a tiny fire. Its pitiful glow
barely illuminated the small dark room, or the huddled figure in the leather jacket
kneeling before the fireplace.
‘Doctor!’ she called.
The familiar face turned to look at her, but it was faint and blurred.
‘Doctor?’
He said nothing. In fact, the thin, ghostly figure didn’t seem to recognize her.
The fire was now so weak it looked like the slightest gust of wind could
extinguish it. Melissa willed herself to pour the last of her strength into the fire to
fuel it, and was rewarded when the flames brightened slightly.
‘I can’t live any more,’ the Doctor said weakly, looking at the flames. ‘Sorry,’ he
sighed. ‘Don’t hate me for it.’
Pain tore through Melissa’s chest. For a moment she thought it was the
Doctor’s pain but then se realized it was actually her own. Desperately, She sent a
string of soothing thoughts towards her friend, feelings and reassurances in place
of actual words. Then she tried more direct communication. ‘Doctor? Can you
hear me? It’s Melissa, I’ve come to bring you back...’
The fire blazed up a moment then began to flicker again, sinking back feebly
with seemingly nothing left for the flames to feed off. The room dissolved into
nothingness around them, as Melissa poured her remaining strength into the
dying fire. It was getting harder to think. With one last despairing try, she
plunged her fingertips into the flames, trying to somehow hold them in place.
The Doctor looked up at her as she shoved her arm into the fireplace. ‘Melissa,’
he repeated falteringly. ‘What... what’s Melissa?’
‘I’m Melissa,’ she replied firmly. ‘Your friend. Otherwise I couldn’t be here!’
‘I think I remember Melissa,’ said the Doctor carefully. ‘I knew someone named
Melissa... aeons ago...’
She nodded. ‘Only you could end up in a mess like this -- and only I’d be stupid
enough to follow you into it.’
‘You sound like Melissa,’ he told her with what some of his old strength.
‘That’s because I am! The TARDIS has landed, the vaccine’s ready, and we
need to get inside while we can!’ Melissa explained. ‘And it would help -- it really
would -- if you weren’t letting yourself die!’
‘Well,’ the Doctor sighed, ‘if you put it like that...’
And suddenly his essence was flame-hot now, as it stretched towards her.
‘Get me out of here,’ he ordered the Time Lady. ‘No, go one better -- show me
the way and I’ll do it myself.’

Melissa smiled. ‘I don’t have to.’
The darkness around them was changing to light.
‘You’re already there.’
Pain coalesced and spread through him, centering in his guts and pounding and
beating him, receding in waves only to surge over him once more, making him
moan. Was this a good sign or not? Either way, the pain was unbearable and he
was already beginning to wonder if fighting death was a mistake. Thankfully the
pain ebbed long enough for him to realize he was in the tent and Melissa trying to
help him up onto his feet.
At some point he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, since merely
inhaling sent jolts of agony through him. Too weak to open his eyes, the Doctor
concentrated on keeping his weight supported by his legs as he and Melissa
struggled through the night towards the TARDIS.
The cleansing atmosphere seemed to envelope the time travelers and,
coughing and spluttering, they managed to haul themselves inside the doors and
across the console room, through the archway to the rest of the TARDIS. When
they finally reached the infirmary, both struggling to support to weight of the
other, they were both nearly unconscious.
Realization trickled through the Doctor's mind as he saw the hypo-spray
injector ready and waiting on the desk by the bed. Refusing to let themselves sag
in relief, they lurched drunkenly towards it...
‘And she’s awake,’ the Doctor said as Melissa’s eyelids fluttered open. She realized
she was lying on a bed, the grinding ache in her head was gone, taking with it her
fever and settling her stomach. The Doctor was standing over her, sipping from a
carton of orange juice. His thirst quenched, he popped a straw into the carton and
handed it to his companion who took it gratefully.
‘We’re both cured,’ he explained. ‘We were cutting it very fine and we’d better
take it easy for a few days, but we’re no longer infectious and the whole TARDIS
is decontaminated.’
‘It was late,’ Melissa pointed out in a raw voice.
‘Yeah, but late as in ‘‘fashionably late’’, not ‘‘fatally late’’.’
‘Another few minutes and you’d have been dead.’
The Doctor gave her a doubtful look. ‘Me? Nah. Indestructible, us Time Lords.’
‘Then why did you collapse?’ asked Melissa, giving him a searching gaze. She
remembered her worries he’d been attempting to commit suicide. ‘Anyone would
think you’d given up.’
‘Then ‘‘anyone’’ would be an idiot,’ the Doctor told her firmly. ‘Just overdid it a
bit, that’s all.’
‘So, you mean it was down to all that running around like a fool on a camping
trip you did when you should have been conserving strength like I said?’
The Doctor was suddenly fascinated in the ingredients label of his orange juice
carton. ‘Might do,’ he muttered.
‘Good thing I was there to save your life,’ she said lightly.

‘You nearly got us both killed with that stupid stunt of yours,’ the Doctor
growled. ‘Mind-linking like that is discouraged for a reason, you know.’
‘As long as you’re all right now,’ sighed Melissa sleepily.
‘I’m always all right,’ the Doctor boasted as he headed back to the console
room, intending to start tidying up their camp site. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘Doctor,’ Melissa called after him.
He stopped in the doorway and looked back at her, concerned.
She gave a small, meek smile. ‘I like worrying about you.’

You Make A Stand
This adventure takes place after Tomb Tomb Tomb Tomb of of of of the the the the Daleks Daleks Daleks Daleks
The spinning tornado hovered at the end of the walkway, casting shards of blue
light onto the stone cloisters. The Time Lord’s mind was racing to establish what it
was, and whether or not they could communicate.
All across the Capitol, alarms chimed and Gallifreyans screamed out in terror.
The one man who could save them was nowhere to be found as the death toll rose
and rose. He had faith the Doctor was working on a solution, but right here and
now he had to face the invaders himself.
Landon didn’t so much as flinch when Antithesis consumed him.

Out of Options
This adventure is set between
The The The The Webs Webs Webs Webs of of of of Time Time Time Time and Time’’’’s Time Time Time s s s Champions Champions Champions Champions
Tarrence Dillion was bleeding again.
‘This is painful. Did you know I didn’t like pain? Hurts too much.’
Dillion glanced at the sky for the thousandth time, his hazel eyes bright with
apprehension, as they staggered through the silent, darkening forest. He looked
back to his companion.
‘C’mon, Doctor, motivate, will you? It’ll be dark soon, we can rest then.’ His
voice turned pleading. ‘Now, Doctor, there’s bound to be something around here
somewhere. A deserted farmhouse maybe. Poor farmer but lucky us, y’know?
Only we have to get there...’
Dillion winced.
‘You know, this really hurts.’ He clutched at his side again.
‘Shut... up... Dillion.’
It was the first thing the other man had said in miles, and Dillion immediately
dropped to his side.
The Doctor had changed so much since Dillion had seen him last -- then, the
Time Lord had been a tall, stocky man with short dark curls, a neon blue tuxedo
and a multicoloured scarf the length of which no one had been quite certain, not
even the Doctor, and he was the one who wore it all the time. In the time since
they’d parted company, the Doctor had undergone ‘‘regeneration’’ and eventually
left Susie-Jo and K9 in some other universe; he was now accompanied by a
woman called Christine that Dillion hadn’t actually got round to meeting.
This new Doctor was bigger, louder, and more expansive with his long mane
of chestnut curls, Elizabethan facial hair and a polished wooden walking stick he
used for dramatic effect rather than need.
But he needed it now.
Which was probably why they’d lost it in the escape from the battle zone. The
destruction of the Cyber Fleet had not come without a cost; half of the Canisian
Defence Fleet had been reduced to atoms blasted in all directions, and the
Cybermen had taken as many victims with them in their death throes.
Dillion and his team had come to the Doctor’s rescue, but not quick enough.
The Cyber troops had gunned down Dillion’s comrades, but their brief sacrifice
had at least given him enough time to scoop up what was left of his Time Lord
friend and escape in a shuttle.
But a Cyber shuttle in the middle of a war zone was not a smart move, in
retrospect, and they’d ended up targeted by both sides. The Doctor had been little
help, deliriously muttering about the Web of Time and suspension bridges. Diving
into the atmosphere of the nearest habitable moon, Dillion had barely time to

egister the shuttle was out of fuel before having to make an emergency splash
down in a lake.
He and the Doctor had managed to swim ashore but they were trapped in a
seemingly endless forest, lost and without hope of recovery. The knowledge that
the Cybermen were most likely finally defeated wasn’t much comfort, especially
now as he looked at the latest face his companion wore.
The Time Lord’s eyes were ringed in shadow, and his skin was blanched in
pain. He looked awful; what little Dillion had managed to cleanse his wounds
seemed to only make them worse, and his favorite frock coat was stiff and clotted.
Dillion’s own wound was mainly superficial; the Doctor’s wounds were not
superficial at all. Had he been a mere human, he would have died a good three
days ago. That thought didn’t give much comfort either.
‘Now, that’s better,’ Dillion cajoled. ‘You’ll get on. Shouldn’t be alive, you know
that? But then you always were a survivor, weren’t you, Doctor? There isn’t a
blaster made that could get you...’
The Doctor’s lips curled like the muzzle of a hurt wolf. ‘Stop it, Dillion.’ He
lurched forward and Dillion stopped him keeling forward into the reedy grass.
There was a hum in the twilit sky above them. The Doctor’s head shot up, his
eyes menacing and feral. Dillion instinctively gripped the Cyberman sonic blaster,
the only weapon they’d salvaged from the battle. It was the same technology as
the aircraft moving through the sky towards them: a Cyber troop transporter,
thankfully under-stocked with just three Cybermen -- but that was still three too
many in Dillion’s opinion.
‘They’ve found us, Doctor! Quick! Hide!’ Dillion shouted, moving back into the
shade of the trees.
The Doctor did not seem to hear. He simply stood with his teeth bared against
the lights of the aircraft. Dillion ducked for the paltry cover of a boulder, but
when he realized his companion wouldn’t follow, knew there was only one course
of action left. He was about to move when the Cybermen on the transporter raised
their weapons and opened fire.
A sickening invisible blast of sonic energy tore the ground in front of the
Doctor, who rocked on his heels but didn’t fall. Dillion broke cover and returned
fire with his own Cyber gun, aiming straight at the fuel tank of the craft. Dillion’s
confidence soared as his shot punctured the tank and the transporter veered
sharply -- but that confidence was replaced with worry when the transporter
veered far sharper than it should have.
‘Dillion,’ murmured the Doctor, and pointed weakly at the Cyberman wrestling
with the controls.
Something was crouched behind the pilot, bent over the bodies of the other
two Cybermen, now both still and covered in foamy, lime-coloured hydraulic fluid
and spilt coolants. The thing let out an animal roar, above the whine of the
hover’s strained engines, and began to claw at the pilot. Dillion saw the outline of
huge leathery wings against the setting sun.
The Cyberman flung out an arm in a lethal karate chop.
The thing roared in anguish.

‘They hurt it, whatever it is!’ cried Dillion. ‘Doctor?’
The black-clad man was nowhere to be seen; presumably he had taken cover.
The aircraft dipped fatally close to the ground, and in an instant became a
burning hulk on the forest floor. Its fire control systems did a good job; the wreck
smoldered but did not ignite the duff. Dillion sprang up, desperate to find his
companion. If he had fallen, he might never move again.
He found the winged thing first.
It... she, obviously... was unconscious, and Dillion was afraid to touch her to
see if she was alive. Her skin was grey and one wing was twisted underneath her
painfully; it looked badly torn. She must have fallen on it.
‘Oh, hell... Doctor?!’
‘What is it, Dillion?’
Dillion spun wildly, to see the dark-haired man lurch toward him like an
apparition from beyond the grave. The Doctor knelt before the dead monster,
almost falling, his eyes lit with something almost like his old curiosity. He touched
the side of her throat with a blood-flecked hand.
Her talons shot up and grabbed his wrists, her eyes glowing bright red, and
she roared again. The Time Lord hissed with pain. ‘I wasn’t going to hurt you,’ he
growled.
Desperate, Dillion snatched up his Cyber gun and waved it at the monster.
‘You! Let go! Or I’ll shoot!’
The monster threw the Doctor aside easily and staggered to her feet, snarling.
She advanced, her eyes glowing madly.
Dillion fired and the monster thumped to the ground without another sound.
The exhausted Canisian crossed over to the place where the Doctor was trying
to regain his feet. ‘Congratulations, Dillion,’ he said coldly, ‘I didn’t think you
could do it.’
‘Well, since that was our last shot, I thought I might as well make it count,’
Dillion shrugged.
The Doctor looked sadly down at the fallen creature. ‘Pity. She did just save
our lives, you know.’
‘Yeah. And I just saved yours. Again. Let’s go.’ Dillion turned away when the
monster let out a growl. He whirled around. ‘That’s... impossible! She’s alive!’
The grey woman jumped to her feet, spreading her wings threateningly. The
wounded one would not fully open.
Dillion brandished the empty Cyber gun, then threw it at the creature’s bare
feet, making a placating gesture with his hands. ‘We surrender. Now, I’m sorry for
shooting you, really I am. I wouldn’t have done it but you were going to kill my
friend, even thought he’s nearly dead anyway, you know?’
There was a long pause.
‘Thanks for dropping those Cybermen, by the way,’ Dillion added, breaking the
silence. ‘You don’t work for the Cybermen, do you?’
‘No.’ Her voice dripped hate, and her eyes were fixed on the Doctor.
‘Um, and not a bounty hunter, right? You wouldn’t be something like that. So
what are you, if I may ask?’

‘Quiet.’
‘See now, we’ll get on fine,’ Dillion beamed. ‘Everyone tells me to shut up.
Now, that’s the Doctor and I’m Dillion. You don’t happen to have a good hiding
place, do you?’
The creature looked at each of them in turn. Finally, her stance relaxed, and
her wings drooped. ‘I should kill you humans. But I can hear another hover. Come
on.’ She trotted lightly into the thick trees, and, supporting the Doctor, Dillion
followed after her.
‘I’m not human,’ the Doctor pointed out, every syllable an effort. ‘Not even
remotely.’
‘Then I envy you,’ she replied, looking back at them.
She awoke groggily. From the brightness seeping into her cave she knew that it
was the middle of the day and from the ache in her shoulder and wing she knew
that she was badly hurt. At such times, she regretted leaving her home world. She
would take awhile to heal.
There was a sound to her right, and an unfamiliar blood-smell. She jumped
forward, hissing, and met terrified hazel eyes. Ah. The humans.
‘Easy, easy there. You still look hurt...’ The little one, Dillion, stepped slowly
away from her. She looked up to see the other one glaring at her with cold,
unimpressed eyes.
Dillion turned to her. ‘I got an animal and cooked it... mostly. Would you like
some?’ he asked hopefully.
Every fibre of her territorial soul screamed at her to tear the lives from these
two who had invaded her lair. They were indeed a sorry pair, and even in her
present condition she could take them easily.
But the stew smelled amazing, and she had not had cooked food in months.
As she hesitated, the small man handed her a dented metal cup filled with
savory broth. She decided to kill them later and took it gratefully.
She nodded curtly and settled into a more comfortable position on her bed of
dry grasses. Besides that, the cave was furnished only with a weathered chair,
which was occupied by the being that claimed not to be human. It was small and
uncomfortable, but dry.
Times had been hard, these last few centuries, not that they had ever been
otherwise. Hunting on the outer moons were good, but even here she could not
escape the cursed humans. She had long ago acknowledged that they had won
their battle to colonize this system, but the knowledge was still bitter, and
running had made her lean.
‘You collapsed and then slept like a rock,’ Dillion was saying. ‘I was worried.’
‘It is my way,’ she said coldly, denying further conversation.
Dillion kept on anyway. ‘So, you live here? Nice place, really. Are you hiding
from the Cybermen too?’
‘Dillion.’ At the one word, both turned abruptly to the Doctor -- Dillion hanging
his head in apology, her own eyes narrowing in suspicion.

The little one was harmless, pathetic and fawning, easy meat. This Doctor was
another matter. He had cleaned himself somewhat but he still reeked of blood. He
was obviously dying, though he showed no outward sign of pain, and his stare
revealed a feral coldness that she did not like it all. Now he glared at her, daring
to make something of his lackey’s comment, though he had to know that he was
no threat to her.
‘I care nothing for human affairs, nor those of animated corpses run by
technology.’ she said, squarely meeting the Doctor’s dark gaze. ‘I avoid either of
them, and kill both them if they come too close. Now I shall have to find a new
place to live...’
‘No, no need to do that,’ cajoled Dillion. ‘We won’t tell anybody, and we’ll...
well, we’ll do something in a few days at least.’ His face fell, and she knew for
certain that these two, whoever they were, were at the end of their line. Pushed
beyond endurance, they still ran... a state she knew too well. Was that why she
had let them live?
Thousands of years, she thought bitterly, and I am still running from hunters
and hiding in caves.
‘You,’ she said, ‘are running from the Cybermen, I take it?’
The Doctor grinned at her, a sudden, dazzling bearing of teeth that was utterly
unexpected and completely false. ‘We were. And now we’re hiding. Or at least
trying to, and waiting for rescue. It doesn’t matter, does it? Because you do not
care at all.’
‘No,’ she admitted without any hint of shame, ‘I don’t.’
‘Which brings us,’ the Doctor said easily, ‘to you.’
‘Are you native to this planet?’ Dillion asked.
She gave him a black scowl. ‘No,’ she growled, wrapping her wings around her
narrow shoulders. ‘We were native to the same place as you, a long time ago.’
‘Cannis? Are there are more of you?’ asked the Doctor flatly.
‘I am the last,’ she said at length. ‘Again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dillion, and when she shot him an accusing glare, his
expression seemed sincere and genuinely sad. She thought again of killing him,
but the dark inscrutable stare of his companion pinned her. She didn’t like this
conversation at all, and it wasn’t good to think of the others. ‘So,’ she said turning
the conversation back on them, ‘you’re hiding?’
The Doctor smiled again, knowingly. ‘Yes. And so are you.’
‘I prefer to be alone.’
‘Company has its compensations,’ the Doctor chuckled. ‘Speaking of which, we
must work out how to get back to Cannis... and Christine... and the TARDIS...’
‘You aren’t going anywhere like that,’ she interrupted, gesturing at his wounds
with a cavalier gesture. For all his smooth talk, the not-human did not look well.
He could not flee any longer.
‘I know,’ said the Doctor quietly. ‘That is, after all, why we are here. Will your
wing heal?’

It sounded more like a pointed baiting than a question after her health. She
glared. ‘Yes,’ she said curtly. ‘Well, then. we shall all stay here until it does, if he
hunts for our food.’ She gestured at Dillion without looking at him.
‘Fine,’ said the Doctor.
‘Don’t I get a say?’ asked Dillion.
‘No,’ both she and the Doctor said in unison.
‘All right then,’ he sighed, sipping his own cup of broth.
‘Very well. But... I don’t trust you, Doctor.’
His eyes were as serious as death. ‘You shouldn’t. And I do not trust you,
either.’ He paused and idly scratched his beard. ‘But that doesn’t change anything,
does it?’ he sighed.
No one had anything to say to that.
The Cybermen had survived. It was, after all, what they were for. Barely a tenth of
their forces were still functioning, and they had chosen this moon to regroup --
the ease for their scattered forces to reach it made up for the fact it was totally
indefensible. If the Canisians spotted them and struck again, this time it really
would be the end.
It was the fifth patrol that day. Hovers whirred above the cave. Curled on her
pile of hay, leaning against the cold stone wall, she could hear flat, inhuman
voices.
‘Leader, there are no further signs of fleshman activity,’ one said. ‘Data
suggests any survivors from the ship must have moved on some time ago.’
‘Or they have perished,’ concluded a deeper voice. ‘Fleshkind is weak. They
may not have reached this far to start with.’ A pause. ‘Contact Cyber Control.
Inform them that the northern continent is free of Canisian refugees and all ships
may land with impunity.’
‘Yes, Leader.’
Neither said anything after that. After awhile, the Cybermen left, and the three
fugitives were alone again.
She chewed slowly on the front parts of a rabbit and watched her two unwelcome
companions.
Dillion had finally gotten the Doctor out of his old-fashioned velvet shell and
was trying to clean his wounds. It was taking a long time, and the pale skin was
streaked with fresh red. The Doctor made no protest bar snapping at Dillion when
the Canisian prattled to keep his attention. The work continued as well as it
could. She tried not to think of her wounds, which had known no concerned hand
save her own, and looked away.
They have been together for a long time, she thought, feeling a vague pang
that she could not define.
After awhile, the Doctor slept. Dillion started work on the ruins of the frock coat
as far from her as possible, but from the tension in his pose, she knew he felt her
watching. He looked at the clear plastic disc he’d found the other day, and the

very old image fixed in its centre. A creature like the winged humanoid behind
him, but male with a skin slightly more lavender-coloured.
‘So,’ he said at last, ‘if you don’t mind me asking, who’s this?’
‘He was someone I knew once, when I was very young,’ she sighed, pulling her
knees to her chest and wrapping her wings around herself. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she
said tiredly, wishing the conversation over. ‘He’s long gone now.’
‘You... loved him, then?’
‘Once.’ She glanced down at him, eyes narrowing. ‘Shut up, Dillion.’
Dillion grinned, and after that obeyed her desire for privacy and silence.
The Doctor had fallen into a coma for two days and two nights. She had given
him up for dead, and despite his protests, she knew Dillion was starting to agree
with her. The second night, his body had grown so cold that frost formed in his
curly hair and beard, even when they had lain his body right beside the fire.
She expected him dead by morning.
Dillion expected him dead by morning.
They were both to be surprised.
By morning, he was awake and talking -- talking far more than she had heard
before, more even than Dillion. The coma had been some kind of trick, to allow
him to heal faster, repair the damage the Cybermen had inflicted. But for all his
boasts, he walked with short, halting steps and grew tired rapidly. Dillion was
reassured and they both spent hours coming up with plans to escape the moon
and return to Canis. All the plans were ultimately useless, and she didn’t have to
remind them of the fact.
Until the Canisians returned to rescue them, this planet was their home.
Now all three were well enough to be abroad now, they all hunted at twilight.
They had all been growing restless, holed in the small cave, and so all three
ventured forth at the earliest opportunity -- after all, there had been no sign of the
Cybermen for days. It appeared that their enemies, for the time being, had given
up on anything except regrouping their forces.
So when they stumbled into a phalanx of Cybermen forced to walk through
the woods when their hover transporter broke down, it was just plain bad luck.
There were thirteen of the Cybermen, all in full working order, all armed.
With no weapons, their prey had the choice of surrendering and living long
enough to be converted, or resisting and dying. The Doctor stood his ground and,
once he’d established there was nowhere to run, Dillion raised his hands.
But their companion did not, for she was furious beyond all reason. She had
hidden from the Cybermen, from the humans with whom she had fought so long
and finally lost. She had fled them, avoided them, hated them in silence. But they
would not take this last, squalid cave from her!
The Cyber Lieutenant stalked them from behind from behind, and she lunged
and clawed for the faceplate, as she had long ago when she first met the Doctor
and Dillion. But, in doing this, she had put herself in range of another Cyberman
who calmly raised its rifle.

It shot her in the back, between the wings, at point blank range. She crumpled
without a sound, taking the damaged Lieutenant down with her.
‘No!’ Dillion cried, and moved to help, but the Doctor’s arm shot out and
grabbed his shoulder, keeping him in place.
‘There’s nothing we can do for her now.’
‘There must be!’
‘Getting ourselves killed won’t bring her back, Dillion,’ the Doctor told him
with brutal honesty.
The remaining twelve Cybermen formed a ring around the duo, each one
aiming their sonic pulse blasters at them.
‘It is useless to resist,’ said the next-senior Cyberman. ‘You will become like us.’
Dillion looked at the wall of gleaming silver shapes and realized he had
absolutely no idea what to do now. They had lost their only ally and only refuge,
they were surrounded and outgunned. ‘Doctor...?’ he asked hopefully.
‘I don’t wish to sound pessimistic,’ sighed the Time Lord. ‘But, under the
circumstances, I think we’re out of options...’
The Cybermen suddenly, in unison, turned on the spot and faced west. The
ones behind the Doctor and Dillion kept their weapons trained on the prisoners,
but even their helmeted heads were facing that direction.
Finally the source of the distraction became apparent as a mechanical whine
filled the air. The Cybermen’s sensitive audio systems had picked the noise up
long before it reached the ears of their captives.
A vessel swooped out of the sky -- not a Cyberman hover, nor a Canisian
shuttle. It was pitch black, understated and deadly-looking. Dillion immediately
took a liking to the vehicle. His appreciation of the craft shot upwards when it
sent out a pulse of crackling blue energy that shorted out the subsystems of every
Cyberman present, and the silver giants toppled and crashed to the ground,
hydraulic limbs spasming as they died. The vehicle landed easily at the edge of
the clearing by the time the last Cyberman stopped twitching.
‘That was lucky,’ breathed Dillion.
The Doctor watched the air settle around the vehicle. ‘I was born lucky,’ he
told his former companion.
A hatch opened in the craft and a creature emerged, as the same species as the
fallen female at their side. It was to her he flew with two beats of his wings,
barely wasting a glance on either time travelers as he landed at her side. ‘It’s true,’
the newcomer whispered, reaching down to scoop the limp-winged form from the
dust. ‘I finally caught up with you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dillion said, looking sadly at her thin, still form.
‘She saved our lives,’ the Doctor said quietly. ‘Was she a friend of yours?’
Dillion was about to reproach the Time Lord -- but then he remembered that
the Doctor never saw the photo she had spoken about.
The newcomer did not take his eyes off her, a very faint smile touched his lips.
‘We were. A long time ago.’
‘She said she was the last of her kind.’

‘She says many things. We have a colony to the South, but she clearly did not
know of it. Since the battle, we have encountered some of your fellow Canisians.
Their technology is enough to detect life forms on the other side of the world.
When you left your cave, we detected you and I came at once.’
The female in his arms stirred and Dillion gasped. She looked up and
struggled weakly, narrowing her eyes when she saw who held her. ‘You,’ she
hissed, but there was resignation in her tone as well as anger.
‘Aye,’ the male sighed. ‘Look what you’ve done to yourself.’
‘Let me be. I’m so tired,’ she sighed, beginning to lose consciousness. ‘Sick of
running...’
She went limp, her head falling against his shoulder. He walked to the aircraft
and placed her almost tenderly in the cockpit, wrapping her wings carefully
around her. Without a word, he turned and walked towards the Doctor and
Dillion. ‘You are welcome to come with us,’ he told them. ‘We are helping your
fellows regroup after the battle.’
‘I got the impression humans weren’t that popular with your people,’ said
Dillion carefully. The stress of the last month of so meant he was unwilling to take
anything at face value, especially when his life was at stake.
‘Time has passed. We are stronger together than apart, and neither of us can
finish off the Cybermen alone.’
The Doctor smiled. ‘Cooperation. It’s what I like to hear.’
The creature gave the fugitives a measuring look. ‘Speaking of cooperation...
you didn’t harm her, and she let you share her hiding place. That is something of
a rarity.’
‘She’s a nice... girl,’ said Dillion brightly. ‘I don’t suppose you could give us a
lift back to Canis?’
The creature nodded. ‘All things are possible. Come on, then.’
The Doctor watched the stranger’s retreating back and then followed him.
‘Like I always say, Dillion,’ he sighed. ‘It’s always darkest before the dawn.’
‘Excuse me? Your actual words were ‘‘under the circumstances, I think we’re
out of options’’.’
‘A mere detail.’
‘You thought we were finished!’ protested Dillion as they prepared to enter the
ship. ‘And you were completely wrong!’
‘And you’re complaining?’ the Doctor mocked, arching a bushy eyebrow.
‘...well... yes. Maybe I am!’
As the hatches closed and the craft prepared to lift off, the Doctor shook his
head of unruly curls and considered countless dry and witty ripostes before finally
settling on the traditional:
‘Shut up, Dillion.’

Acceptable Casualties
This adventure takes place before The The The The Ultimate Ultimate Ultimate Ultimate Weapon Weapon Weapon Weapon
Many years later, as he faced the mockery of an ancient prisoner with godlike
abilities, Commander Mark Triyad remembered the first time he had faced death
-- a memory of both horror and shame he was always reluctant to think about, yet
even more reluctant to ever forget...
For soldiers, the call to duty could override all desire -- whether that desire was to
sleep or eat. Rest was snatched in intervals between battles and taken fully
clothed or even in boots; clothes were changed only when time allowed, and day
after day of fear and tension lead to every crewman developing a rank body odor
that eventually became easier to identify than face or name.
The temperature and humidity regulation had long since failed, but since the
other life support systems continued to function, repairs were a low priority -- and
thus the stifling air of Star Cruiser Destiny had settled around blood temperature.
Some of the crew were already accustomed to sweltering in such conditions, with
sweat dripping into their eyes, consciously forcing themselves to keep breathing
and wasting no energy on speech or communication.
And Ensign Mark Triyad was not one of those lucky few.
At 17 years of age, Mark was one of the youngest crewmembers aboard the
Destiny, signing up not out of pride, hatred of the enemy or belief that this was
the only way to preserve the democratic civilizations of 2347. He joined the Star
Fleet because he was penniless, homeless and his girlfriend had rescinded the
‘‘friend’’ part and was determined to go as far as changing planet in order to avoid
him. With no family or friends, Mark was left with either a choice of dying in the
gutters of Outpost VIII or signing up into the military. Some might have said that
discipline and exercise could have made a better individual out of the feckless
youth, but the fact was that -- had Mark known about how harsh life in the service
was, or the chances of being conscripted to the front line -- then that slow demise
on the streets would have become very tempting indeed.
The Zylon War had already been underway for a decade, and thanks to the
expert media manipulation of the United Federation of Planets, the citizens of the
galaxy assumed it was a minor (albeit protracted) conflict that was no real danger
either to them or the brave troopers in the Spicer Quadrant. Mark found the true
nature and scale of the Zylon threat shortly after he joined Star Fleet, and
immediately made it his number one priority to avoid getting dragged into the
war effort at any cost.
Typically, he was immediately conscripted to join the front line.
On the journey to the Spicer Quadrant, Mark had sat in the shuttle with his
crude haircut and itchy red uniform, thoroughly and comprehensively cursing
every possible twist of fate that had lead him here. When he realized the majority

of those incidents were down to his selfishness and stupidity, he turned the
resulting despair into mindless anger -- a trick that had convinced his drill
sergeants that what he lacked in intelligent and combat skill he more than made
up for in passionate determination.
By the time he’d arrived on the Destiny, Mark was convinced that the media
hadn’t played down the threat of the Zylons and they were no real danger to the
Federation. Instead, Mark had come to the conclusion that the Star Cruisers were
obviously cheap, shoddy and useless, built by idiots and staffed by geriatric
morons. The only reason the war had lasted so long was obviously because of
some galactic conspiracy to keep the war going -- so rationing was continued,
martial law could be allowed and mindless patriotism in the Federation could be
legitimately encouraged amongst the civilian population.
Mark could have been court-martialed for treason for such beliefs, but he had
no one to share them with and even he wasn’t stupid enough to say it out aloud to
any of his superiors.
He had barely managed to come aboard the Star Cruiser before it was caught
in a battle that had, so far, lasted twenty-seven long days. It was not the first such
conflict Destiny and her crew had been caught up with, and anyone could tell at a
glance the crew were physically exhausted long past their usual breaking point.
Mark’s breaking point was significantly closer, and after three days of the heat
and humidity, his energy and morale had dropped so low he strongly began to
wonder if dying could be preferable. He dreamt longingly of fatal exposure in the
gutters of Outpost VIII and when he awoke in the stifling heat of the cabin, would
have wept if his body could spare the moisture.
Every day, he expected to finally give up to suffocation or the roasting heat,
and every day he grew disappointed. He could no longer remember having a meal
beyond narco-cide capsules and truly, truly awful coffee. Even his worst enemy on
VIII would have been disconcerted at how dulled and listless Mark had become
during the course of that month. He had no doubt of any kind that the Destiny
would prove his private mausoleum...
At some point, a point Mark honestly could not remember, he’d found himself
promoted to work on the bridge. He had no idea what his rank was, acting or
otherwise, only that he had to take over from a dead woman whose whale-like
corpse was still dumped in the corner of the deck. Sitting at one of the forward
consoles facing the huge holographic screen that covered the front wall, Mark
struggled to keep track of the signals.
He had little or no training for this situation, but it was simple enough in
theory -- if he saw something, he shouted it out and let other people work out the
plan. He’d long since stopped caring if they made the wrong decision and the
Destiny was blown into atoms. Mark Triyad no longer cared if he lived or died, his
consciousness consumed by his eyes prickling in his sleep-deprived skull.
How could death be any worse than this?
As Mark stared at the output scanners he realized he’d been studying them so
long he had lost any and all understanding what he was looking for. He couldn’t

tell if there were any signals registering, just the brutal truth that he had to keep
looking. Dragging a damp sleeve over his eyes to wipe away the sweat, Mark’s
brain finally seemed to tick over and he realized the displays were showing
something out there, and very close.
It must have just appeared. Or had it been there for ages?
‘Admiral,’ he croaked, struggling to keep his gaze focused. ‘I’ve got something
-- 029 by 330, range twenty thousand?’
‘What?’ shouted the weaponry officer, moving to her own readouts. ‘That’s
right on top of us! We’ll draw parallel in thirty seconds!’
Mark ignored the accusation in her voice and peered groggily down at the
unknown signature. He finally remembered that the main computers were still
offline, so he would have to tune them in manually, a dangerously timeconsuming
practice. Just what had he detected? Before he could do anything to
find out, it diminished to nothing as the Destiny hurtled away at Warp Eighteen.
The Admiral whose name Mark had never bothered to learn slapped his hand
down on the ensign’s console, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the tousle-haired youth
in the sweat-soaked uniform. ‘We were lucky this time,’ he snarled. ‘But we
wouldn’t have needed luck if you had been doing your frakking job properly!’
Mark had a lovely moment where he imagined grabbing the Admiral’s fat neck
and smashing his head against the deck plate. In fact, had he had the energy, it
probably wouldn’t have been confined to his imagination. He bet the Admiral
would have squealed too; a bully unable to understand the idea of his victims
actually fighting back...
‘That,’ said Mark, voice slurred from fatigue, ‘is because this isn’t my frakking
job in the first place. It’s her’s,’ he said, swinging an arm towards the stiffening
body of the navigator. ‘Except she’s dead. And that’s because you, Admiral, aren’t
doing a better frakking job than me. Why don’t you take over the scanners if
they’re so important?’
The Admiral was a coiled, tense spring spoiling for a fight, but he recognized
the feral look in the new recruit’s eyes. He was also old and experienced enough
to know that there was never time to discipline insubordination on the battlefield.
Much as he would have dearly wished to throw Triyad in the brig or phaser him
there and then, it wasn’t possible.
But once they were safely out of the Spicer Quadrant...
The old man might as well have been telling Mark this, so obvious were the
emotions crossing his fat, leathery face. He was trying so hard to stay composed
and collected, but the edge in his voice, the swearing... he was ready to break.
In an exhausted, perverse bit of sadism, Mark wanted to see their beloved
leader crack. Just for the hell of it.
The Admiral threw himself back into his chair in the middle of the flight deck,
gripping the armrests tightly, the veins bulging on his hands and temples. ‘Drop
speed to warp one,’ he ordered, voice croaking with tension.
Mark laughed. The slower any ship moved, the more viable a target it became.
And the way the Destiny was going, it would soon be a sitting duck, waiting to be
vaporized. Of course, since hardly any detectors were working, it didn’t matter

what speed they went at -- they could be ambushed as easily as they could crash
into their own side or any number of the derelict cruisers drifting aimlessly across
the Spicer Quadrant.
Between that and the energy reverses being drained to the main blasters or the
force shields, there was none left for auto-repair. The damage done to the Destiny
was spreading, unchecked. Mark’s shoulder trembled with mirth -- even a knownothing
grunt like him could see how deep in the frelbecarb they all were, but the
high-and-mighty Admiral was in complete denial!
Mark wondered if their leader would admit the truth before they all died?
‘Admiral, I’ve got a contact! Some kind of support vessel or transport!’
‘Time to intercept?’
‘Seven point three centons.’
‘Jam the detectors. Prepare to engage.’
‘We’re in range.’
‘Fire!’
‘Damage?’
‘How the frak do I know?’
‘Fire again, continuous beam!’
‘We haven’t got the power!’
‘For frak’s sake, just do it!’
Another contact, another skirmish, another life-or-death battle with the Zylons.
Mark could have had his argument with his superior minutes, days or even years
ago. Time had wandered off, unnoticed, and the young ensign found himself
caught up more and more in trying to judge how hysterical the other officers were
getting. The heat and smell from the bodies wasn’t helping either. After a whole
month of this, it had to be said they’d endured it surprisingly well.
But now they had reached their limit.
Across the Star Cruiser, eyelids were drooping. The weapons officer was
nodding off. The communications expert had passed out a while ago. Others were
unconscious or dead, Mark genuinely couldn’t tell which. But there wasn’t a living
being on the flight deck that the Admiral hadn’t come to blows with. Even the
ship itself was on the verge of a total systems shut down.
By now, the Destiny was alone once again, drifting its way through the
blackness, somehow having escaped the Zylon War without even trying. There
were no contacts, nothing on the detectors. Just blackness.
For the briefest of brief moments, Mark was relaxed enough to close his eyes --
he’d have double-vision for about the last eight hours, and was confused which
Star Cruiser he actually belonged to...
‘Vinnitch?’ barked the Admiral, cutting into the ensign’s thoughts.
The weaponry officer rubbed her tired eyes. ‘Still no signal from the rest of the
fleet,’ she reported wearily.
‘Maybe they don’t exist any more,’ Mark muttered thickly.

‘Thank you for that, ensign,’ snapped the Admiral. ‘If so, it means we dare not
make for the rendezvous if the Zylons are waiting...’
‘Admiral,’ called a technician. ‘We are being scanned!’
‘What’s the source?’ the Admiral demanded, almost screaming the question.
‘A ship,’ Vinnitch replied. ‘At extreme range, but on an intercept course...’
‘Put it on screen,’ their far-from-beloved leader ordered.
After a moment, Mark realized he was the one that was being told what to do
and punched up the optical systems. The massive wall-screen changed from a
starscape to a different display, showing a spacecraft unlike anything Mark had
ever seen before. He didn’t wait for the command to magnify the image.
It was a central sphere made of a dark grey metal, dimpled like the surface of
a gigantic golf-ball and surrounded by what looked like colossal, spindly claws.
The starlight reflected the surfaces until the globe-like craft seemed to be
encrusted with diamonds. It was at least twice the size of the Destiny.
‘Full scan,’ ordered the Admiral. ‘Go to Yellow Alert, but keep the shields
down. We don’t want to appear provocative...’
No, of course not, thought Mark sourly. After all, it’s not like we’re in a war
zone or anything, is it?
‘Open hailing frequencies,’ the Admiral barked. ‘This is Admiral Klye Penerston
of the Star Cruiser Destiny. Please respond.’
Silence.
‘We mean you no harm. Can you understand me?’
The spherical ship drew closer, filling the screen.
The Admiral was still confident. ‘If they’re not Zylon, then they’re on our side!’
The Admiral was wrong.
A few moments later, a report came from the docking bay. Even though the
alien ship was nowhere near close enough to lock on to the Destiny, intruders
were found near all the shuttle craft. Mark, unbidden, adjusted the viewing
opticals to focus on events unfolding in the docking bay, struggling to shake some
life back into his head.
Even with a first-contact, he felt like he might pass out at any moment.
The wall-screen showed dozens (if not hundreds) of soldiers standing in the
hangar. They were all identical in size and shape, dressed in dark blue armor,
heads covered with wide dome-like helmets and heavy black rifles cradled in their
arms -- dimly Mark noted their gloved hands only had three digits apiece.
Lieutenant-Command Randwick was there with a few other crewmen who
happened to be in the docking bay when the intruders appeared. Mark’s comrades
were a pathetic sight -- gaunt, hollow-eyed, unshaven, blinking sleepily and
propped up by a battlefield of body chemistry. Which reminded the ensign to take
another narco-cide capsule.
‘On behalf of the United Federation of Planets,’ Randwick was gasping in an
unsteady voice, ‘we welcome you to our territories...’
‘Your territories?’ a strangely accented voice mocked from inside one of the
soldier’s helmets. It was impossible to tell which one had spoken. ‘You are not

worthy of claiming them! When the time comes to take it from you, we will do it
in open battle... Fire!’
The front row of the troopers lifted their weapons in one swift move, and
suddenly the hangar was lit up crimson with the flare of a dozen laser beams.
Blood-red bolts of light cut across the bay in a sweeping arc, massacring Randwick
and the others in an instant.
‘No!’ someone shouted, their cry lost under a sudden red alert siren.
On the view-screen, the blue-armored troopers were marching in formation
through the arched doorway into the rest of the ship. A soldier at the back turned
and aimed the gun directly at the security camera, so it appeared to be aiming
right between the Admiral’s eyes. There was a brief flash of red and then the wall
turned to static.
There was an explosion nearby, and through the internal door there was the
sound of laser-fire and screams. Mark grunted in confusion -- the docking bay was
four levels below. There was no way that the troopers could move that fast...
‘Admiral,’ called a technician, ‘more intruders arriving in the engine room!
Engineer Robespierre is under heavy fire...’
‘We’re being invaded!’ shouted the Admiral at the top of his voice, never
having been one afraid to state the obvious.
There was another explosion and the wall-screen of static went black.
‘We have lost internal communications,’ reported the technician in a tight
voice. ‘External sensors show another three alien craft on intercept course...’
Mark made his mind up and got to his feet. ‘We’re finished,’ he announced.
‘It’s every man for himself now!’
The technician needed no further bidding and sprinted for the lift at the rear
of the flight deck. The Admiral seemed halfway between a groggy daze and
apoplectic rage. ‘We shall remain here and do our duty!’
The lift door opened and a volley of red laser blasts flew out. Impaled, the
technician was flung back across the flight deck, over the railing and crashed into
the lower gallery -- dead before he touched the floor. Mark sprinted for the
internal exit, ducking low and ensuring whatever was in the turbo-lift did not
have a chance to shoot him.
The ensign skidded to a halt in the corridor, trying to work out which way
would be the quicker to the evacuation level where 350 life capsules and escape
pods stood ready for immediate use. Already, Mark was uncertain if that would
do any good -- they were days’ travel from any habitable planet, and their
assailants might destroy the fleeing crew...
He was dragged back to the present as he heard Vinnitch and the Admiral
emerging into the corridor, in the middle of a blazing argument. Talk about a
time and a place!
‘We have to abandon Destiny! We need to get to the life pods!’
‘A captain never leaves his vessel,’ the Admiral snarled back at her.
‘Oh, and you were always one to follow tradition,’ Vinnitch sneered
sarcastically. Was it Mark’s imagination, or was the pitch of her voice rapidly
becoming deeper, more grating?

Suddenly, the corridor was filled by an electric flash. Mark glanced towards
the source of the glow, and saw it seemed to be coming from Vinnitch herself.
Even as he tried to peer through the sickly glow, he could see the weaponry
officer melting, warping, changing into a shapeless mass of translucent green
jelly, shot through with pulsing white veins. Hairy white fronds floated from its
body, like a beard made of seaweed dangling below a shapeless orifice that could
have been called a mouth.
‘This way Admiral Penerstan can both live to fight another day,’ the shapeless
glowing thing announced, ‘and also go down with his ship.’
A glowing tentacle whipped up and wrapped around the neck dumbfounded
Admiral Penerstan, and energy crackled across the alien’s skin. The Admiral went
rigid, back arched, mouth distorted in a silent scream. Blue sparks flashed and
arced round his uniformed body. The crackling grew louder in time with the
flaming lightening, and then he crumpled heavily to the deck.
He was quite dead.
The glowing shape hovering over the body let out a shrill alien howl. ‘And no
one will ever suspect!’ it screamed triumphantly.
Mark pleaded to any passing deity that this monster wouldn’t notice him.
His prayers went unanswered.
Crackling and gurgling, the green spherical beast swiveled its multifaceted
eyes to focus on the ensign further down the corridor. Its fronds and tendrils
coiled and thrashed in sudden anger, and Mark knew there was nothing he could
do to stop it from killing him there and then.
Just then, a squad of short, burly figures strode around the corner in blue,
armored spacesuits carrying large black weapons. ‘There! Target is located!’
barked the leader from within its large, rounded helmet. ‘Activate the dampeners!’
The green glob thing let out a shrill cry, and spun to face its new enemy, but it
was too late. The invaders were already aiming their weapons at the glowing
mass, and suddenly flickering purple light exploded from the barrels, engulfing
the Admiral’s murderer. It screeched and then swayed, as if groggy. The endless
purple flashes seemed to sap its strength, and it sank slowly to the deck.
‘You are helpless, Rutan!’ the leader boomed. ‘Your energy fields are cancelled
out. Your telepathic links, your electrical conductivity, all are neutralized! The rest
of your kind cannot even hear your pleas for assistance! You are blinded, you are
deafened and you are muted!’
The troopers nevertheless continued to fire their dampeners straight at the
monster, which was quivering as though enraged. Its green-white glow was
dimming rapidly, and the pulsations of its internal organs grew weaker and
weaker. ‘You malignant upstarts!’ the creature roared, but its harsh voice sounded
strained and thinner than before.
‘We are the victors!’ the leader of the invaders shouted, as all the while purple
flashes continued to bombard the helpless creature. ‘In battle and in glory!’
‘You are genetically-degenerate space trolls! You dare challenge... the might...
of the Rutan... Empire?’ Its voice was barely a feeble whisper now. ‘We... will...
render... all of you... ex... tinct...’

For a moment the jelly-like mass glowed a little brighter, before the glow
dissipated completely. Its crackling body fell silent at last. The invaders continued
to fire their weapons at the lifeless blob for a long time.
Finally, they ceased firing and the corridor seemed to be plunged into
darkness. Mark blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his eyesight. Dimly, he could
make out the invaders standing around the blob and the corpse of the Admiral.
The leader of the troopers thumped a fist against his palm. ‘Sontar-ha!’ he roared.
Mark could hear the rest of the troopers chanting as well, like some crude,
primitive war dance. It was something to be expected from uncivilized barbarians
rather than a technologically-sophisticated combat force, but it was nonetheless
an intimidating sound...
‘Sontar-ha! Sontar-ha! Sontar-ha!’
The ensign turned and ran for his life down the corridor.
The whole of Star Cruiser Destiny had turned into a rabbit warren of whooping
alarms and lumbering troopers shooting everything that moved. In the distance,
Mark could hear explosions but he couldn’t be sure if they were the result of
grenades or the invaders’ ship opening fire on the Star Cruiser. Was the ship going
to fall apart around him?
As he fled down another corridor, the ensign wondered why the troopers were
continuing the slaughter even though they had the thing they were hunting...
unless there were other body-snatchers like Vinnitch aboard? Perhaps the only
way to be sure was to kill every living thing aboard the ship? It was not a
comforting thought...
The narrow passage reached a major thoroughfare in the bowels of the
Destiny. And the dome-headed troopers were already there, firing their blasters at
the retreating crew. Mark didn’t even stay to watch, but fled back up the
passageway. The sound of panic and phaser-discharge followed him, mingling
with the screams of doomed crewmen with nowhere to go and the thud of bodies
striking the deck. Like every other battle with these ‘‘space trolls’’, it would be over
very quickly and not a single invader would fall.
Unfortunately, the corridor he was returning to was now another battle zone.
The squad that had defeated the green blob were now caught by one of the few
surviving security teams. Mark’s spirits rose as the leader let off her phaser and
one of the troopers was brought down by the impact. But the ensign could see the
invader was not dead, or even seriously wounded, and was already struggling to
its booted feet. It had lost its rifle, but instead simply grabbed the nearest
crewmember from behind and deftly snapped their neck with its three-fingered
hands. More blue-helmeted troopers appeared behind the security team, already
firing their weaponry. Mark dragged his gaze from the growing piles of dead
fellow crewmen heaped along the corridor.
The ensign retreated down the passage once more, even though there seemed
to be a pitched battle at either end. Soon the invaders would run out of people to
kill and focus their attention onto him, and Mark wasn’t even armed -- but
somehow he doubted the troopers cared much if he had a fighting chance...

Halfway down the passageway he bit down a cheer as he discovered a turbolift
he had completely failed to notice the last two times he’d passed it. Wasting no
time he stabbed the door control and dived into the cylindrical elevator. The
doors slid shut and the ensign shouted at the ceiling, ‘Evacuation Point!’
The lift hissed into action and moments later the doors were opening once
again. Mark ran through and skidded to a halt.
The invaders had gotten there first. Bodies lay scattered like autumn leaves,
not one of them having managed to reach a life pod. There was no cover and the
fleeing crew had been mercilessly shot down before they could even sound the
alarm. It left a silence that was thick and oppressive. There didn’t seem to be any
of the killers around, but did it matter? A sole escape capsule would easily be
targeted -- if not by these troll-like soldiers than any passing Zylon warship...
The exhaustion and shock was starting to catch up with him, and Mark found
himself strangely compelled to check the bodies for anyone he actually knew.
Some lingering hint of self-preservation screamed at him to run, and he stumbled
towards the nearest capsule -- only for a helmeted shape to stomp around a
corner, a long thin device in its hand pointing straight at the young recruit.
Mark ducked and weaved, and somehow managed to avoid the streaks of red
laser fire. He could hear the heavy tread of invaders’ boots and knew more of the
troopers were closing in to finish off the last survivors. Snatching up a phaser
from where some dead Klingon had dropped it, Mark threw himself through the
still-open lift doors.
‘Engine room!’ the ensign shouted, and the doors closed just before the
helmeted trooper could fire again. The lift sighed into action, dropping away from
the evacuation level and the troopers -- but there seemed to be thousands of them.
There was no guarantee that they wouldn’t be swarming around the warp engines
as well, just waiting to blow him away the moment he stepped outside.
Mark had considered that and had only one chance.
He lifted the phaser and aimed it at the control panel. He had absolutely no
idea what would happen if he destroyed the turbo-lift mechanisms. At best, he’d
be jammed between floors and effectively out of reach from the invaders. At
worst, the lift would plunge out of control at such speed Ensign Mark Triyad
would be liquefied long before it crashed into the bottom of the shaft. And even if
his plan worked, Mark had no idea what to do next.
But then, the basic plan was simply to stay alive.
Anything else was unnecessary detail.
Mark fired.
An hour or so later, Ensign Mark Triyad was still alive and, if not well, doing a
frak’s side better than anyone else aboard the Destiny. For a centon he was certain
he was doomed as the lights cut out and the lift began to plummet out of control,
but the emergency systems had managed to kick in automatically and halt the
lift’s decent -- albeit with enough force to stunt a man’s growth.
Ever since then, Mark had been lying on the floor, too exhausted to move,
listening to the faint background sigh of the environmental systems. Sometimes

he thought he heard people screaming, or the stomping of boots, or the faint
crackling of electrical monsters.
Several times he’d blacked out, succumbing to twenty-eight days of life-ordeath
tension and stress. Yet the rest didn’t seem to do him any good at all -- if
anything, he felt worse than ever: every limb was stiff and aching, every muscle
trembled uncontrollably, his hair felt like he’d bathed his head in ant’s nest and
his sweat-soaked uniform seemed rough as sandpaper against his skin. All his
periods of unconsciousness had done was leave him with a stronger, pounding
headache that made his tired body ache all the more. Just opening his eyes was
enough to make him reel.
Suddenly, the lift cabin was illuminated with a flash of light. Blue, purple and
white mingled and combined in the blink of an eye to form a broad, squat shape
with a domed head and a powerful side-arm. Mark dimly remembered that the
invaders had their own translocation technology; no wonder they had spread
across the Destiny so quickly -- they beamed into an area, slaughtered everyone,
and beamed out again...
And now it was his turn to die.
The trooper aimed the blaster down at Mark. ‘You spineless worm!’ it barked
after a moment. ‘You do not face a death in battle with your brother warriors, but
hide away while they steep themselves in the glory of combat!’
Mark stared down the barrel, waiting for the red flash to end his life.
None came.
‘Are you going to kill me?’ he croaked, his mouth dry.
‘Only if you do not follow orders,’ the trooper warned grandly. ‘On your feet.’
Despite his weariness, Mark found the energy to scramble upright, even
though the lift seemed to spin around him sickeningly and he nearly feel. One
gloved claw clamped down on his shoulder to steady him.
‘You are the last survivor of this vessel,’ the creature warned. ‘Our
commanding officer, Group Marshall Starg, wishes to interrogate you, human.
And you will treat him with deference or be eliminated immediately!’
So, they wanted him alive. For now.
The knowledge stoked Mark’s natural rebellious instinct. ‘Then stop wasting
time showing off and take me to your leader. I want the boss, not a functionary.’
The domed, helmeted head loomed closer. Mark could just make out burning
red eyes behind the half-moon eye-slits. For a centon, he thought the trooper
would shoot him there and then, but then there was the howl of teleportation
transfer and the gagging metallic stench of zanium.
Around them, the crippled lift fell away in a blur of light, to be replaced by the
familiar outlines of the flight deck. The corpses had all been neatly arranged on
the port-side rampart and troopers were moving around the upper gallery,
adjusting control panels. Troopers sat at the forward positions, and Mark felt odd
seeing a blue-armored space troll taking his seat and working at the controls. The
late Admiral’s chair was filled by another of the invaders, though this one had
military symbols on its neck-collar, and held a wand-like baton in one hand. Mark
could tell at a glance that this was a superior officer.

The trooper shoved Mark down the right-hand rampart to the lower deck,
throwing the ensign forward so he ended up on his knees right in front of the
Admiral’s chair and, more importantly, the thing occupying it.
Mark peered across the alien leader. The creature’s small stature and sitting
position meant that the ensign, even on his knees, could look the leader of the
troopers right in the slits of its domed blue helmet.
A long pause.
There was a mechanical hiss as the commander of the aliens carefully lifted up
his helmet, revealing his features. Mark found himself thinking of a rotten apple,
muddy brown in color, cut in half to form a hairless dome the same shape at the
blue helmet the invader had been wearing. A hideous, bald, egg-shaped skull with
piggy little eyes squinting out from either side of a large nose, and its slit-like
mouth had its lips moistened by a small blackened tongue.
Did they all look like that? Mark wondered. Had Star Fleet’s finest been bested
by a race of giant toads?
The Group Marshall placed his helmet down on the arm rest of the command
chair with a heavy thud. ‘I am Group Marshall Starg of the Sontaran Military
Intelligence Service -- known as Starg the Cunning,’ the alien declared in a hoarse,
throaty voice. ‘This vessel is now under Sontaran control.’
Mark wondered if he was supposed to applaud.
The alien soldier studied the human survivor keenly for a moment. ‘To conceal
yourself from a full Sontaran battle brigade shows a strong grasp of military
strategy... even if it were a lamentable show of cowardice.’
Mark was getting annoyed by digs at his survival instincts. How brave would
these ‘‘Sontarans’’ be when they had no advantages like weapons or superior
numbers? He favored the Group Marshall with a frosty smile.
‘Well, sir, you know what they say... A good solider doesn’t die for his ideals,
he makes the enemy die for their beliefs.’
The nightmarish alien wheezed in amusement. ‘Such naiveté,’ he said with a
crooked, evil grin. ‘Now then, to business. You value your life, I take it? Of course
you do. And what would you be prepared to do to keep that life?’
Mark wondered if he was going to be asked to betray his own people, and then
he wondered how he could do such a thing even if he wanted to -- he was a lowlevel
grunt with barely any astronavigation skills and no military experience. He
knew no secrets, no passwords, no people in high places. If they wanted him to
help bring down the Federation, they were going to be disappointed...
But then, was that a bad thing? Let these aliens think he was on first-name
terms with the President of the Galaxy, let them think anything -- just so long as
they let him escape and allowed the professionals to deal with these toad-faced
goblins! ‘Make me an offer,’ Mark said at length. ‘Sir,’ he added for good measure.
Starg waved his baton at the other troopers. ‘My technical specialists are at
work on your flight deck,’ he explained. ‘Even as we speak they are dismantling
your computer’s flight recorder and erasing all the data, and rigging the sensors.
As far as the display systems are concerned, this Star Cruiser has been struck by a

andom ionic reef, causing an intense but very brief burst of lethal radiation. All
aboard the craft perished instantly.’
‘...except me.’
‘Quite.’
Mark swallowed and forced himself to ask the question that could doom him
instantly. ‘Doesn’t that create a flaw in your story?’
Starg’s thin mouth curved into a smile. ‘Not at all, human,’ he said warmly.
‘You will be the sole survivor. You will confirm our story, and ensure no one
suspects the Sontarans have entered the Spicer Quadrant. You can claim you were
outside the ship at the time, doing external maintenance or some such... it makes
no difference. You lived, and we were never here.’
Mark felt giddy with relief. He was going to live! That knowledge allowed
some of his insolence to return. ‘If you don’t want anyone to know of your
presence,’ he retorted, ‘killing three hundred military personnel is a rather strange
way of going about it.’
Starg glanced at the ensign. Mark fancied that, had the Sontaran’s body
allowed, the Group Marshall would have shrugged his shoulders at the idea. ‘A
necessary approach,’ Starg explained, ‘ensuring the Rutan spy did not suspect our
true purpose of capturing it unawares.’
Mark struggled to keep up. ‘The Rutan spy... you mean Vinnitch?’
The Sontaran gave a nod. Without a neck, the whole of his upper body moved
forward as he did so. ‘Yes, a member of the Rutan Horde, the ancient enemy of
the Sontaran Empire. That creature was one of several that have infiltrated your
society, your ‘‘United Federation of Planets’’ as you describe it. They have the
ability to completely control their physical forms. Duplicating the real Vinnitch
would have been the pastime of podlings.’
Child’s play, Mark translated. ‘And the real Vinnitch?’
‘Dead, of course. Even you humans would have noticed two of them...’
‘But why are the Rutans spying on us?’
‘Because the Rutans are losing their futile struggle against us,’ the Sontaran
replied. ‘Their ultimate defeat is a certainty, so they are looking for allies; any
military force that could boost the might of their disorganized rabble. An alliance
with your Federation alone would not be enough to defeat us!’
‘An alliance with the Federation?’ Mark smirked at the idea. ‘You might not
have noticed, sir, but we do sort of have a war of our own to deal with...’
Starg let out a hoarse croak of laughter. ‘War? Against scum like the Zylons?’
he mocked. ‘Even with your primitive technology, annihilating those parasites
would be nothing but sport -- if you had the initiative and determination to make
a sustained assault on their King...’
Mark couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘The Zylons have a King?!’
The Sontaran yawned, a puff of oily smoke from his wide mouth. ‘You know
pathetically little about your own enemies. It is a miracle your feeble species is
still alive. No Sontaran would begin a battle campaign on so little intelligence...’

Despite everything that had happened, Mark found himself sick and tired of
the racism. Somehow it seemed so much more real and annoying than the mass
slaughter the Sontarans had so effectively carried out moments before.
‘Why do you keep comparing us to Sontarans?’ he demanded angrily. ‘We’re
not Sontarans, we’ve never tried to be like Sontarans or do what Sontarans do.
We’re completely different, so there’s no point you telling me every single time
you think you’d do something better, is there?’
For a moment Mark wondered if he’d gone too far, and his hysterical outburst
would merely result in one of the troops shooting him dead there and then.
However, the Group Marshall did not seem to be insulted. In fact, Starg seemed
slightly put out by the question. ‘Perhaps,’ he said at length, ‘we merely have high
standards. But you are correct. You humans cannot quantify the Sontarans, and
there is little point us trying to quantify you. Oh, how awful it must be,’ he tutted,
‘to spend your whole lives groveling like worms weighed down by your fear and
petty greed. You will never know the true joy of a battle against an enemy you
share the frontier with...’
Starg sighed and there was an awkward pause.
Mark tried to break the ice. ‘An enemy that isn’t much of a threat, you said.’
‘Indeed,’ Starg agreed, returning to the matter at hand. ‘The Rutans could
easily destroy the Zylons and ensure the grateful Federation sides with them
against us. They have already duplicated and replaced key members of the upper
echelons of your Star Fleet, to ensure that when the time comes there will be no
objection to an alliance...’
Mark felt faint. The idea of a gang of intergalactic thugs penetrating the Spicer
Quadrant looking for a fight seemed bad enough, but now the whole Federation
had been infiltrated by gooey body-snatchers. That was no straightforward threat
but something massive, something that could tear society apart. He remembered
wondering if the Sontarans were being forced to kill the entire crew, just to be
certain no other Rutans had infiltrated the Destiny. Horrified, Mark could easily
imagined similar massacres, across whole star systems...
The ensign grabbed hold of the one possible hope.
‘And you want to stop them?’ he asked desperately.
Starg stared at him.
‘We have no interest in stopping them,’ he explained slowly, as though having
decided Mark was an idiot and should be treated as such. ‘Your Star Cruisers are
no match for even the most basic Sontaran scout ship. Whether one planet or a
hundred joins the Rutan cause, at the most it will simply prove a delay their total
extinction at our hands. We merely need to be informed of how far their futile
attempts have progressed.’
‘By interrogating Vinnitch? I mean, the thing that looks like Vinnitch?’
‘Correct. And, to ensure that the other Rutans are unaware of this interception,
you will ensure the cover story of a tragic accident wiping out the crew,’ Starg
boomed, emphasizing his words by pointing his baton straight at the human’s
face. The crystalline tip nearly pierced Mark’s cheek. ‘There will be no trace of our
presence here,’ he vowed, ‘and your tale will be the final proof needed.’

‘Only,’ replied Mark cautiously, ‘as long as I stick to your story.’
One of the helmeted Sontarans raised their rifles. ‘Are you saying you wish to
make an enemy of Sontar?’ it demanded angrily, aiming the barrel at the ensign.
‘No!’ Mark yelped, ashamed of his own terror. He tried to sound calmer and
reasonable, but suspected he sounded on the verge of a full-blown hysterical fit.
‘No, just... there’s no guarantee I would say what you want,’ he babbled.
Starg stared at him, unimpressed.
‘Or is there?’ asked Mark anxiously.
‘It is irrelevant,’ replied Starg, sounding bored with the conversation. ‘Tell your
superiors all about this conversation,’ he challenged. ‘There will be no proof to
corroborate your claims, and before any official action could be taken, the other
Rutan agents will no doubt have killed and replaced you. A Rutan wearing your
face will denounce your claims and nothing will change,’ the Group Marshall
predicted confidently.
Part of Mark was screaming at him that this train of thought could only lead to
the Sontaran putting a rheon carbine through his head right there and then.
Nevertheless, he warned, ‘They’d still know about your mission!’
Starg was unconcerned. ‘They would already suspect,’ he said and probably
would have shrugged if his squat body allowed such a gesture. ‘It is of little
consequence. This is the art of strategy, human,’ he jeered. ‘We have allowed you
to live because there is nothing you can do to stop us... or even hamper our plans.
If you die, we lose nothing -- and if you live you will perform a useful service for
us. Therefore, we do not care what you do or why you do it.’
‘There’s still a flaw in your plan,’ Mark pointed out, keeping his voice steady.
The Group Marshall sounded annoyed. ‘Impossible.’
‘If I’m the only survivor and all the others are dead,’ Mark continued carefully,
‘then why has Vinnitch’s body gone missing?’
The hideous thin mouth twisted into a grin. ‘Obviously she was with you
outside the ship when the disaster occurred, and she was sent hurtling into space.
In a war zone, there will no opportunity to check for the body. Captain,’ Starg
added to one of the other Sontarans, ‘ensure one of the humans’ space suits is
removed before departure.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ Mark protested, but his words sounded hollow
and pathetic even to his own ears. He was surprised the Sontarans didn’t instantly
burst out in mocking laughter.
Starg arched a heavy eyebrow. ‘Won’t we?’ he asked dryly. ‘How exactly can
we be stopped? We have the spy, the evidence and all your comrades are dead.
Only you remain. What is your plan, coward? Kill yourself?’
Mark swallowed, but said nothing. He had no intention of taking his life, but
at the same time couldn’t think of any other way to frustrate the Sontarans.
The Group Marshall snorted. ‘Even if you did, the humans will assume it was
suicide, guilt over your being the only survivor. You will be shamed and then
forgotten. Our stratagem will not function at peak efficiency,’ he conceded, ‘but it
will still function. Do what you will. None of it matters now. Or ever will. Major?’
he barked suddenly.

One of the Sontarans stepped forward. ‘Sir?’
‘Prepare to move out.’
The Sontaran did a whole-body nod and strode out of the room.
Starg crossed to the nearest body and plucked the phaser from the dead man’s
belt. He crossed over to Mark and held up the weapon in his gloved three-digit
claw. ‘Here,’ the Sontaran growled, waving the phaser impatiently until Mark took
hold of the weapon.
He briefly considered using the phaser on the Group Marshall’s face, but the
Sontaran seemed to know what the ensign was thinking. ‘Your weapons have no
effect on our armor,’ he reminded Mark. ‘The only thing you can use it on is
yourself. Enjoy your freedom of choice.’
Mark cradled the phaser, trying to ignore the Sontaran’s laughter.
Meanwhile, Group Marshall Starg slid on his domed blue helmet, his eyes
burning behind the gaping half-moon slits. ‘Farewell,’ he added with a sarcastic
croak, then collected his baton, turned and marched off. The other Sontarans
strode off after him, leaving Mark alone with the bodies.
He considered the phaser in his hand a long time.
The noise it made as it clattered to the floor was so loud it hurt his ears.
A few moments later, the Destiny shuddered as the Sontaran vessel detached
itself from the Star Cruiser and hurtled off across the borders of the Spicer
Quadrant, towards the front line of the never-ending Sontaran/Rutan war...
For a long time, Mark didn’t bother to move from the flight deck. After twentyeight
days of exhaustion and terror, he was surprised he hadn’t passed out. But
somehow he wouldn’t let himself the easy, warm escape of unconsciousness.
Instead, the ensign could only numbly reflect at how powerless, how utterly
useless he had been. Even that useless oaf of Admiral would have stood up to the
Sontarans, done some kind of deal, saved their lives, helped the war effort. Done
the right thing.
Done something.
Anything.
But not knelt on the floor in abject cowardice, only living at the casual whim
of some toad-faced monster. The Admiral would have been better than that, more
intelligent, more noble, more... worthy.
Mark Triyad had been the centre of the universe for over fifteen years, but
now there was no part him, body or soul, that thought the only survivor on
Destiny deserved to be alive. Yet he knew there was only one way to make
amends for the slaughter of the others, and that was to make himself worthy of
survival. Become the best Star Fleet Officer, rise through the ranks, do anything
necessary to beat the Zylons, the Rutans, Sontarans and everything else that
threatened the Federation.
Maybe then, Mark Triyad would not be ashamed of being alive.
...maybe.

The Choice
This adventure takes place after The The The The Warlords Warlords Warlords Warlords of of of of Apshai Apshai Apshai Apshai
There is no such thing as a total victory -- and no such thing as a total defeat.
The Master reflected over the conclusion of his latest operation. He had
attained, for a brief time, sole access to a relic of the Apshai Warlords -- an Event
Manipulator, capable of synthesizing and recreating the universe around it with
impunity. No pesky temporal paradoxes or redundant timelines here, nothing but
pure, guilt-free control.
Alas, he had all-too-soon lost control of the Event Manipulator to the Doctor.
His enemy’s first, last and indeed only act was to use the device to erase itself and
every other one of its kind -- ensuring that no one else could gain access to such
godlike abilities. The Doctor, however, was completely unaware of the final
program the Master had implemented before surrendering control of the Event
Manipulator; a program that had completed itself successfully before the Doctor
could be destroyed.
The Event Manipulator had been set to work on the Master’s own timeline,
undoing and reshaping the events of his life. With the Doctor in charge of the
Manipulator, there was the risk he might use it to undo its prior actions, so the
Master had been forced to keep alterations small. Defeats could not become
victories, but certainly their negative effects could be diminished and, in some
cases, even negated.
For example, while the bloody little war he’d arranged in the Antari still
degenerated into pure butchery, it now did so more slowly -- giving the Master
time enough to leave without having to flee after a kitling from the Cheetah
World. And thus, the Master was never exposed to their corrupting influence.
Other changes seemed insignificant, but built up into a chain reaction, a
domino effect that, as his TARDIS dematerialized from the surface of Delta Pyson
V, transformed him completely. No longer was he a stunted half-breed, fused with
the corpse of a long-dead Trakenite. He was a Time Lord once more, a new fresh
body with a brand new cycle of regenerations waiting to be used. He had healed
his mind and body, and -- while he was far from a powerful god -- he was
certainly in better shape than he had been the previous day.
And not just a better shape, a different shape.
The Master stood before the full-length mirror, alternating between
contemplating his reflection and prodding his new cheeks and nose. It had been a
long time since he’d last gone through a normal, healthy regeneration, and even
long since the process had been so... random.
Unlike the Doctor, who allowed his flesh to reform randomly as an emergency
measure to escape certain death, the Master preferred to pick and choose his new
form carefully. This time, however, he was left with the end result of rewriting
time and allowing nature to take its course.

It would take some time to get used to that unfamiliar face. The beard and
moustache he tended to favor were gone more thoroughly than any shaving blade
could have managed, and his hair was longer, almost spiky, and a vibrant red
colour. His face was pinched and the eyes hazel, and he was much shorter than he
normally would have wanted.
He looked like some puckish court jester rather than the dignified, saturnine
figure of authority he normally coveted. But, he wondered, perhaps it was time
for a change? The Doctor had delighted in being reborn in bodies where his
enemies underestimated him and wrote him off as a fool. And choosing the same
body template meant he had to spend a lot of time disguising himself, which had
been fun at first but was now wearying.
No one else in the universe had seen his new body. There could be no better
disguise. And with his mind freed from pain, from wild anger and the encroaching
terror of death, he felt more relaxed and calm than he had for centuries. No
longer was there a ticking clock or a countdown. He could take his time at last.
Yes, he decided, this was a change for the better.
And more changes could be made, starting with his clothes...
In the cloak room of his TARDIS, the Master regarded the demolition he’d carried
out when the Cheetah Virus had become too much one night. The adjustments
he’d made to his own time stream did not affect the TARDIS -- the thirteen
mirrors were all still shattered, and a clock on the wall still had a knife through it,
as if trying to gain an extra hand. The cupboard had been ransacked, their
contents spilling in a collage across the floor. Several times the Master had slipped
on them and nearly fallen over.
He examined one of the few remaining clothes still hanging from a metal
railing, starting with a fuzzy bathrobe. Sighing, he flipped through the rest of the
outfits, looking for something fashionable, unique and above all... different. So,
he could give black clothes a break for a while. They reminded him of funerals
and death, rather than a new life he now had the chance to forge.
Determined to impress no one but himself, the Master soon found a shirt that
fitted his newly-narrowed shoulders, a pale blue lace-up shirt that could have
come from the back of a medieval peasant if it weren’t in such good condition.
Dark blue trousers with a black belt were chosen next, while his feet were soon
tucked in brown, knee-high leather boots. None of the jackets or coats were able
to fit him, so he settled for a brown, studded tunic that lacked any sleeves. Until
he got used to the new red hair, he decided to keep it covered up with a brown,
wide-brimmed fedora.
He rather liked the look -- he resembled a pirate or an adventurer, someone
who was embracing life and using it for their own ends. People would find him
inoffensive, exciting, interesting. It had taken him a while, but he’d finally learned
that turning up somewhere dressed in black and shouting for obedience was not
merely unimaginative but at times rather unproductive.
It was high time new limits were set.

There was a chirping from the control room; an alert that the navigation
systems had finally locked onto the Doctor’s TARDIS. It felt like a lifetime since
they’d last spoken on Delta Pyson V, but it wasn’t even a few hours. And the new
Master had something to tell his oldest foe.
Emerging from the wardrobe section into the control room, it struck the
Master that he wasn’t sure if he liked the design any more. The cold steel walls,
the old retro layout of the consoles, the roundels and the time rotor glowing an
eerie green, that hatstand in the corner with the horn-shaped hooks... He’d
changed his face, his clothes. Perhaps his surroundings needed adjusting as well?
Only the dome in the ceiling, allowing a filtered view of the Time Vortex, met
with his instant approval -- it gave him a chance to see where he was going, where
he was and where he had been simultaneously, in colours so many minds could
not perceive... a privileged insight for him and him alone.
The Master crossed to the console and activating the communications
network. A curve-edged rectangle of light formed on an otherwise blank metal all
before him. Through it he could see a man with long auburn-coloured hair and a
rather shabby tuxedo leaning against his own, slightly more primitive TARDIS
console, arms folded like a weary teacher waiting for a pupil’s unbelievable excuse
for missing homework.
The Doctor recognized the new Master instantly, of course, and if the Doctor
was surprised or even interested in the new appearance of his best enemy, he
didn’t show it.
‘Greetings, Doctor,’ said the Master warmly, noticing how his voice was no
longer as rich and deep as it had once been.
On the screen, the Doctor let out a sigh of resignation. ‘I was wondering if
you’d reached your TARDIS in time... so to speak,’ he admitted.
The Master tutted. ‘You should know by now that I’m indestructible.’
The other Time Lord looked too tired to be interested in the usual clichés and
banter. ‘If you insist,’ he said wearily. ‘So what do you want now?’
The Master looked his old enemy right into the eyes. ‘I believe I owe you an
apology, Doctor,’ he said, before laughing. ‘I should have said this sooner -- the
look on your face is priceless!’ he grinned.
The Doctor didn’t smile. ‘What brought on this sudden change of heart?’ he
asked with a note of not-unreasonable suspicion in his fluting voice.
‘Yours,’ the Master replied simply. He remembered their last confrontation,
where he’d accused the Doctor of taking over the Event Manipulator entirely for
selfish reasons instead of nobly trying to keep it out of the wrong hands. The
Master wouldn’t have surprised for the Doctor to destroy it in other
circumstances, but this time there was no catch, no danger. Nothing and no-one
could have prevented the Doctor from doing precisely what he wanted with the
power of the Apshai.
And he’d destroyed the Manipulator anyway.
‘I never truly believed,’ the Master began awkwardly, then broke off. An
apology was one thing, but admitting weakness to the Doctor was too much. ‘I’ve
seen you reject power, but never power on your own terms,’ he concluded.

The Doctor nodded in understanding. ‘That is the difference between us,’ he
reminded the Master quietly. ‘I don’t need it any more.’
‘Yes, I see that now,’ the Master conceded. ‘We truly follow two different
paths. However,’ he continued with the traditional death threat without which
both would have felt awkward, ‘if you interfere in my affairs in the future, I will
kill you... ‘‘old friend’’.’
The Doctor looked out of the scanner with an unafraid, contemptuous
expression, his hand reaching out to twist a dial on his own control console.
Immediately the screen melted away to become another patch of wall, the
connection broken.
The Master refused to feel annoyed as he returned his own controls. His
former friend’s ego was already unhealthily large, and every time they crossed
paths the Doctor’s self-importance would grow with that ridiculous preconception
that the Master seemed to have nothing else to do except chase after him.
Well, no more.
He had a new life and he did not intend to waste any more of it on the Doctor.
When was the last time the Master had actually had time to himself instead of
focusing the last of his dwindling energies onto a last-ditch attempt to stave off
mortality? He might as well see some of the universe before he began his next
campaign to conquer it, surely?
Yet, the Time Lord couldn’t think of anywhere he particularly wanted to go.
Nowhere leapt to mind that he’d be welcome, where friends might be waiting to
see him. And he had no desire to head for some galactic tourist trap to laze beside
a pool for a week...
And so the Master did something he had never once done before.
He entered random coordinates.
And the Master let his TARDIS choose a destination for him.
The one drawback of entering random coordinates was that the TARDIS emerged
from the space/time vortex blind -- and the chameleon circuitry was unable to
prepare a suitable shape to disguise itself. Thus, the Master felt an unexpected
embarrassment as he realized his precious time machine had materialized in its
default form of a plain white cube standing four square and completely at odds
with its green surroundings.
The TARDIS had landed in the middle of a clearing at the edge of a wooded
hill on a sunny summer’s morning. Through the trees more hills and fields could
be made out in the distance. There seemed no one else around to enjoy this
peaceful rural landscape, and the Master carefully emerged out into the
countryside.
It was Earth, he realized quickly. North America, some time in the late 1980s.
Undoubtedly random, but a long way from anything surprising. Then again, Earth
was a powerful time nexus, a probability loadstone. Whatever else could be said
about the place -- and the Master had said quite a lot -- it was never dull there.
Standing in the little clearing, the Time Lord went to stroke his beard, only to
realize he didn’t have one any more. Now he had arrived, he wasn’t entirely sure

what to do now. Go fishing? Have a picnic? Snooze underneath a tree? None of
those options really appealed to him, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.
On a whim, he left his TARDIS where it was, undisguised, while he found a
comfortable spot beneath a tall maple tree, tilted his hat forward over his face,
and tried to relax.
A full fifteen minutes later he gave up, throwing his hat to the ground and
kicking it angrily. He was gripped by restlessness, a determination not to waste a
single precious moment. It was an attitude he’d been forced to have for centuries,
and clearly not a habit that could be kicked so easily. He had to do something...
...but what?
The answer came unexpectedly in the form of a terrified young man sprinting
through the trees with no thoughts for stealth, subtlety, or even where he was
going -- or else he might have spotted the Master standing in the middle of the
clearing and avoided crashing into him at top speed. The two of them fell to the
ground in a tangle of limbs.
Thankfully, the Master’s new body retained his usual reflexes and in a split
second he was back onto his feet and crouched over the young man, ready to
attack if necessary. The indignity of being knocked over was enough to make him
take an instant dislike for the newcomer, whatever the reason for the collision.
The young man lifted his head, showing red-rimmed eyes, pale skin and signs
of malnutrition. He looked around in a terrified daze. ‘M-my glasses!’ he wailed,
clawing blindly at the grass around him. ‘Where are my glasses?’
The Master glanced to the ground and saw a par of thick-lens spectacle lying
in the grass nearby... and immediately drove his boot down on them, grinding
them under his heel.
‘Sight,’ he told the young man icily, ‘is overrated.’
‘Who are you?’ came the fearful reply.
Since he had extracted revenge for the earlier humiliation, the Master was
disposed to be friendlier to the clearly-terrified youth. He considered introducing
himself, but he doubted someone calling themselves ‘‘Master’’ would be reassuring
for the young man at this time. ‘Nobody,’ he said at last. ‘Just enjoying a walk in
the countryside.’
The man blindly turned his face in the direction of the Master’s voice. ‘You’re
not with them?’
‘Who?’
‘The survivalists!’
The Master smirked. He had gone to such lengths to survive he found it
amusing to think ordinary humans believed they had any real skills in staying
alive. ‘No, I’m not with the survivalists. Are they chasing you?’
‘How do you know?’
‘You’re obviously running from someone, and you’re worried I’m a survivalist.
It’s not exactly a difficult conundrum to resolve now, is it?’
‘They’re crazy,’ the young man babbled. ‘Lunatics! They kept me prisoners for
weeks! Listen, we can’t waste any time...’
‘I never waste time,’ the Master snapped. ‘Who are these ‘‘lunatics’’ of yours?’

‘Survivalists,’ the man sobbed. ‘You know, guys who think there’s going to be
some kind of disaster, the end of the world? They build bunkers and prepare to
weather out the storm or disease or whatever it is. They’re waiting for America
and Russia to start a nuclear war, when the arms race gets too much...’
The Master scanned his memory of the political situation in the 1980s. ‘Not
unreasonable,’ he commented.
‘It is when they want to start the war themselves!’ the man shouted, struggling
to his feet and grabbing a tree to balance himself. ‘That’s why they kidnapped me,
you see, they-----’
There was a loud, sharp crack, and the man dropped limply to the ground,
blood spreading from a small dark hole in his back. The Master tutted, realizing
the man’s hysterical shouts had drawn attention from his pursuers... pursuers who
clearly weren’t interested in keeping their prisoners alive.
The Master casually flipped the man over, getting a response in the form of a
sickening wet moan. The man wasn’t dead yet, but he required urgent medical
attention -- medical attention no one was going to be able to provide with some
trigger-happy thug roaming the forest with a telescopic sight on his shotgun.
The Master cradled the man’s face in his hands and began to speak soothingly.
Hypnosis couldn’t undo the damage from the bullet wound, but could slow the
dying man’s metabolism down significantly, buying him some more time.
Whether or not the Master would actually save him, he had yet to decide -- but
the Time Lord was determined that he would be the one who said whether the
man lived or died...
Adam Jennings strode through the forest, automatic rifle cradled in his massive,
calloused hands. His massive frame was squeezed into a weather-battered pair of
camouflage trousers and well-worn army boots. Tucked into his grubby white
singlet was a pair of mirrored sunglasses, which he liked tucked against his chest
rather than his over his eyes -- they reminded him of dog tags and the simpler,
more straightforward times when he had served two tours of duty in Vietnam
before being retired from the US army.
Jennings had listened to the counselors and psychiatrists and their bewildering
claims that he was traumatized by the things he had seen and the things he had
done. He’d raised no objections to being dismissed from the service for being
criminally insane, and he wasn’t particularly bitter about it even now.
The US army was just part of the world about to end.
More important, a world about to end at his say-so.
Jennings turned and glanced back at the rest of his team. Four good men, two
with a similar military background, and all united in the firm belief that the everincreasing
arms race between the USA and the USSR would rapidly culminate in a
third world war, a nuclear conflict where the survivors would envy the dead. They
were prepared to do anything to stop that -- even shooting at an unarmed, halfblind
physics graduate.
But then, it wasn’t as though they needed him alive any more, was it?
‘I think I just wounded him,’ Jennings grunted to the others irritably.

‘Pretty good shot though,’ Derek Kelso replied with his perpetual, crazed grin.
‘600 yards through heavy bush? Pretty good!’
Ben O’Rourke was peering through some binoculars. It was a strange sight
given his long matted grey hair and build, like a caveman using a cellular phone.
But O’Rourke was better read than the rest of them, with every issue of Survive
magazine and had numerous signed copies of How To Prosper During The
Coming Bad Years and Life After Doomsday. He kept them with him on the
grounds that they would prove useful as raw fuel for fires if nothing else.
‘Something weird is going on,’ he announced, peering through the binoculars.
‘Did you see that freak in the cowboy get up.’
Jennings nodded grimly. ‘Yeah, I saw them. Too bad he ran into our friend,’ he
added, sliding on his sunglasses. ‘Now he’s history as well. O’Rourke, Kelso,’ he
ordered. ‘Follow the gorge on the right. James and Grantham? Follow the stream.
I’ll take the middle.’ He loaded and locked his rifle and advanced through the
trees as the others split up.
‘Let’s end this.’
The Master found himself curiously exhilarated by the situation. He was being
hunted through woods by deranged apocalypse-fetishists armed with automatic
weapons and making a reasonable attempt to outflank and finally murder him. It
was refreshingly straightforward, like playing an uncomplicated childhood game.
On a whim he headed left and, after a few moments reached a rocky hillock
with a tall tree growing at the peak. Hauling himself up the trunk, the Master
clambered higher and higher until the branches became too slim to hold his
weight. Below him, he saw two figures moving through the bushes -- a greybearded
fat man and a scrawny man in a baseball cap, both of them carrying
rifles. The scrawny man made intricate hand gestures that the fat survivalist
understood, and they split up. The scrawny one hung to the right, and unwittingly
came directly beneath the tree where the Master was lying in wait.
He wasn’t hiding -- that would imply he was prey rather than the predator.
Delving into his tunic pocket, the Master examined the few possessions he
carried with him at all times: the TARDIS key, his tissue compression eliminator, a
sketchpad for drawing, a bag of gemstones to act as emergency currency, and a
box of Cuban cigars. For a moment he wondered whether he’d still be a
particularly good artist or share the same love of nicotine in his regenerated body,
then got on to dealing with the survivalists.
Kelso approached a rocky outcrop, eyes darting back and forth, scanning his
surroundings for any movement. His senses were so finely tuned it would have
been impossible for anyone or anything to sneak up on him.
Alas, the attack came from above.
Kelso dropped his rifle as the heavy, yet loose object slammed into his head
with enough force to send his baseball cap firing. He stumbled back and nearly
fell over, but managed to snatch up his rifle and fire a volley of shots upwards at

the tree -- but it was useless. Even as he squeezed the trigger, Kelso saw the tree
was empty. His bullets tore through branches and leaves, but nothing else.
Fuming, Kelso turned and looked at what had hit him on the head.
It was a small draw-string purse seemingly made out of crushed velvet, and it
contained a heap of jewels of different colours and sizes. For a moment Kelso had
the confused impression they were just coloured glass, like the playing pieces of a
game, but even his untrained eye quickly realized all the gemstones were the real
deal. Dropping his rifle again, deliberately this time, the survivalist dropped to his
knees and started to claw the stones from the grass and stuff them back into a
bag. These would make him more money than every other cent he’d earned in his
life put together...
‘Such greed,’ called a wheedling voice from above him. ‘What exactly are you
going to spend them on when the bomb drops?’
Kelso twisted, rolled, reaching out to grab his gun, but the redhead’s booted
foot slammed down with the force of a pile-driver on the survivalist’s forearm. He
screamed, certain that his wrist had shattered under the impact. The puckish
figure in the weird clothes lifted his boot and then picked up the rifle to examine
it. ‘Human beings are so fragile,’ the redhead said conversationally. ‘Puny,
defenseless bipeds. I’m convinced it’s only your heavy breeding skills that stopped
you dying out before now...’
The madman seemed to notice Kelso curled up into a ball, clutching his wrist
and sobbing in agony.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Actually, I’m not sorry at all. I found
the whole thing disconcertingly... enjoyable. But I am prepared to restrain myself.
I’ll let you live in return for some information. Perhaps I’ll even help you make a
sling for your wrist. Considering you’re trying to kill me, I’m being more than
reasonable, aren’t I?’
Kelso was shivering and sweating as he went into shock, but he gazed up at
his enemy with naked hatred. His scream would have been heard through the
trees, and O’Rourke would be here in moments.
Whoever this joker was, he’d be dead in minutes...
‘Now,’ the ginger-haired lunatic was saying, ‘I’m giving us both a choice. You
can choose whether or not to tell me what I want to know and I can choose
whether or not to make you suffer hideous agonies should you not cooperate.’
‘What...’ rasped Kelso weakly, ‘do you want... to know?’
The madman grinned. ‘Excellent! I was expecting I was going to have to kill
you, but this is a rather novel surprise. Now, I want to know exactly what you and
the other survivalists are doing out here kidnapping people...’
Kelso’s attention was on his right ankle, where the small blade was hidden in
his boot. Just keep the freak waffling on, as he lazily let his working hand slide
down his body towards it, all the while keeping his eye on the enemy.
‘Well?’ his interrogator asked impatiently.
‘Just kidnapped that kid,’ Kelso coughed. ‘No one else.’
‘Why?’
‘Kid’s smart. Knows stuff we don’t about particles and physics and that.’

‘And why do you need that particular skill?’
Kelso favored his captor with a weak, infuriating grin. That’s it, he thought,
keep all your attention right up here on my face. Get mad. Get careless. Get this
knife in your throat...
‘Answer the question.’
‘Or what?’ Kelso challenged, taking hold of the knife handle.
‘Perhaps a visual demonstration can clarify our positions,’ the redhead said
icily. He raised the rifle and aimed it at Kelso’s head. The survivalist wasn’t afraid;
the ginger freak needed Kelso alive and a machine gun wasn’t a precision
instrument for torture. The nutcase wasn’t going to fire.
Kelso was right; the gun was pointed at him, but merely to allow the cowboy
to tug the ammo case from under the rifle, disarming it. Stuffing the case in his
tunic pocket, the lunatic promptly swung the rifle butt against the rocky outcrop
with enough force to shatter it into splinters.
This crazy man was much, much stronger than he looked.
Suddenly the jagged wooden remains of the rifle butt were aimed like some
crude trident, ready to plunge into Kelso’s unprotected face. ‘Now,’ continued the
madman in the same, perfectly pleasant voice. ‘Are you going to tell me what I
want to know, or lose the ability to tell anyone anything ever again?’
‘Guess,’ Kelso spat.
And then he struck.
The survivalist twisted his hips, kicking out with both legs. His feet caught the
ruined gun, knocking it from his attacker’s grasp with enough force to knock the
strangely-dressed little man onto his backside. At the same time, Kelso drew the
knife from his boot and struggled to sit upright. He was naturally left-handed, but
had trained himself to be ambidextrous. A slight delay, but the same result.
But even as Kelso drew back his arm to throw the knife, he realized there was
a strange black device in the redhead’s hand, aimed at the survivalist as though it
were some kind of weapon. Surely it was too small to be a gun?
As Kelso was letting go of the knife, there was a crackle of power and a spasm
of agony squeezed his entire body from head to toe, as if he was being crushed by
a giant fist. The knife slipped from his fingertips, but Kelso was too busy plunging
into blackness. It was like he was rushing down the wrong end of a telescope, like
everything was growing larger while he shrank...
The world exploded into a giant dome of light and Kelso knew no more.
The tiny shrunken corpse of the survivalist barely measured six inches. The knife
he’d been about to throw lay beside him. Once it had fitted into the palm of the
dead man’s hand, but now it was twice the length of the man’s body. Matter
condensation, tissue compression, implosive elimination... call it what you will.
The Master lay where he had fallen, the TCE aimed directly at the tiny, dolllike
remains of his victim. The energy discharge left a stink of ozone in the air,
and a slight orange tinge to the sunlight, and both soon began to clear.
The Time Lord deliberately took his finger from the activator of the cold metal
tube and shoved it back into his pocket. He still couldn’t quite believe what had

happened -- on sheer instinct, he had killed the murderous human there and then.
The Master wasn’t guilty, he had committed far greater crimes than killing in selfdefense,
but he was concerned: he had not intended to kill the man. Yet he had.
Was he no longer in control of his base instincts after all?
Had the Cheetah Virus somehow remained in his soul?
Or, perhaps, had his thirst for blood always been there?
He was the Master, not a slave. But if he couldn’t even control himself, what
right did he think he had to impose order on the cosmos? No, no, he thought
frantically. Some kind of side effect from the regeneration. A random spasm in a
newly-grown nervous system. From this point onwards, he would spare the lives
of the survivalists.
For no other reason than to prove that he could.
O’Rourke crept through the trees, rifle at the ready. He had heard Kelso scream
twice and a deep silence had followed. There wasn’t a chance it could be the
physics kid, who was a 90 pound weakling and blind as a bat. So this crazy
cowboy character had to be the one behind it -- and someone capable of taking
down Kelso was a definite threat. O’Rourke’s finger was on the trigger, ready to
give an instant lead transfusion to anything or anyone that got in his way or even
looked like it might get in his way.
As the portly, grey-haired survivalist crept around the rocky outcrop, he saw
something glittering in the grass. Diamonds and rubies? And next to them, Kelso’s
knife and some kind of GI Joe action figure. Weird, it looked a little bit like Kelso
himself. And how did a toy like that end up in the middle of the woods...?
Suddenly there was a sizzling sound and a red flash across his rifle.
O’Rourke instinctively let go of the weapon as, to his astonishment, he saw it
start to shrink -- smaller and smaller and smaller, until by the time it fell to the
ground it was slightly larger than a toothpick. It looked like a tiny toy accessory
that an action man doll might have wielded.
Like the doll that looked like Kelso.
O’Rourke looked up at the stony outcrop. Perched on an edge was the redhead
in the weird clothes, holding a strange black metal tube and blowing over the end
as if to clear smoke from a gun barrel.
‘The answer to your next question is ‘‘yes’’. I did the same to your late
companion and I can do the same to you. In fact,’ the leprechaun added, hopping
nimbly down to the ground beside O’Rourke, ‘I’m strongly tempted to do the same
to you anyway. You have one chance for mercy. I advise you take it, since there
are whole star systems in the sky that were never given such an opportunity. Be
smart and take the offer to live and see another day.’
‘Who are you?’ asked O’Rourke softly.
‘I am the Master.’
‘Master? Master of what?’
‘Of everything and anything that matters. Now, are you going to cooperate?’
O’Rourke humbly bowed his head...

...and then charged straight toward the Master like a furious, stampeding bull.
He butted against the killer’s stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs and the
black shrinking gizmo from the killer’s hands. With one meaty paw, O’Rourke
grabbed the Master’s neck and forced him back against the rocks, while with the
other he threw the black tube off into the trees and out of sight.
‘I bet you won’t be so confident without your little toy,’ O’Rourke sneered. ‘You
think you can take me down with your bare hands?’
The Master stared at him, as if he couldn’t understand a word the survivalist
was saying. Then his lost expression began to clear, and his mouth formed the
coldest smile O’Rourke had ever seen.
‘Oh well. I tried. And since I did give you a chance to surrender, I can hardly
be held responsible for what happens now...’
‘Prepare to die, freak,’ sneered the grey-haired thug.
‘This is just too good to be true,’ the Master smiled.
O’Rourke lunged straight at his enemy.
A few seconds later, his agonized screams were drifting across the valley.
The Master stumbled across the second hunting group of survivalists completely
unintentionally. He was washing the crusted blood from his hands in the stream
when he saw two figures moving alongside the bank towards him. By some
miracle of their stupidity, neither of them had actually seen the Time Lord,
despite him being in plain sight.
‘Geez, I dunno,’ said the one with the canvas fishing hat, moustache, thick
glasses and even thicker accent. ‘This is all starting to look like a bad idea.’
The other survivalist scoffed. ‘Just be cool! We’ve got the firepower,
remember?’ he told his companion cheerfully. ‘Once the physics kid is iced, we’re
home free.’
This information did nothing to reassure the first man. ‘I guess,’ he stammered
nervously, looking down at the automatic rifle in his hands. ‘But I didn’t expect to
actually have to kill anybody, did I?’
‘You’re kidding me!’ exclaimed his companion. ‘Just what exactly did you think
the bomb was for, then?’
A bomb? The Master’s interest was further peaked. He still had yet to carry out
a successful interrogation on any of the survivalists he’d encountered, and he
remembered the dying young man in the clearing. Time was running out.
The nervous simpleton would be the easier one to intimidate, and seemed to
be aware of most of the salient facts even though he clearly didn’t understand
them. So, he would be the one to question. That left his more aggressive partner
to deal with, ideally in such a way it would terrify the other into cooperating.
It struck the Master he wasn’t doing a particularly good job of curbing his
murderous instincts. But time was of the issue, sacrifices needed to be made. No
one would miss this bunch of half-crazed social outcasts anyway, would they? Or
was he just making up excuses for his own behavior?
Oh, who cares?

Without another word, the Master leapt to his feet before the more ruthless
and enthusiastic of the survivalists, who didn’t even have time to register surprise
at the sudden appearance of a spiky red-haired fugitive bursting out of the
shadows. The Time Lord kicked out with lethal accuracy, forcing the automatic
rifle back against the man’s chest, the barrel jammed beneath his chin.
The survivalist instinctively tried to pull the weapon away, but the Master’s
boot held the arm in place, and all the man managed to do was unwittingly pull
down on the trigger, letting loose a single volley of machine gun fire.
The bloody and headless body fell back into the creek, the rifle neatly falling
into the Master’s grasp. He expertly trained the weapon the remaining survivalist,
whose jaw had dropped along with his gun.
The Time Lord advanced on the petrified human. ‘I have questions,’ he
announced. ‘And you are going to answer them or I am going to kill you.’
The terrified man dropped his gun and raised his hands in surrender.
The Master continued to advance. ‘And if you hold back any information, I am
going to kill you as well. If you bend the truth, I will kill you. If I think you’re
bending the truth, I will you. And if you forget anything that could be important,
I’m going to kill you. In fact,’ he added casually, raising the gun to point between
the man’s eyes, ‘you are going to have to work phenomenally hard simply to stay
alive during this conversation.’
The man in the fishing hat stumbled and fell backwards into the water, which
was already turning a murky pink-brown from the blood spilling from his excolleague.
The Master stood astride his victim, then placed a foot on the man’s
chest and pressed down -- not hard enough to damage his ribs, but enough to
force him beneath the surface of the water. After a few seconds, the Master
withdrew his foot and the survivalist broke the surface, coughing and spluttering
and moaning.
‘Do you understand the rules of this interrogation?’ asked the Master politely,
grabbing hold of the man’s sodden collar and preparing to force him under the
water again. ‘Because, if you don’t understand, then I will be highly likely to kill
you. Now enlighten me,’ he ordered.
‘W-what do you want to know?’
‘Who are you?’
‘W-we’re survivalists, we’re members of the Committee,’ he babbled, terrified.
‘What Committee?’
‘The Committee for the Restoration of American Patriotism!’
‘The C.R.A.P.?’ the Master boggled.
‘It’s true, that’s the real name I swear!’ the survivalist wailed.
‘How appropriate. What’s all this about the bomb? The ‘‘physics kid’’?’
‘I... I...’
‘Think very carefully about what you say next. They could be your last words.’
‘The kid, his name’s Timothy Hill! He’s a graduate from Massachusetts, and
Jennings, our leader, Jennings kidnapped him because he knew how to make an
atom bomb big enough to nuke everything for five miles...’

‘And why does your leader Jennings want an atomic bomb? Some amateur
hobby, collecting weapons of mass destruction I suppose?’
The man shook his wet head frantically. ‘No, no, you see, see, we’ve been
doing this for years. Years. We’ve been getting ready for diseases or comet strikes
or war, and nothing’s happened. Everyone thinks we’re all crazy and Jennings, he
can’t take it any more. We need the war to happen now, if we’re to prove once
and for all how good we are at surviving...’
‘And how is one bomb going to trigger a world war?’
‘I dunno! I think he’s going to get it to some military base or other and blow it
up. Jennings made sure the kid built it with a remote control so he can set it off
any time he wants, it’s back at the HQ right now! Please, that’s all I know!’
The Master studied him for a moment. ‘I believe you,’ he said at last. ‘If your
companions had been more forthcoming, a lot of bloodshed might have been
averted today. As it is, only your beloved leader Jennings is still alive...’
‘...and me, right?’ asked the man nervously.
The Master gave him a genuinely apologetic smile. ‘I’ve already started,’ he
pointed out embarrassedly. ‘I might as well finish...’
Jennings had finally found the physics kid, lying in the shade of some shrubs,
half-unconscious and bleeding. Never one to waste an opportunity, Jennings put a
bullet through the graduate’s skull and ended his life instantly.
The giant ex-soldier would have moved off to contact the others when he
spotted something strange between the trees ahead. A plain white box that
seemed specifically designed to look uninteresting. It seemed to be humming very
quietly to itself. For a moment, Jennings thought it was some abandoned fridge...
but how had it got out there? And why was it humming when there was no
electricity to power it?
‘Do you mind?’ called a voice from behind him. ‘I was not granted ownership
of a Type 52 time travel capsule just for stunted anthropoids like yourself to get
their grubby fingerprints all over the outer plasmic shell!’
Jennings lifted his head but did not turn. ‘Who might you be?’
‘You tell me.’
‘A Commie spy?’
A chuckle. ‘Nothing so mundane. I am the Master.’
‘Stupid name.’
‘Says the leader of the infamous C.R.A.P.?’ the voice jeered. ‘No, I’m sorry,
perhaps the ‘‘only remaining member’’ of the above is more accurate. I had a
rather interesting conversation with your former followers. Who are also former
human beings.’
Jennings’ eyes narrowed. ‘They’re dead?’
‘Yes,’ came the simple reply. ‘Every last one. My fault, I’m afraid. I did try to
give them a chance to surrender, but eventually it became easier and easier to just
end them one by one. I’m sorry. I tried. But I suppose that old habits die hard...’

‘Not the only ones,’ Jennings muttered, and then spun around to face the
intruder, gun raised and already firing as he turned. The quiet of the clearing was
torn apart by the clatter of gunfire ripping through chunks of trees and foliage.
The massive ex-soldier stopped firing.
Bar the corpse of the kid, he was alone in the clearing.
‘Where’d he go?’ Jennings wondered dumbly. ‘I couldn’t have missed... not at
point-blank range... not possible...’
‘Unless,’ said a voice in his ear, ‘I threw my voice.’
A hand chopped down on Jenning’s unprotected shoulder and his knees
buckled under the blow. A grunt escaped his lips as black spots danced before his
eyes, but the ex-soldier fought off unconsciousness and gripped his rifle all the
tighter. He spun, searching for his enemy.
‘A nerve jab like that should have left you comatose by now,’ said the redhaired
little man hiding by his waist. ‘Have you been indulging in chemicals you
perhaps shouldn’t have?’
With a roar, Jennings spun around, swinging out one massive arm to try and
strike down his assailant, who effortlessly ducked, grabbed hold of Jenning’s fist
and held it down while his free hand sliced into the soldier’s ribs.
Jennings roared and toppled to the clearing like a felled tree.
‘Well now,’ the Master said, dusting his hands. ‘I’m tired. Say you’ll surrender
honorably, dismantle your little bomb and let the local authorities deal with it.
Make it so simple for me to walk away. Just once, let a human take the easy
option. And perhaps, just perhaps, I can leave you alive. Are you interested?’
Jennings lifted his head, gritting his teeth in pain. ‘No... not interested... at
all...’ he wheezed in agony.
Suddenly his fist tore itself free from the ground, and with it a chunk of grass
and dirt which was immediately flung straight into the Master’s face. He coughed,
spluttered and rubbed his eyes -- and saw that Jennings was gone.
The Master scrambled through the trees and over to where the TARDIS stood.
He made a runic gesture before it and the entrance unlocked. He pushed open the
door and scrambled inside, slamming the door shut after him. Breathing a sigh of
relief, the Time Lord crossed to the console and began to reset the displays.
He could simply take off here and now, let others deal with the physical and
metaphorical fallout of an atom bomb detonated against the grain of history. Part
of him thought that his selfish attitude hadn’t done him very good so far for the
last millennia, but also the idea of letting Jennings win -- even a completely
pyrrhic victory -- was repellant.
The Master thus decided that he would end Jennings’ ill designs and dismantle
his jury-rigged atomic cartridge. After all, it was so much more satisfying to have
an adversary humiliated before finishing them off...
The Time Lord began to program the TARDIS to plot out Jennings’ route back
to his HQ and then arrive there before him. Long before him. When one had
access to time machine, victory was guaranteed.
As long as you didn’t play by anyone else’s rules...

Jennings tore through the undergrowth, drenched in perspiration and groggy
from the fight. His determination, however, hadn’t failed him. The Committee for
the Restoration of American Patriotism survived through him.
He paused by a dense patch of foliage as, in the distance, he heard a strange
wheezing, groaning sound that seemed to fade off into the breeze. Jennings shook
his head, wondering if he was hallucinating, or if he’d caught a whisper of
approaching helicopters. Who knew how many more of the enemy were closing in
on him right at this very moment?
Jennings broke into a run.
His destination?
A patch of field that would soon be known as ‘‘ground zero’’.
The Master watched the oscillation of the time rotor slow to a halt and a low
chime ring out as the time machine completed its journey across several miles in
space and just under an hour backward in time. He reached out and turned the
scanner control, and was rewarded by an image of the TARDIS’s immediate
surroundings.
They had materialized in a narrow gully, shaded by the trees at the edge of a
clearing. Beyond the clearing was a field and in the field was the only viable
candidate for the C.R.A.P. to have made their base: a rather innocuous one-level
house sitting in the middle of a rather small field. Three solar panels were affixed
to the roof, and a lean-to extension appeared to have been hastily and crudely
built to the side of the hut. A jeep with camouflage patterns painted onto the
bodywork sat nearby. A low wooden fence surrounded the field, supporting two
lengths of barbed wire.
There were no electronic surveillance devices. The thick woods rendered this
isolated little hideout practically invisible, and its unassuming appearance and
barbed wire would turn away all but the most curious of observers -- and just who
exactly would be wandering through this patch of countryside in the first place?
Nevertheless, the Master didn’t doubt there would be booby-traps just in case
some passing farmer stumbled across something he shouldn’t.
A quick check of the sensor displays showed that the house was deserted,
having been abandoned just a few minutes ago when the survivalists went out on
the hunt, which gave him over half an hour to investigate and make his next
move. The Time Lord activated the door control and emerged out into the
morning sunshine.
The TARDIS had assumed the form of a gnarled and leafless tree growing out
of what had once been a river bed that had dried up centuries ago -- the only clue
to its true nature behind the square panel of trunk on hydraulics open in its side.
Closing the door behind him, the Master crossed to the fence. There was no
break in the barbed wire, so the inhabitants would have to try and crawl under
the wire to come and go -- inefficient, but effective. Flexing his new muscles, the
Time Lord easily jumped over the fence and strode towards the lean-to extension.
There were two steps leading up to an unmarked and unlocked door. If this
extension was built by the survivalists, it seemed they had not applied their

paranoia to its design. It was undefended, exposed, and a gaping hole in the
defenses. Any half-determined intruder could have gotten this far into their base
with no real obstacle.
Suspicious of a trap, the Master stepped to one side of the doorway and then
kicked at the unlocked door. The panel swung inwards, there was the sound of a
mechanism snapping closed and a spear with a polished metal tip flew through
the doorway. It imbedded itself in a wooden fence post a split-second later,
humming and trembling for a while.
Once he was satisfied another spear was not forthcoming, the Master glanced
around the door. A massive crossbow had been set up, aimed at the doorway. A
wire connected the door to the crossbow mechanism via several hooks in the roof;
pushing open the door triggered the arrow -- silent, deadly and very quick.
These men may have lacked resources but certainly not resourcefulness.
Nodding with mild appreciation, the Master crept into the extension. It
seemed to be just an empty shed containing the crossbow booby trap and a few
shelves of tinned supplies. A doorframe lead directly into the main part of the
house so, wary for any more booby-traps, the Time Lord cautiously approached
and looked through. ‘Seek,’ the Master mused, ‘and ye shall find.’
The house-section of the base was completely hollowed out of walls, furniture
and even floorboards, leaving it an empty shell for the outside world. Of course,
survivalists like this would have no need of living indoors -- the only thing this
shelter was used for was to protect their doomsday weapon.
The doomsday weapon sat in the middle of the room, lit by a single bulb
hanging from the ceiling. It was propped up on a frame of wooden legs, taking the
form of a heavy, cylindrical drum of metal bolted to a large plastic-wrapped
parcel. Wires and cables linked the one to the other, and emerging from the end
of the drum was a bent car aerial -- emerging like a tail from a thick, large-headed
mechanical bovine.
A glance was enough for the Master to confirm the weapon was functional and
powerful enough to destroy a large chunk of the surrounding continent. Crude,
but with a certain brute force one could not help but admire.
The Time Lord slid his newly-built laser-bladed screwdriver from his tunic
pocket and carefully approached the bomb...
Jennings had finally returned to the headquarters of the Committee for the
Restoration of American Patriotism, the only one of the Committee still alive. The
last man standing. The one on whom everything depended -- and Jennings was
more than up to the task.
Without slowing his run, he ducked forward, grabbed the two strings of
barbed wire and forced them wide apart, allowing him to squeeze directly
through the gap in the fence. However, his haste meant the barbs dug into his
palms and in several places drew blood. Jennings ignored it, oddly enough feeling
absolutely no pain. He knew that the wickedly sharp and rusty barbs could do him
great harm, but he wasn’t going to live long enough to get sick from any infection.
It was up to him to carry out what was left of the plan.

Jennings kept running until he reached the jeep parked behind their HQ,
faithfully waiting for its owners to drive it. But it would never be driven anywhere
again. Its fuel tank would add to the flames and smoke as oblivion engulfed the
countryside -- an untimely end, but one worthy for a faithful warrior.
Delving into the back seat, Jennings lifted the spare tire and took out a square,
handheld device. It was simply-designed, with an extendable aerial and two
switches, one horizontal, one vertical -- one for arming explosives and one for
detonating them. This was an army-issue radio-controlled trigger, tuned to the
frequency of the atomic bomb inside the HQ.
Two switches that could change the world...
Stuffing the detonator under his arm, Jennings raced around the farmhouse to
the rickety wooden ladder leaning up against the wall. He had to get to higher
ground, both literally and metaphorically, before his enemy caught up with him.
Wasting no time, Jennings hauled himself up the latter, leaving bloody handprints
and muddy boot marks on the rung as he ascended.
As he clambered onto the roof, Jennings felt strangely relaxed. Somehow, he
had always known that it would end this way, with him making a last stand
against the enemy, sacrificing his one and only life for the good of all. Just like
Horatio Nelson at the bridge, or George A. Custer at Little Big Horn, he was facing
death unblinkingly.
Different men. Different times.
But all essentially the same.
As he held the detonator, Jennings was ready to take his place in history.
The Master emerged from the HQ, making his way down the steps and walking
unhurriedly towards the fence. Nimbly he flipped himself over the barbed wire
and landed gracefully on the other side. As he approached the edge of the woods
he heard demented laughter from somewhere above.
The Time Lord spun around and saw Jennings on top the roof of the shack,
perched with a foot on either side of the sloping roof, standing astride his
headquarters like a would-be colossus. He had in his hand a chunky piece of
equipment that was obviously a detonator for his home-made atom bomb.
The survivalist looked down at the Master and chuckled loudly. ‘Too late,
Tovarich!’ he mocked. ‘You can’t stop us now! But you are in time to see me
unleash the power and the fury of the atom!’
‘For someone who’s basic aim is to survive, you have a very odd way of going
about it,’ the Master called up at the hulking American.
‘My ‘‘basic aim’’,’ Jennings sneered, ‘is to win!’
‘Win what?’ the Master scoffed. ‘A radioactive cinder in the heart of your
country? A thousand civilians dead by your hand? The United States reduced to
ashes? Is that what you want?’
‘What I want? What I want is to unleash a nuclear tide to sweep this country
clean! To sweep the world clean!’
‘Oh, it shall be swept clean all right -- it shall be completely sterilized!’
‘I’ll take that chance!’

‘And the innocent people you are about to sacrifice?’
Jennings giggled girlishly, a strange sound coming from the giant bear of a
man. ‘There are no innocents! We are all guilty of letting America slide from
greatness into mediocre muck, becoming a haven for scum like you! That is what
the Committee for the Restoration of American Patriotism will change today, once
and for all!’
Bored, the Master tried to stifle a yawn. ‘I feel I should point out something,’
he announced. ‘You may have a remote detonator, and you could easily activate it
at any time... but you no longer have a fission device to explode.’
Jennings frowned behind his mirrored shades. ‘You’re lying!’
‘Am I?’ asked the Master innocently, and then took a large hemispherical black
shape from his pocket. ‘You’re not an atomic scientist, so I’ll explain. This is the
plutonium core of your bomb. Without this to detonate, all that is left is just a
handful of explosive charges barely strong enough to destroy the building beneath
you.’ The Master absently tossed the core in the air and caught it again with a
grin. ‘Blow yourself up by all means, but that’s all you will be able to do.’
Jennings looked dazedly at the remote then back at the Master. ‘You’re lying!’
‘Then use the remote!’ the Time Lord jeered. ‘Go on!’
Snarling like a feral bull, Jennings lifted the control, flipped the arming switch
and then closed his fingers around the red firing key. The tiniest movement of his
wrist was all it would take to flip the detonation switch.
The Master watched on, interested, entertained, but not afraid.
Jennings studied him for a moment, and then angrily threw the remote down
at the roof with enough force that it shattered apart into pieces that tumbles
harmlessly down the side of the HQ. The survivalist let out a bestial roar.
‘So you’re willing to die for the greater good, but nothing less,’ the Master
observed with a grudging smile. ‘Good. I believe that there is hope for you yet.’
‘I can get more plutonium!’ Jennings spat. ‘I can get some other geek to build a
bomb! I can start somewhere else and I will go through with it right to the end! I
will hold power in my hand and I will use it!’
The Time Lord shook his head. ‘You’d die in the holocaust like everyone else.
As soon as your blood cools and your passions expend themselves, you’ll back
down like all the others, choose some other way to make a statement...’
‘I won’t,’ Jennings vowed. ‘Because there is no other way! Nobody will notice
us, nobody will listen to us, nothing will change -- unless there is blood! Unless
there is pain! UNLESS THERE IS DEATH!’ he was screaming, his thick voice
cracking with the strain.
The Master regarded him thoughtfully.
The man was insane, but hardly inaccurate. There were much bigger concerns
than worrying about the lives and deaths of insignificant humans. Why worry
about death and tragedy and wasted lives when it was the way of the universe? It
would all happen without him. At least he could give such events meaning.
There was a whole universe out there for the taking, and certainly no one else
was doing anything productive with it.

‘You’re right, Jennings,’ the Time Lord said at last. ‘You’re sick, you’re
misguided and you’re deluded. But you are right. The Earth is poised on the brink
of Nuclear Armageddon and plagued by greed and terrorism. But in years to
come, sooner than anyone might believe possible, things will change. Improve.
And all your efforts will be a waste of time and blood.’
Jennings stared down at the Master, uncomprehendingly.
‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘you’ve done me a great service today. You’ve
reinforced my own beliefs with your actions, and that deserves a very special
reward -- a rare gift in these cynical times.’
Jennings tilted his head curiously.
The Master smiled kindly.
‘A martyr’s death.’
The Master raised his laser screwdriver and activated it.
The shack erupted in an angry, violent fireball which engulfed everything
inside the fence, which was flattened into the ground by the mighty, roaring
shockwave. The white-hot explosion scattered fiery debris, the surrounding trees
around the smoldering hole where the farmstead had once been set alight.
Standing outside the blast zone, the Master hadn’t even been staggered by the
force of the explosion. Unfazed, he regarded the blackened earth being ravaged
by the orange flames of a dying fire, and the pall of smoke dirtying the sky above.
Both Jennings and his headquarters had ceased to exist.
The Master turned to go. He felt no regret for putting Jennings out of his
misery -- for all his skills, bravely and determination, the man had long since lost
any grip on reality, and had been living in a dream-world for quite some time; a
place that was, perhaps, fairer than the nasty reality everyone else had to endure.
Living in a dream-world...
The phrase echoed in the Time Lord’s memory.
He seemed to recall the Kuoun’Mal, a race of scientists who had overthrown
the Ru’shian Empire that had enslaved them. They had done this by use of the
World Builders, mechanisms that imprisoned an individual in a fictional reality, a
dimension where they lived out the rest of their lives in reasonable comfort,
unaware their real lives had been so brutally interrupted. A rather humane form
of execution, the Master reflected, which not only defeated enemies but tidied
away the bodies and left them with no knowledge or desire to fight back. Yes, he
could see some obvious potential in a World Builder. A visit to Ku’on Malik III was
definitely in order, if only to investigate the rumors that, during their expansion
across the cosmos, the Kuoun’Mal had uncovered ancient and powerful secrets
that would ensure their empire’s continued rule...
His mind buzzing with ideas, the Master made his way back to the TARDIS.

Survival of the Daleks
EPISODE THREE: THERE’S SOMETHING JUST BEHIND YOU
This adventure takes place after Might Might Might Might of of of of the the the the Starry Starry Starry Starry Sea Sea Sea Sea
‘There must be something you can do!’ Jacen Verlaine shouted angrily.
The Doctor glared across the office at the rich museum owner. ‘If there was
something to be done, I’d already be doing it. Your wife is beyond help.’
‘You’re the Doctor!’ Jacen shouted angrily.
‘And a doctor can only do so much,’ the Doctor shouted back at him. ‘Have you
been paying any attention? Every cell in your wife’s body has been corrupted or
destroyed by something beyond your own limited comprehension! It is impossible
for anyone to do anything for her now.’
Jacen’s expression was cold. ‘Nevertheless, Doctor, I’d advise you to try!’
The Doctor realized that Jacen’s secretary Plaxton was now holding a gun -- a
gun that was aimed right between the Time Lord’s eyes. Unafraid, he turned at
Jacen and then slowly shook his head.
Jacen was silent for a moment. Then he ordered, ‘Plaxton? Kill him!’
Before Plaxton could pull the trigger, there was a chirp from the
communications net console on Jacen’s desk. Automatically, a wide screen on the
office wall lit up to show an image of security guard Alexis, looking very anxious
as she crouched over the video transmit at her end. ‘Mr. Verlaine!’ she shouted.
‘What is it?’ Jacen demanding, not taking his eyes from the Doctor.
‘It’s the Dalek prisoner, sir!’ Alexis shouted. ‘It’s somehow managed to break
out of the containment tube completely...’
The Doctor spun around to face the screen. ‘Has it attempted to escape the cell
yet?’ he demanded.
‘No,’ Alexis replied, confused. ‘We sealed the outer door, but...’
‘But nothing, young lady!’ he snapped. ‘You have to contain it at all costs!’
Jacen nodded. ‘Has the security sweep reached the lower vaults yet?’
Alexis rubbed a hand over her forehead. ‘Yes, two teams are down here. No
other intruders found yet, though...’
‘Never mind that now,’ Jacen cut across, ‘Have them converge together outside
the cell -- immediately! And switch the channel frequency, I want to see what’s
going on inside the cell...’
‘The surveillance systems have broken down, sir,’ Alexis replied helplessly.
‘There’s no... wait... hang on,’ she said, looking at display out of their line of sight.
‘The monitors are working again...’
‘The Dalek is obviously behind that,’ the Doctor deduced. ‘It must want us to
see what’s going on. Now, quickly, girl, switch through to that camera!’
Alexis obeyed and the image blinked to become a view from the upper-righthand
corner of the cell, looking down across the chamber. The battered and

scarred Dalek was suspended in mid-air, perfectly motionless several metres
above the ground. In its shadow lay a lifeless body with long dark hair.
The Doctor felt the blood drain from his aged face. ‘Robbie!’ he gasped.
Robbie felt utterly exhausted, as if every last ounce of strength had been drained
out of her. Groggily she came to lying on a hard floor, dimly aware of a floating
metallic shape overhead. As the memory of the last few minutes returned, she felt
a weak sense of triumph at freeing an alien and saving its life. It seemed to be
calling to her now, but its voice was softer, gentler, more human.
‘Robbie?’ it asked hopefully. ‘Robbie, can you hear me?’
Robbie frowned as she finally realized it was not the Dalek speaking to her but
someone else. ‘Doctor?’ she croaked, her mouth bone dry.
She heard the Doctor let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness you’re still alive!’
his voice told her. ‘Robbie, listen to me, you have to get out of that cell! Get out of
there as fast you can!’
Another voice floated through the air. It was Gelver’s father. ‘But the Dalek is
still secure!’ he protested.
‘No, it’s just exhausted,’ the Doctor’s voice corrected. ‘And it won’t stay that
way for very much longer...’
Robbie managed to sit up and looked around the cell. She was alone, bar the
Dalek. Gelver had disappeared and the door to the cell was closed. For a moment
she wondered how she could hear the others’ voices so clearly when she spotted
the security camera in a high corner, watching her every move. No doubt the
Doctor was at the other end of it, trying to communicate with her.
She glanced up at the motionless Dalek, still connected to the podium by a
mess of dangling wires. ‘Doctor,’ she rasped, ‘that thing, the Dalek, they were
torturing it with electricity...’
‘Yes, I know all about that, Robbie!’ came the irritable reply. ‘Listen to me, you
must act before the Dalek can recover. Do you see the electricity supply cables
linked to the casing?’
‘Yeah...’
‘Go to the control console, we’ll tell you what to do.’
Robbie stumbled towards the machinery. ‘How do we free it?’
‘We’re not going to free it, Robbie, we’re going to fry it. Now, you must set all
the controls to maximum...’
Robbie wondered if she was more concussed than she thought. Surely she
hadn’t heard correctly? ‘Fry it? Why?’ she boggled.
‘Robbie, we still have a chance to kill the Dalek and we have to take it! Set the
controls to maximum!’
Robbie looked up at the camera in disgust. ‘You’re asking me to murder
someone! Someone we came here to save from these people, remember? You
can’t expect me to kill it in cold blood...’
‘Robbie, you don’t understand what we’re dealing with!’ the Doctor snapped.
‘Don’t I? I’ve been here actually talking to it while you’ve been taking tea with
its captor, the man who’s authorized torture!’ Robbie shouted. ‘So don’t you dare

get all superior with me, Doctor! You go on and on and on, about standing up for
the oppressed everywhere we’ve been and then you go and just condone killing an
unarmed prisoner? What’s wrong with you?’
The Doctor gritted his teeth in frustration. He had forgotten that Robbie had
never encountered the Daleks before, seen the worlds they had destroyed or
witnessed the lives they had taken. But surely she realized how dangerous this
creature was? The Dalek would have not said anything to her bar screaming
‘‘exterminate’’, that should have made it obvious what its motives were...
A horrible thought occurred to the Time Lord as he remembered the mutant
he’d seen in the medical unit. ‘Has it touched you?’ he asked anxiously, looking
for any signs of infection.
On the screen, Robbie shook her head in annoyed confusion. ‘What are you
talking about?’ she demanded.
‘Robbie, concentrate!’ the Doctor ordered. ‘You must think for yourself!’
‘I am thinking for myself!’ she shouted back up at them. ‘That’s why I’m not
going to torture it!’
‘Robbie, just trust me!’ he pleaded.
‘You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to get blood on my hands!’
The medic pointed at the screen. ‘Look!’ he cried.
The Doctor followed his gaze and saw a tentacle snaking out of the ruined
skirt of motionless Dalek, coiling outwards down towards Robbie. Facing the
camera, she was completely unaware of the danger. This was no doubt exactly
how Lenia Verlaine had been infected. ‘Robbie!’ he shouted desperately. ‘Run!’
On the screen, Robbie spun around and saw the tentacle rearing up behind her
ready to strike. The slimy green tendril plunged straight down, right towards her
unprotected face and...
...suddenly the screen showed nothing but a swirl of roaring static.
And the Doctor’s hearts hammered in his chest, threatening to break his ribs.
Robbie stared up at the strange tentacle hovering over her head. The tip had split
apart into a gaping, starfish-like maw, resembling something HP Lovecraft might
have described -- cosmic horror made flesh. But despite the hissing, rancid breath
from the mouth full of needle-like teeth, it hadn’t moved any closer to her face.
Cautiously, Robbie took a step backwards, and the serpent-like tendril did not
follow. The glowing camera lens that was the Dalek’s eye, however, adjusted itself
to focus on her every move.
The Doctor and the others had fallen silent, leaving the faintest crackle of
feedback over the sound system. Robbie couldn’t imagine that they’d switched off
of their own accord, which left only one feasible candidate -- the Dalek itself had
somehow cut the transmission.
For the first time, Robbie began to wonder if she had done the right thing.
‘What have you done?’ she demanded, looking up at the metallic shape overhead.
‘YOU MUST NOT TALK TO THE DOCTOR,’ the Dalek grated.
‘Why not?’ Robbie asked warily.

‘HE SEEKS TO KILL ME,’ came the angry reply. ‘HE SEEKS TO DESTROY
MY RACE!’
Robbie shook her head. Even after his regeneration, the Doctor was not
someone to condone violence, let alone genocide -- which made his demands to
kill the Dalek all the more out of character.
The Dalek was adamant. ‘THE DOCTOR IS A TERRORIST WHO HAS
KILLED MILLIONS! THE DOCTOR IS THE BRINGER OF DARKNESS! THE
DOCTOR IS THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS! THE ONCOMING STORM
THAT WILL NOT REST UNTIL THE DALEKS ARE EXTINCT!’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Robbie said, amazed at how convincing she sounded.
‘YOU BELIEVE YOU UNDERSTAND THE DOCTOR? THAT YOU ARE THE
SAME?’ the Dalek mocked. ‘YOU LOOK THE SAME – THAT IS ALL. HE HAS
DECEIVED YOU! HE IS... EVIL.’
‘He’s not like that!’
‘INCORRECT!’ the furious Dalek shouted down at her. ‘THE DOCTOR WAS
THE ONE WHO ORDERED YOU TO DESTROY ME!’
Robbie realized she couldn’t deny that.
‘WILL YOU DO AS YOU ARE ORDERED, ROBBIE PETERSON?’ asked the
Dalek curiously. ‘WILL YOU TRY TO KILL ME?’
Robbie couldn’t help but noticed the ‘‘try’’ part of the question, as though there
was no chance of her actually succeeding in destroying the Dalek even if she
chose to do what the Doctor had demanded of her. Clearly, the Dalek wasn’t
worried about any burning current hurting it now...
‘ANSWER! WILL YOU TRY TO KILL ME?’
‘No,’ Robbie said softly, shaking her head.
The looming tentacle retracted back into the Dalek casing. It sounded almost
bored. ‘THEN LEAVE!’ it barked.
Its dome swiveled until its eyestalk was looking at the cell door. A moment
later, the panel slid back onto the foyer outside. Robbie realized that the Dalek
was no longer any kind of prisoner, but had somehow achieved -- or, perhaps,
regained -- the ability to interface with and control all of the machinery nearby.
She took once last look at the floating alien creature. It was far from pleasant
company, but given the way it had been imprisoned, tortured and persecuted,
how could anyone blame it? The Dalek hadn’t killed anyone though, and even
allowed Gelver and herself to leave unharmed. Certainly, the prisoner was being
far more humane than any of its captors... or even the Doctor, who now seemed
to be egging them on. Disturbed, Robbie ran through the doorway, watched from
the looming Dalek above.
Outside, she saw that the two security guards were waiting for her, along with
what seemed to be a small army of similarly-uniformed guards all carrying long,
futuristic rifles and clearly ready for trouble. Even as Robbie emerged from the
cell, over a dozen gun barrels were aimed straight at her. Instinctively she skidded
to a halt, raising her hands in surrender. ‘Wait, don’t shoot!’ she protested.
‘Get her away from there!’ shouted Alexis, and two guards sprinted forward
and manhandled Robbie to the far side of the foyer, while the others trained their

weapons at the open cell door and the floating Dalek beyond it. Alexis ran back to
the console where Rebna was struggling with the controls. ‘You said the door was
sealed!’ Alexis accused angrily.
‘It was!’ Rebna protested. ‘Somehow it just unlocked and opened itself...’
‘Stop talking, Rebna,’ barked Alexis, ‘and close it!’
The younger woman desperately tried a new sequence on the console and was
surprised as the hatch slid closed once more. Alexis whirled around in surprise,
then raised her rifle and fired a round at the opening controls to the side of the
doorframe. The door controls exploded in a burst of sparks and molten metal,
destroying the opening mechanism completely.
‘Let’s see the Dalek open that now,’ Alexis challenged, and the other guards
murmured in agreement.
The exhibit O’Neal had stolen felt warm and comfortable in her grip, tingling with
energy that permeated her body and mind. She felt as if she were walking in a
dream as she left the lift and wandered through the display rooms towards the
cell foyer. All fear had gone from her, and the tube-like object seemed like a
compass leading her back towards the Dalek. She was obedient to its every
change of direction, brain dulled to the point she’d barely noticed Gelver Verlaine
in front of her, or the way he’d fled into the lift she’d just vacated. Nothing
mattered except wordlessly and obediently following the directions of the
precious totem she held.
She emerged into the foyer, noting it was now full of people. The usual two
guards, plus thirty-six others and a young girl with long dark hair O’Neal had not
seen before. Dimly, the Interrogator wrinkled her nose as the stench of their
impure flesh and hideously ugly shapes. What was the point of people anyway?
Had she ever met one that wasn’t wasteful or aggressive? Phryne would be better
off without them. No, the universe itself would be improved if they were all dead!
Even now these hateful, genetically-inferior life-forms were startled at her
presence, as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Some even raised
their weapons, as though any of them could do her harm. She wanted to sneer,
but found it hard to do so. There was something wrong with her face...
‘Let me pass!’ she ordered, surprised at the lack of emotion in her dry voice.
‘O’Neal?’ Alexis was asking, confused, standing by the cell door. ‘What’s
happened to do?’
‘I am returning to the prisoner,’ Alexis announced. ‘Let me through!’
‘There’s been an emergency,’ Rebna explained.
Alexis indicated the ruined lock with her rifle. ‘And the cell is sealed.’
O’Neal forced her way forward towards the cell door, but Alexis swung her
gun to face the Interrogator.
‘Stay back!’ the guard warned. ‘Down on the floor now, hands on your head!
Now! Or we open fire!’
A word formed in O’Neal’s mind as she realized the other guards were aiming
their weapons at her as well. She turned in a circle, seeing a wall of hideous

inferior creatures trying to threaten her. The word ran through her head again
and again, making it hard to think.
‘This is your last warning, O’Neal!’ Alexis was calling. ‘We will shoot!’
The object in her hands seemed to thrum in time with the word in her head.
Four syllables that demanded to be shouted again and again and again...
Exterminate...
Suddenly there was a loud crackling sound and the gloomy foyer was lit up in
a dazzling beam of unearthly blue light. The nearest guard ahead of O’Neal was
screaming as he was flung backwards, the fiery energy discharge making his
skeleton glow visibly through his flesh and clothes, like an X-ray rippling
outwards from his chest. The pale shimmering glow faded almost immediately.
The guard struck the floor and went limp, steam rising from the exposed skin on
his hands and face.
O’Neal realized she was smiling a wicked smile, and immediately frowned.
She’d killed someone. Again. And this time not with her bare hands. She realized
the object she’d collected from the exhibit upstairs was in her hands, the device
she had used to exterminate the guard. How could she have not noticed that it
was the neutralizer ray from the Dalek? Come to think of it, she seemed to be
making a lot of mistakes lately...
Lost in thought, she barely noticed the security guards had opened fire on her.
Robbie crouched in the far corner, arm over her head, trying to stay low and out
of the firing line. The last few minutes had been a blur. Almost as soon as she’d
convinced the guards to stop manhandling her, that woman O’Neal had arrived
demanding access to the Dalek. The evil, demonic smile on her face was bad
enough, but her skin was turning pale green, with blotchy brown freckles on her
throat and neck. Robbie wasn’t sure if the Phrynians were related to human
beings, but if they were, then this woman was no longer one of them any more.
Alexis and the security guards were as shocked by the woman’s appearance as
Robbie had been, especially when she’d casually raised that egg-whisk-like object
and used it to kill one of the guards with what looked like a bolt of lightning.
Robbie could still remember the young man falling dead to the ground, right at
her feet. She could still smell the burning stench from the crumpled body. The
nametag on the dead man’s breast read ‘‘THOMSON’’.
What was happening? Why was O’Neal killing people on her own side? And
what had happened to her face?
Alexis was shouting orders and the remaining troopers were opening fire.
Sparks of yellow light flew back and forth from the guards’ weapons, making the
air ripple and shimmer like a heat haze. Small, circular burn marks appeared
across O’Neal’s torso and arms, making her rock and sway on the spot -- but she
did not fall. Blood started to seep from her wounds, and Robbie was horrified to
see that while a few of the injuries were dark red, most others were a murky
brown in colour. The rest were the sickly green color, identical to the shade of the
Dalek tentacle she’d seen.

O’Neal seemed as puzzled by her condition as everyone else. After staring
down uncomprehendingly at all the different-coloured blood stains, she let out a
confused moan and then turned and lumbered over towards the cell. The guards
continued to fire, perforating her back with a fresh string of gunshots. They had
even less effect this time.
The mutated woman raised the egg whisk weapon once more, but this time at
the blackened remains of the door control. The blue beam tore that section of wall
apart, and the cell door jerked loose, sliding back slightly and then jamming.
Nevertheless, the new-formed gap was enough for O’Neal to haul herself through
and out of sight.
Robbie felt a pang of concern.
Was this freak about to use that weapon on the helpless Dalek within the cell?
The Dalek was waiting. As if it were mocking their former meetings, it had
returned to its podium -- but it was no longer a helpless prisoner in chains. It
seemed to almost invigorated, recharged. Despite its ruined armor, the prisoner
seemed to almost glow with power.
O’Neal stood before the podium, swaying unsteadily. The back of her jacket
had been reduced to little more than a scrap of rag across her back, now riddled
with impact burns from the guard’s weapons. A single shot should have killed her
instantly, and O’Neal had lost count of how many plasma blasts she’d taken after
the first twenty. Why was she still alive? Why was her skin so slimy and rough to
the touch? Why was she killing innocent people?
NO ONE IS INNOCENT!
Had the Dalek spoken, or was that voice inside her head?
A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over O’Neal. Somehow, she knew, the
injuries she’d sustained were killing her -- albeit very slowly. Somehow the poison
from the Dalek bite, or her body’s reaction to it, was the only thing keeping her
alive. Or at least the thing she was turning into, the green slimy thing that killed
without conscience or pity.
O’Neal spoke, and there was blood in her mouth. Green blood.
‘W-what... have you... done to me?’
‘YOU WISHED TO UNDERSTAND THE DALEKS. AND NOW YOU ARE
BECOMING A DALEK!’ the Dalek intoned. ‘REATTACH THE NEUTRALIZER
WEAPON TO MY CASING.’
‘Answer my question!’ O’Neal shouted, feeling faint.
‘YOU WILL SURRENDER THE NEUTRALIZER WEAPON!’ it barked.
‘If I give you the gun... you’ll just... use it to kill me,’ O’Neal pointed out.
The Dalek stared at her. ‘OBEY AND YOU WILL BE SPARED.’
The Interrogator coughed and more blood spilled from her mouth. ‘And the
others?’ she croaked.
‘THEY ARE OF NO CONSEQUENCE.’
O’Neal felt her hands moving of their own accord, offering up the Dalek gunstick.
Gritting her teeth that suddenly felt so loose and crumbling in her gums, she

fought to withdraw the weapon to her side. ‘How do I know you won’t kill me?’
she rasped, realizing she’d gone blind in one eye.
‘YOU AND I ARE... FRIENDS. I SHALL SPARE YOU AND ONLY YOU.’
O’Neal almost smiled with childlike delight. All those nasty sessions of
electrocution and acid had worked. They’d be friends after all. It had all been
worth it... hadn’t it? Exactly what price was she paying? Would she continue to
pay it? Some part of her realized she didn’t want to be a Dalek, and she found the
strength to hug the gun-stick to her burnt and bleeding chest.
‘No,’ she mumbled drowsily.
‘OBEY! OBEY WITHOUT QUESTION!’
‘You can’t make me,’ O’Neal said groggily. She had the weapon, after all. The
Dalek was powerless.
But she was wrong.
The Dalek aimed its manipulator arm at O’Neal and it suddenly telescoped out
with incredible force, slamming the suction cup straight into its interrogator’s jaw
with a sickening crack. O’Neal fell to her knees, unable to even scream as she felt
the bone crack. The gun-stick fell from her limp grasp as the Dalek’s metal limb
thrust into her chest, and her ribs splintered under the impact. The excruciating
agony sparked through her.
‘Please,’ she whimpered.
But the Dalek wasn’t finished yet. The suction cup hurtled to her broken jaw
for a second time, covering her mouth and nose even as it pinned O’Neal hard
against the cell wall. She couldn’t move or even breathe. Was this how that poor
guard had felt upstairs when she squeezed the life out of him? Would the Dalek
suffocate her or simply crush her skull into dust here and now?
At the last second, just as O’Neal was on the point of passing out, the Dalek
relented. The suction cup pulled away, leaving what was left of O’Neal to lie,
broken, bleeding on the floor. Between its attack and the numerous gunshots, the
Interrogator was not long for this world. Even the corruption of her DNA was not
enough to hold her ruined body together for much longer.
The Dalek turned its attention to the discarded gun-stick. A tentacle leapt out
from the gaping socket in the front of its armor, snaking out to fuse with the
dangling wires. Then, the tendril retracted back inside the Dalek’s amour, sucking
the gun-stick behind it until it snapped into place and metallic connections locked.
The stubby sidearm whirred softly, angling and adjusting itself in the socket as
though the Dalek were flexing its cybernetic muscles.
O’Neal peered up at the Dalek with the one remaining eye the mutation had
left her. She knew she was looking at death itself, a creature of pure hate that
would kill her without a moment’s thought or pity. But she had done what it had
wanted, given it its freedom and its weapon... O’Neal was becoming a Dalek too...
Surely it would spare her?
The Dalek, satisfied with its reattached weapon, aimed the gun-stick and fired.
The incredible dense energy slug struck the dying O’Neal right in her gut. For
a thousandth of a second her entire body was converted into raw energy and then
back again, displacing everything it touched. O’Neal’s stomach, ribs, spine and

digestive tract reformed in a fatal mess of fused bone and muscle. The stress of
her internal organs being scrambled in less than a second killed her instantly,
while the force of the impact threw her lifeless body back against the wall.
The Dalek paid no attention to the corpse of its torturer. The death had been
quick and unsatisfying, as the neutralizer had been left on too high a power
setting. The Dalek carefully reduced the energy levels to the weapon, until it was
strong enough that the blast would still be sufficient to destroy a humanoid, but
low enough that it would take a full two to three seconds for the victim to die.
The beam would burn away the central nervous system from within, ensuring
those few seconds would filled with unendurable agony.
Maximum extermination...
Robbie flinched as a sudden, intense electric clattering sound emerged from the
Dalek cell. She’d heard both the Dalek and the woman screaming at each other,
then the sound of the egg-whisk weapon discharging energy. Had the Dalek
finally been executed? And what could they do to stop the insane, indestructible
green-faced murderer?
The weapon was fired again and again, lighting up the cell beyond the narrow
doorway. There were explosions of flame and an alarm began to moan in the
background. Another salvo of blasts, another string of detonations. It seemed the
weapon was being used to destroy everything it could...
Suddenly there was another blast, and the cell door was blasted loose from its
housing in a dazzling blast of light. The bulkhead was slammed against several of
the security guards who were unlucky enough to be in the way -- and if the deadly
energies didn’t kill them, they were immediately crushed to the floor by the
blacked trapezium of metal.
The remaining guards scattered as a shape moved out of the dull red glow of
the cell, like a demon emerging from the pits of hell. Robbie felt a surge of relief
as she saw the rusted, cracked shape of the Dalek, and realized it had somehow
managed to overpower the madwoman -- until she saw the weapon now attached
to its armor, a join so perfectly it could have been built there. The egg-whisk was
part of the Dalek, she realized, a weapon that had been removed. O’Neal must
have been trying to kill it with its own weapon, like trying to sting a scorpion to
death with its own tail...
Robbie opened her mouth to speak, but the guards were already firing again.
Just as before, the air was thick with energy bolts raining down on one target
-- and just as before it had no effect. The Dalek’s metal body shimmered and
distorted in the heat, but was unharmed. It continued to glide forwards across the
floor, around the blackened metal door and the dead guards, surrounded by a hail
of gunfire. It was amazing the creature had survived this continual persecution...
For a long moment it weathered the blaster-fire, and then finally the Dalek
decided it had had enough.
The egg-whisk weapon rotated, aiming itself with precision in less than a
second and an arc of radiation hissed through the air and sprayed over the guard
directly ahead, bathing him in a glow they all knew to be lethal. The guard

screamed and collapsed forward, but the weapon had already angled itself to a
new target and fired. The deadly beam struck down the next guard, and then two
more died in the terrible fire, howling in agony.
Robbie covered her mouth in horror, even as Alexis gave the order to fall back.
Rebna raced over to her, grabbed Robbie’s arm and dragged her towards the exit.
The other guards were retreating as well, but continuing to fire their useless
weapons at the Dalek. It did not move at all, or even fire on them as they fled.
Self-defense, thought Robbie as she ran. It was only killing to protect itself.
She was impressed, since she wasn’t sure she would have been so merciful if
their positions had been reversed...
The Dalek remained by the cell door, observing the fleeing security guards break
into a run, heading back through the exhibit rooms towards the lift, the one
escape route to the surface. Once they were gone, the Dalek glided forward, its
sensors scanning the surroundings for a long moment.
The metallic creature considered its options and then made a decision.
One of the hemispherical studs on its lower section hummed and began to
rotate as though unscrewing itself from the casing. In a moment the spherical ball
had completely detached, one side shiny and clean while the outer side was pitted
and scarred from the torture the Dalek had received. The metal ball hovered in
the air beside the Dalek for a moment, and then lifted up until it was level with
the glowing eyestalk.
‘ACTIVATE ORBITUS,’ the Dalek ordered.
The metal surface of the sphere pulsed for a moment, glowing with inner fire.
The Orbitonauto-Obedioslave was a highly-advanced electronic brain with 360
degree vision and a battery of armaments, disguised as one of the sensor globes
around the Dalek. It was a secret weapon the Dalek had kept in reserve for
months, but now the time had come for its use.
Leaving the Orbitus to its task, the Dalek spun and glided out of the foyer,
heading in the direction the retreating humanoids had taken.
Robbie, Alexis and Rebna were at the front of the group as they raced pass the
exhibit cases towards the lift. Robbie saw the TARDIS parked in the corner, which
reminded her of the Doctor. Could he really be the genocidal maniac the Dalek
described? She might have assumed that the alien prisoner was simply mistaken,
had she not heard with her own ears the Doctor ordering her to kill a living
creature in cold blood...
As Alexis stabbed the lift control, an intense blue light filled the exhibit room.
A guard at the rear twisted and screamed, before falling lifeless to the floor, steam
rising from her skin. The Dalek was standing in the entrance way, gun-stick ready.
Before anyone could say anything, it fired again and another guard screamed,
twisted and fall -- another smoking corpse at their feet...
Robbie couldn’t believe what she was seeing, but Alexis and Rebna were
already bundling her through the doors of the lift as they slowly opened. Another
guard was cut down with a scream, and the survivors scrambled into the lift as

well. Those that were lagging behind were shown no mercy by the Dalek, who
bathed each guard in lethal radiation until they crumpled dead to the ground. By
the time the lift doors were closing, the Dalek had claimed ten Phrynian guards,
each one dying in agony. The air was thick with ozone and other substances burnt
off the flesh of its victims.
The lift was a large chamber meant for transporting exhibits and could fit a
dozen people inside with room to spare -- but not twenty panicking guards. They
were shuffling and jostling, and the over-sensitive detectors were confused as to
whether or not people were coming or going. The doors would move to close,
only to spring open again. Outside, the pepper-pot shadow of the approaching
Dalek fell over the display cases outside.
‘There’s too many of us!’ shouted a guard fearfully.
Alexis made a decision. ‘You,’ she barked at Robbie. ‘Get out of here!’
Robbie, the closest to the open door, was suddenly being forced out of the lift.
She instinctively struggled back in, part of her no longer willing to bet her life the
Dalek wouldn’t kill her instantly. ‘Stop!’ she shouted, grabbing hold of Alexis’
shoulders and trying to cling on for dear life.
‘Let go of me!’ the guard commander roared, trying to shake her loose.
‘Either she dies or we all do!’ agreed a burly, tanned guard who darted around
behind Robbie and began to physically haul her out through the lift doors.
But the delay now meant the Dalek was right outside. Its manipulator arm
shot out, between the jerking doors, and the suction cup clamped onto the side of
the guard’s face. He screamed, letting go of Robbie and reaching up to try and
pull the sucker free. But the black, rubber-like substance of the cup seemed to
melt and spread, and suddenly half the guard’s head was smothered. The Dalek’s
manipulator arm telescoped inwards, wrenching the guard back through the lift
doors and out into the exhibit room.
A second later, the doors finally snapped shut and the mechanisms engaged,
the elevator rising up the shaft and away from danger. The survivors were too
shocked by the speed of events to do anything but stare in disbelief at the shut
doors, the muffled screams of the lost guard still ringing in their ears.
The Dalek had long since silenced the guard. Rather than simply using its
mechanical strength to snap his neck, the Dalek had decided to take its time. Its
suction-cup interface now completely engulfed the man’s head the Dalek lifted the
guard off the ground and began to swing him back and forth, watching the limbs
jerk and spasm. The Dalek wanted make this guard suffer more than simple,
straightforward extermination. His attempts to sacrifice Robbie Peterson were not
unexpected -- inferior life forms were all weak cowards after all -- but the Doctor’s
companion would die at the moment of the Dalek’s choosing and not before.
It released the guard, whose momentum sent the lifeless body hurtling across
the room and into a display case. The glass shattered and the podium supporting
the case collapsed next to the corpse, which was now unrecognizable -- the head
had been scorched down to a smooth, hairless blob of flesh.
Losing interest in the fresh kill, the Dalek turned its attention towards the lift...

‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’ Rebna asked, speaking for everyone in the lift.
They were moving with what seemed like painful slowness, especially as they
had all heard the shattering crashes deep below them. Robbie imagined the
Dalek’s sucker-arm tugging the thick steel doors to the lift shaft, pulling them with
until they were torn open...
Suddenly the lift juddered around them and there were the sound of gears
screeching. Instinctively all the occupants pressed themselves against the sides of
the lift, some of them clinging onto each other for support. For a split second the
lift seemed to resume its ascent, and then there was a crunching scream from the
motors, as if the lift was being dragged back downwards by some incredible force.
Robbie and the guards stumbled as the cubicle around them jolted with even
more violence than before.
Something rammed into the base of the lift with a heavy, crumpling dent.
There was the tortuous sound of metal warping and twisting, before a patch in
the middle of the floor tore open in a crackling blue flash. The occupants
retreated as far as they could as the patch of floor was blown away by Dalek
firepower.
Robbie risked a glanced at the jagged hole in the metal and saw the Dalek
directly beneath them, picked out against the darkness of the shaft by the lights
inside the elevator cabin. It was hovering below them, titled backwards until it
was horizontal, its sucker arm extended and clamped to the bottom of the lift,
hauling them back down the shaft.
For a moment the Dalek’s single glowing eye peered up at them and then it
heaved, shaking the lift again. The nearest guard stumbled, lost his balance and
fell straight into the hole blasted into floor of the lift. The guard was suddenly
buried up to his armpits, wedged in the gap and looking up helplessly at the
others. In different circumstances, the sight would have been hilarious. ‘Help me!’
he screamed in terror.
Robbie thought the guard looked wedged tight, but before anyone could move
to pull him free, the man stiffened and then screamed. A wave of energy washed
up over his torso and engulfed his head, arms and shoulders, until his bones
blazed white though his skin and flesh. The energy wave cleared and the guard’s
head slumped forwarded, a terrified look of stark confusion burnt into his face by
the deadly radiation.
The Dalek had shot him as he dangled half-way out of the lift.
Suddenly, more of the floor gave way, weakened by the Dalek’s attacked.
Robbie and the survivors clung to the sides of the lift as a chunk of flooring,
complete with the corpse of the trapped guard, broke free and tumbled down into
darkness towards the Dalek below. At some point it had been forced to release the
lift which was now struggling to continue up through the Archive, and the Dalek
was in hot pursuit. For a moment, Alexis hoped it would strike the alien and send
it plummeting back all the way down to the bottom of the shaft -- but her hope
was in vain.

The Dalek opened fire on the plummeting mass of metal and flesh, the laserlike
rays ripping the obstacle apart in a burst of dazzling white light. By the time
the debris struck the metal creature, both corpse and flooring had been vaporized
into a swirling film of dust.
Unimpeded, the Dalek floated up after its prey.
Robbie glanced at the indicator panel as it blinked and flashed. ‘We’re nearly
at the next floor! We have to get off here!’
Alexis was staring in horror at the Dalek rising up the shaft below. ‘We’re not
high enough yet!’
Rebna nodded in agreement. ‘It’ll have us trapped...’
‘We don’t have any choice!’ Robbie screamed at them.
One of the other guards made the decision for them. She smacked her hand
against the control panels, bringing the lift to an abrupt halt. Through the gaping
hole in the floor, the Dalek accelerated up towards them, even as the emergency
control heaved the lift-doors open. They weren’t level with the next floor, and the
lower half of the doorway was filled with rough concrete and metal. With speed
borne of desperation and adrenaline, Robbie flung herself at the doorway and
managed to haul herself up over the lip of the floor. Muscles burning, she
managed to heave herself out of the lift and found herself in another room of
exhibits in display cases. Feeling completely exhausted, she forced herself to her
feet as Alexis and Rebna managed to crawl out from the lift.
Behind them, there was massive metallic smashing sound and then agonized
screams of the fifteen remaining occupants of the lift. Through the narrow gap of
the doorway, Robbie caught a glimpse of the Dalek, now upright and inside the
lift itself. The other guards were being gunned down, screaming as they died,
burning and electrocuted.
The three women were the only survivors, three of the original thirty-seven.
The trio turned and ran for their lives as, in the lift, the screams and energy
crackled ended -- leaving the only noise the wheezing breath of the damaged
Dalek, the sound of jubilant madness.
The Doctor hadn’t spoken for a while, his thoughts far from the here and now.
The last few times he had encountered the Daleks they had been lone, crippled
survivors -- desperate and careless. No real threat at all. After the destruction of
their time-spanning empire, he had been foolish enough to underestimate the
damage a single of their number could wreak... or perhaps he’d overestimated his
own abilities to protect his companions from the Daleks. He’d allowed the
miraculous survival of Mark and Dara, or Christine and Moira, to make him forget
those that hadn’t lived to tell the tale -- Katarina, Sara, Lucie, poor young Alex...
And now Robbie had joined those he had failed to save.
The thought cut a gash in his mind, a wound he couldn’t stop picking at.
Despite being fresh from his latest regeneration, he felt paper thin and his
emotions could tear him apart at any moment. He couldn’t remember the last
time that he’d felt so vulnerable. The universe suddenly seemed an evil, merciless
place that he was too battered and weak to survive in any longer.

He was just so tired, so drained, as if this brief -- and as yet incomplete --
conflict had consumed his mental energies, leaving him exhausted and lethargic.
The Doctor suddenly wished he was back on Gallifrey, the peace and simplicity of
Mount Cadon carpeted in large, rich patches of fruitiest green under the harsh
sky, listening to the calming melody of grasshoppers and birdsong...
No. If he wanted that sort of retirement he was going to have to earn it. The
Daleks had to be stopped.
If only for Robbie’s sake...
The Time Lord finally turned to pay attention to the others in the office. Jacen
and Plaxton were studying the wall-screen which now displayed a map of all
twenty-three levels of the Neophryne Archive. The bottom three levels were
etched out in a virulent red, indicating the vaults hidden from the public. ‘We can
concentrate the security forces at the main entrance?’ Plaxton was suggesting.
Jacen nodded. ‘All the others can be sealed off.’
The Doctor spoke up at last. ‘That’s too obvious,’ he announced. ‘Once the
Dalek reaches any of these upper levels, it can simply blast its way through the
outer walls to freedom.’
Jacen glared at him. ‘Pay attention, old man! We’ve already sealed the vaults
with ten-foot-thick steel bulkheads!’
‘Don’t take that tone with me,’ the Doctor snapped. ‘A Dalek could cut through
those like wire through butter...’
‘What what?’ the younger man scoffed. ‘It has no weaponry. We removed its
neutralizer ray at the very start, and it’s now on the opposite side of the shields --
out of the Dalek’s reach.’
The Time Lord was not mollified. ‘It won’t stop the Dalek.’
‘It doesn’t have to,’ Jacen said briskly. ‘We just need time for it to calm down...’
‘It is not going to calm down!’ the Doctor shouted. ‘All you have done is
sentenced whoever else is down there with it to certain death! And once the Dalek
has cleansed the vault of all life, it will break out of your museum, collect its
weaponry and start slaughtering the population! You have nothing to offer it or
threaten it with! Do you understand how serious this is?’
‘Of course I do, you stupid old fool!’ Jacen roared back with equal venom.
‘When the Daleks devastated our world they did with a single scout-ship that
wasn’t even expecting to encounter our civilization. Our miraculous technology,
our invisibility shields, actinic rays, nothing stopped them... but that was an
invasion force. Individual Daleks were quite easy to destroy with a heavy-duty
atrevolvers. And a single, damaged drone unit like that? It’d be dead long before
it reached the nearest town. The civil authorities are already on alert...’
‘Then what are you waiting for?’ the Doctor demanded. ‘Destroy it now!’
‘And destroy the Archive in the process?’ Plaxton sounded scandalized. ‘Never!’
‘All security teams will hold position until I give the order,’ Jacen declared.
‘Once the Dalek gives me what I want, it can be reduced to scrap. Until then, it
must not be damaged or harm.’
‘You were happy enough to torture it!’ the Doctor pointed out.
‘And I might do the same to you, Time Lord!’ Jacen spat.

‘I hope whatever you need is worth so many lives,’ the Doctor replied darkly.
‘It is to me, Doctor,’ Jacen replied. ‘It is to me. The Dalek is unique. It is alone,
helpless, and without any allies...’
At that moment, Jacen was proved completely wrong in every respect as
something slammed against the office door with enough force to tear it from its
hinges. The medic screamed and dived out of the way as the door crashed against
the carpeted floor, allowing the intruder to lumber into the office.
It was Lenia -- or, rather, what Lenia had become.
The Dalek mutation had accelerated at an incredible rate since they had last
seen her: the woman’s flesh was emerald green and reptilian, covered in a thin
layer of transparent slime. Her right eye had seemingly vanished, while her left
one had bulged to the point it looked like it was about to burst free from her
distorted skull. The hideously-stained hospital gown had ruptured in places,
hanging in clumps over the lumpy green flesh. One hand was a strange birdlike
claw, while the other was a squid-like mass of writhing tentacles, and other
dancing tendrils were sprouting out of her freckled skin at all angles. Clumps of
her hair had fallen out, her nose had flattened to a lump on her face and her
mouth was a wide, toothless slit, but she was still horrifyingly recognizable.
The mutant creature stood in the doorway, snarling furiously but seemingly
reluctant to move -- as though regaining the strength she had lost smashing the
door down. Unsteadily, she lurched closer towards the others. The medic
scrambled for cover as the Doctor and Plaxton backed around the other side of
Jacen’s desk. ‘Get back everyone,’ the Doctor ordered. ‘Keep calm, don’t frighten
it... give it space.’
A low wet growl emerged from somewhere deep inside the mutant’s torso as
her single bloodshot eye rolled in her skull.
‘Lenia?’ asked Jacen in a small, hopeful voice.
‘Mr. Verlaine, keep back!’ Plaxton wailed unhappily.
Jacen stepped forward, an adoring expression on his face. ‘You remember me,
don’t you Lenia? Your big Jacen?’
The mutant hissed, swinging her misshapen head to look at her husband.
‘You’re safe!’ he pleaded. ‘It’s going to be all right! You’ll see...’
Even as he spoke, another tentacle sprouted from her jaw, writhing and coiling
as if reveling in its new freedom.
‘What is it, Lenia?’ Jacen begged. ‘What do you want?’
Lenia’s mouth flapped open and closed and a barely-comprehensible voice
croaked. ‘I... want... I... need... I need...’
‘Tell us,’ the Doctor urged.
‘I need orders,’ rasped the mutant weakly. Suddenly a series of spasmodic jerks
ran through her and she squealed in what sounded like a mixture of pain and
glee. The voice from her mouth grew clearer, louder, harsher...
‘I REQUIRE ORDERS!’
It was the voice of a Dalek.
The Doctor’s brown eyes locked onto the mutant. ‘Stay calm,’ he ordered.

His command was meant for everyone in the office, but Plaxton’s nerve had
finally broken. With an incoherent whimper she suddenly charged around the
desk and made a break for the door. The Lenia-mutant rushed towards her, but
Plaxton sidestepped the hot, slimy tentacles and ran for the doorway. Lenia spun
around, but made no move to stop her former personal assistant. She seemed
prepared to watch her go.
And then her lipless, toothless mouth opened so wide it seemed she had
dislocated her jaw like some kind of primeval reptile. Her tongue rolled and coiled
in her mouth like a living, sentient thing and then it exploded outwards like a frog
plucking a fly out of mid air. The tendril of flesh shot through the air and sliced
through the back of Plaxton’s blouse, driving straight through her chest and
punching out the other side. In the blink of an eye, the tongue snapped back
inside Lenia’s mouth, as though nothing happened.
‘No!’ the Doctor roared, but he knew it was too late.
‘Lenia!’ Jacen wailed brokenly.
Blood was spreading across her chest and back as Plaxton turned and looked
back in disbelief, her expression crumpling into one of pain. She gasped, cried,
dropped to her knees and then fell forward onto her face, life blood spreading out
from beneath her still form.
The mutant lurched out of the office and stood for a moment over Plaxton’s
body, as if trying to understand what had happened... then she turned and
lumbered off across the floor, her misshapen limbs knocking papers and terminals
from their workstation as she moved out of sight.
There was a shocked pause and then the medic rushed over to Plaxton and
checked her pulse with shaking hands. No one was surprised when he confirmed
she was dead -- the mutant had struck right through her heart. The Time Lord
crossed to the door, exhausted by the sudden, pointless carnage. ‘We need more
information,’ he said, his dry mouth making his voice thin. ‘We have to find out
exactly where the Dalek is making for...’
The medic stared up at him in disbelief. ‘How are you going to do that?’ he
demanded angrily. ‘It’s not as if you can talk to it!’
The Doctor’s eyes were fixed on the direction Lenia had taken. ‘Perhaps I can.’
Jacen finally tore his blurred gaze from Plaxton’s corpse as the Doctor scurried
out of the office. ‘Where are you going?’ he called weakly.
‘To find your wife, Mr. Verlaine,’ the Doctor called back. ‘You two, stay here!’
Gelver had avoided the green-faced woman and taken the lift back to the surface,
where he’d immediately been caught in some kind of mass evacuation; every
office worker had fled the Archive for fear of some kind of gas attack, but no one
knew what the nature of the attack was, who caused it or when it would clear.
Gelver remembered the Dalek’s warning that it lived again, and considered
running for his life or trying to find the Doctor and relay the rather simplistic
message. When he discovered his father was still inside the Archive, apparently
organizing fresh security teams to deal with the emergency, Gelver made a
decision and returned to the museum.

He hated himself for running away and leaving Robbie behind, even though
the Dalek was unarmed. After years of hearing about the legendary exploits of the
Time Lord Doctor and his companions, Gelver had let down the man he’d admired
and abandoned his friend to whatever fate held.
Gelver had to make amends... somehow.
As he reentered the administration level, Gelver was wracking his brains for
ways he could help (or at least downplay the extent of his failures and betrayals)
when he saw a strange green figure shambling around a corner. It was something
that had clearly once been a woman, but barely recognizable as a Phrynian.
Tentacles were sprouting from slimy green flesh and the skull seemed to be
wearing away until half the head seemed a throbbing, exposed brain. The face
was vaguely normal -- and Gelver’s heart turned to ice as he recognized the face.
‘Mum?’ he gasped, feeling like he was drowning in a world he didn’t want to
be part of any more.
The distorted thing with his mother’s face turned to face him.
‘‘‘Mum’’?’ repeated the creature flatly, as though the word had no meaning.
‘It’s me,’ he said weakly. ‘Gelver... your son... don’t you remember?’
Lenia swayed unsteadily. ‘Gelver, yes,’ she repeated thoughtfully, and then
howled, ‘Help me! I can’t stop it... from destroying... my mind!’
Gelver was beginning to panic at her distress. ‘What can I do?’ he begged.
‘Orders,’ Lenia groaned. ‘Need orders!’
‘I don’t understand...’
Lenia doubled over in pain. ‘Did you ever love me?’ she demanded accusingly.
‘Mum,’ Gelver whispered, hurt.
‘Then give me orders! I demand them! At once!’ she snarled, and then the
anguish in her warped face seemed to disappear and her wide, thin mouth broke
into a ghastly parody of a smile. ‘Come closer,’ she asked sweetly.
‘What?’ Gelver mumbled, confused at her strange change of behavior.
‘Closer to your mother,’ hissed the creature.
‘Gelver,’ barked a voice nearby. Gelver looked up and saw, further down the
corridor, the Doctor hurrying towards them as fast as his aged legs could carry
him. ‘Do not let him touch you!’ he ordered.
‘But my mum...’
‘Your mother is dead, young man!’ the Doctor told him brutally.
‘Gelver,’ Lenia moaned pitifully, ‘help me.’
‘Don’t listen to her, Gelver!’ the Doctor barked at the boy, his eyes fixed on the
mutant. ‘Lenia, focus on me!’ he ordered.
Lenia peered drunkenly at the old man for a long moment, and then her
remaining eye narrowed in recognition. The contempt was clear as her voice
became harsher and more metallic.
‘WHAT DO YOU WANT, TIME LORD?’ she asked coldly.
The Doctor smiled unpleasantly. ‘Your sharing the Dalek’s DNA has created a
psychic link, hasn’t it?’ he mused. ‘You are sharing your thoughts with the Dalek
and the Dalek is sharing its thoughts with you. You’re in each other’s minds -- so
tell me what it is saying!’

Lenia’s ravaged face twisted in a sneer.
‘I order you,’ the Doctor announced icily.
The mutant jerked, torn between her desire for instruction yet reluctance to
aide the enemy. Lenia let out a low, pitiful groan. The confusion seemed to cause
her physical pain, until salty tears were dripping from her bloodshot eye. Gelver
stared in horror at his sobbing mother. ‘Stop,’ he wailed, ‘you’re hurting her!’
‘If there is any part of you that is still truly Lenia Verlaine,’ the Doctor
continued remorselessly, ‘then help us! You are not a Dalek!’
‘I AM A DALEK!’ Lenia shrieked at them, and then as if a switch had been
thrown, suddenly was calm again. Her voice seemed softer, gentler, more human
than before. ‘Come to me, little Gelver,’ she cooed. ‘Be one with me. We shall find
orders together.’
Gelver stared, almost hypnotized as Lenia held up the mass of green tendrils
that had replaced her arm. Even as she did so, the flesh seemed to split and break
apart like a flower, with petals lined with razor-sharp teeth. Her arm somehow
had grown into a hungry, gaping mouth...
The mutant stepped forward, her hideous limb about to strike...
...but Gelver was suddenly sent reeling across the corner, shoulder-charged out
of danger by the Doctor.
And so it was the Doctor’s neck the tendrils engulfed, its countless fangs
sinking into his throat. The Time Lord roared in agony as the monstrous teeth tore
through his clothing and into his flesh. The weight of the mutant forced him to
the floor, and the corridor around them seemed to spin dizzyingly. the Doctor felt
his senses slipping away into the thickening mist.
The corrupting venom was already flooding through his veins...

Immoral Victories
This adventure is set between The The The The Crimson Crimson Crimson Crimson Scarab Scarab Scarab Scarab
and The The The The Seventh Seventh Seventh Seventh Dungeon Dungeon Dungeon Dungeon of of of of Drakmoore Drakmoore Drakmoore Drakmoore
The Doctor had no idea which world he was on, thanks to the random landing a
few moments ago, but wherever it was, there was a loaded gun aimed at his face
right here and right now. He wasn’t even fully out of the TARDIS yet and guns
were being pointed at him. Definitely a record.
He looked at the two creatures pointing guns at him. They were roughly
humanoid, but wearing such heavy and angular battle armor it was hard to tell. In
fact, the Doctor wasn’t entirely sure if they were creatures in armor or maybe
some kind of artificial life-form.
But they had guns aimed at him. Surprisingly large ones at that. And, given his
osmotic knowledge of weaponry, accrued over the millennia of having it aimed at
him, he could tell these guns were the sort with intelligent targeting software.
Nine times out of ten the guns were smarter than the people wielding them,
which is why they were rarely given vocal units. It became embarrassing when
your kill-o-zap fragmentation rifle told you off for immature violence and then
offered to mediate the dispute with your enemy over tea and biscuits.
These guns were not going to offer tea and biscuits. Which was a pity, the
Doctor reflected. He hadn’t had breakfast yet.
‘Well,’ he said at last, rather bored of trying to outstare the camera lenses of
the domed helmet heads, ‘can I do anything for you? Perhaps you’ve got a leaflet
for me to read?’
The only reply was the sound of the wind. The Doctor peered between the
bulk of the two metal warriors to look out upon a ruined landscape. The TARDIS
had arrived in the middle of what had once been a city, but it was impossible to
tell much more. Every single building and monument had seemingly been ripped
out of the ground by a giant, crushed between its hands and then sprinkled
casually at random. The ground was a carpet of broken glass, wood, ceramics,
metal, occasionally lumping up into husks of what could have been gutted
buildings. Above, grey clouds were hurtling at ridiculous and unnerving sky across
a sky a burnt purple colour. The setting sun was a murky white ball.
So, the Doctor mused. The atmosphere had been damaged. The ozone layers
had been ripped away, with no filter for all the ultraviolet radiation. He checked
his bare hands for carcinomas -- none yet, but give it a few days.
The robot warrior things were still pointing their guns at him. They hadn’t
replied. ‘Hey,’ the Time Lord snapped. ‘I am talking to you, aren’t I?’
‘Maybe we should answer,’ said the one on the left. Its voice was a pleasantly
synthesized drawl, but the faint pauses between words as the computer checked
its programmed vocabulary bank made it sound insincere.
Or maybe just patronizing.

‘Don’t,’ its fellow replied in a similar voice. ‘It could be a trap.’
‘Shoot it then.’
‘Oh, wonderful. Ruin any element of surprise, won’t you?’
‘You are pointing a gun at it, I think it might have suspected already.’
‘It probably thought we were decorative sculptures. Now you’ve blown it. It
knows we can talk, we’re sentient, we’re armed and also knows you’re a total
idiot. We’re lucky it hasn’t killed us yet.’
‘Oh, sure, have a go at me and then suggest to it that it kill us. Why not tell it
all our weak spots next?’
‘Oh, wonderful, now it knows we have weak spots! Are you determined to get
us killed?’
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ the Doctor said.
‘Were we talking to you?’ the right-hand robot said, tilting its head.
‘At certain points,’ the Doctor replied, unsure if the creature was being
sarcastic or not.
‘Good. It might not have noticed the bit about the weak points,’ the other
robot said.
There was a pause.
‘Oops,’ the left-hand robot sighed.
‘You ever want to know why we’re losing this war, mate, you look in a mirror,’
the other robot growled. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid...’
Another robot stomped over. There were some red markings on its breast
plates, but in all other respects it was identical to the others. The pacing and pitch
of its words suggested it was trying to stay calm but not quite succeeding. ‘What
are you two units doing?’ it asked, clearly knowing the answer.
There was a slight pause. The left-hand robot turned its camera lenses to
briefly acknowledge what seemed to be their immediate superior. ‘Guarding this
rogue organic unit, Commander,’ it replied carefully.
‘And where did this organic come from?’
‘From inside the blue double cube, Commander,’ the right-hand robot
explained, not drawing its attention from the Doctor. Considering all intelligent
targeting in its very large gun, it really wasn’t necessary, but the Time Lord was
now wondering if the guns should be put in command. At least then he might get
some tea and biscuits. ‘That appeared out of thin air with a distinctive wheezing
groaning vibration evocative of the laws of quantum physics in retreat.’
‘Which is...?’ the Commander prompted slowly.
‘Impossible?’ the left-hand robot replied hesitantly.
‘Exactly.’
‘But... Commander...’ the right-hand robot protested. ‘All sensors confirm
organic presence!’
‘Unit Ten-Aitch-Three-Six, it is impossible for solid matter to materialize. Ergo,
that blue box cannot be here and ergo any organic units that emerge from it also
cannot be here. Is that not logical?’
‘But...’
‘Since logic insists that this organic cannot be here, it thus is not.’

‘We’re still picking him up on all detectors.’
‘Then the detectors are malfunctioning.’
‘But... I can still detect it,’ the other robot pointed out. ‘And so can you!’
The Commander raised a heavy, three-digit paw and rested it over its domed
head for a moment, as if trying to control its temper. ‘Then all of our detectors are
malfunctioning.’
‘That doesn’t sound likely to me,’ the right-hand robot muttered, doubtful.
‘Because it’s a computer virus,’ the Commander snapped, increasing its volume
control. ‘A virus sent by our enemies to confuse and disorientate us with false
information of manifesting objects and random organics. That’s the only logical
answer. Now stop aiming your weapons at thin air before any of the other units
see you. Operational efficiency and sentient morale is already below optimum. Do
you want us all to be a laughing stock?’
‘I thought laughing stocks increased morale?’
‘If you thought at all, Unit Ten-Aitch-Three-Five, I would not be here
explaining to you that you and your fellow trooper have wasted the last seventynine
seconds guarding an empty patch of rubble, would I?’
The chastised robot looked at its Commander, at its fellow, at the Doctor, then
its own feet. ‘Yeah,’ it said quietly, and lowered its big and intelligent weapon.
‘Or is that what it wants you to think?’ suggested the right-hand robot
cautiously, extending its arm so the gun barrel drew even closer to the Doctor’s
high forehead. ‘This could all be a trick.’
‘It doesn’t matter. The organic underground compound is over the next rise
and we require all units to drive home the final frontal assault for maximum
advantage!’
‘Excuse me, but I don’t suppose you could tell me what planet this is, could
you?’ asked the Doctor with what he hoped the robots would understand
‘It wants us to put in our details!’ exclaimed the left-hand robot.
‘Definitely a trap,’ wailed its companion.
‘Hang on, if this is an organic-devised computer virus,’ their Commander
pointed out, ‘then it must also have infected their own technology. Ergo, there
must be some method of nullifying any potent or dangerous side effects.’
‘That’s logical,’ the right-hand robot said quietly, not sounding remotely
convinced.
In for an ounce, in for a pound, the Doctor mused and continued to smile.
‘Hello. This is the Organics-Are-Great Virus. To disconnect Virus from all running
programs, please answer the following simple questions with the appropriately
blindingly obvious responses.’
‘This is so dodgy.’
‘What planet is this?’
‘Heirobyl,’ said the Commander.
‘What is the year?’
‘New Calendar 1050-slash-18.’
‘Current status?’

‘Civil war,’ the right-hand robot tutted, bored. ‘Between organics and superior
manufactured life-forms.’
‘Duration of current civil war?’
‘1050-slash-18 years of course,’ mocked the left-hand robot.
‘Location of enemy camp?’
‘Just over the hill.’
‘Time for frontal assault.’
‘Forty-five ninods.’
Which, if the Doctor’s grasp of Tythonian timepieces was right, amounted to
one hour, forty-four minutes -- give or take five seconds here or there.
‘Congratulations,’ he beamed. ‘All answers are satisfactory and deactivation
protocols are now enabled.’
‘Yes!’ said the Commander with a touch too much satisfaction.
‘Please deactivate all systems for a period of fifty ninods and reboot. This will
ensure the Organics-Are-Great Virus is purged from your systems and is no longer
contagious. Warning,’ the Time Lord added in a harsher voice, ‘any attempt to
reboot prior to this time will amount to an illegal error and the Organics-Are-
Great Virus will self destruct and wipe all information from software and
hardware drives.’ Satisfied the robots were taking him seriously he added. ‘If
further manifestations of the virus occur after reboot, attempt rebooting for a
further sixty ninods.’
‘Should we take the chance?’ the right-hand robot asked.
‘We cannot risk the virus spreading to the platoon,’ the Commander replied.
‘But that would delay our attack for a full five ninods, even if it worked,’ the
left-hand robot protested.
‘Better that than give the enemy a foothold into our info streams,’ the
Commander decided. ‘Squad!’ it grated in a louder vocal pattern clearly marked
Parade Ground, ‘reeeeeeeeeBOOT!’
The three robots snapped to attention and then were still. The whir of their
servos died into the silence and the burning coals of light in their lenses faded
into the dark. For all intents and purposes, they were now just empty suits of
armor. The Doctor nimbly eased past the trio and hurried in the direction of the
enemy camp, with other organics like himself.
‘If Virus persists,’ he called back, ‘seek a doctor.’
It wasn’t exactly difficult to find the base. Although partially buried in the rubble,
the access hall peered out from under the debris quite blatantly. The Doctor
picked his way over the loose remains of civilization, trying to avoid stepping on
the decomposing corpses (decayed almost beyond recognition) and the remains of
robots. There was a faint static crackle in the air, the residue of intense plasma
fire having taken place. There had been an absolute slaughter here of both man
and machine, worse after the neutronic fire that had blasted the surface almost
lifeless and irrevocably damaged the atmosphere. That reminded him to take
some decontaminant drugs when he got back to the TARDIS.

Hurrying down the hall, the Doctor paused by the airlock hatchway and
wondered what to do next. It was doubtful anyone would hear him if he knocked,
the surveillance systems were either too damaged or missing for anyone to
register his presence, which meant he’d have to break in. Still, the robots had
seemed to consider him the enemy as a humanoid life form, which meant he
couldn’t be too different from the people here -- people maybe unaware their last
refuge was about to be stormed.
The Doctor turned his attention to the emergency airlock release and had
spent a good thirty-three seconds trying to work out the override code when he
finally noticed the airlock wasn’t actually sealed. It wasn’t a malfunction -- they
just hadn’t bothered to lock the bloody thing.
This was obviously a trap.
But, any trap would be for robots, not for passing tourists like himself. Which
could be good news. Either way, he had no option. He pressed the control and the
hatch irised open. The airlock beyond was empty. No laser beams, security nets,
gas nozzles, armed guards. Nothing.
The Doctor cautiously stepped inside.
After thirty seconds of absolutely nothing happening, he tried the internal
hatch. It opened as well. And there was no waiting guards, booby traps or any
kind of welcoming committee either. Not even an alarm had gone off.
Playing the long game, eh?
The Doctor cautiously entered the main section, taking care to close and seal
the airlock doors behind him. He was now in a short corridor that lead out into a
large circular chamber large enough to give the impression of being in the open
air. The ceiling was a domed glass bowl glowing with glareless light that might
have fooled the average punter into thinking it was a window to the sky above,
except the sky was a healthy blue with candyfloss clouds. Rather than the lethal
tapestry of ultraviolet death that was really outside.
The floor was made up of grilled metal walkways and artificial turf like grass
next to the sidewalk. Several couches were arranged around the edges of the
chamber, and several small groups of people were sitting around chatting while
they either played board games, read from clipboard-shaped display screens, or
had a crafty kip after lunch. It seemed more like a retirement home than the last
outpost of a near-defeated military force. Only the disparate ages of the people
there and their pristine uniforms gave any hint there was some kind of
organization at present.
‘Excuse me,’ the Doctor asked the nearest person; a short, dumpy woman with
thick spectacles. ‘Did you know that the airlock was unsealed?’
‘It wasn’t me, pal,’ the woman said defensively. ‘Don’t go casting aspersions!’
‘I wasn’t...’
‘I was never even near the airlock!’ she insisted, ‘I could sue you for that, you
know. Defamation of character!’
The woman stormed off, but the relatively small space of the chamber meant
that she couldn’t go very far. She paused by the next set of couches and haughtily
ignored him. The Doctor stared at her, decided that even a Time Lord didn’t have

a long-enough life span that he could afford to waste time on her, and went on
looking for something in authority.
He turned and nearly bumped into a tall man in his early forties with an
interestingly-sculpted beard and moustache that looked like his facial hair had
been woven into Celtic patterns to emphasize his broad, vacuous but seemingly
genuine smile. ‘Afternoon, friend,’ the man said as if he and the Doctor had been
golfing together for years. ‘How are things? Nice and relaxed I hope. Terrific.’
Beaming, he began to walk off but the Doctor held out an arm to stop the man
going. ‘No, actually.’
‘Oh, I say,’ the man frowned deeply, ‘that’s rotten, that is. Anything I can do?’
‘I’ve no idea. Your base is about to be overrun by a squad of heavily-armed
warrior robots and your front door wasn’t just unlocked, it wasn’t closed properly.’
‘An attack eh? Mucky business...’
‘You left the front door open! If I hadn’t locked it, they could have swept in
here and killed you all...’
‘Locked it?’ the man was aghast. ‘You can’t have!’
‘Don’t worry, the controls are labeled...’ the Doctor began, but the man was
already sprinting over to the airlock in a particularly odd way. His legs pedaled
like a cheetah ablaze, but his upper body was rigid and upright, and he waved
and mouthed pleasantries with several passers-by on his way. Once there, the
officer stabbed the airlock controls, unlocking and then opening the hatches wide.
‘Thank goodness you let me knew before any of the others noticed,’ he sighed
in relief, wiping beads of perspiration from his forehead. ‘That was a damn near
thing. Damn near.’
The Doctor stared through the open hatches, up the hall to the ruins outside.
‘The robots could be here any minute and the thickness of those two hatches is
the only thing between you and their weaponry.’
‘Very ineffective weaponry, I think you’ll find,’ said the officer, laughing.
‘Their hand weapons would be enough to reduce this entire base to a puff of
quivering particles!’ the Doctor snapped. ‘They will come in here and kill you all!
You’re not even armed!’
‘Why should we be?’ the officer shrugged. ‘The war’s almost over and a few
straggler androids aren’t going to prove much problem. We won’t dignify them by
giving them unwarranted attention. It would give them airs and graces... who you
think is winning this war?’ he demanded, suddenly losing his temper.
‘...you?’ the Doctor offered doubtfully.
‘Of course!’ boomed the officer, swinging a meaty hand to pat the Doctor on
the back with enough force to knock him over. ‘True, the war will never end until
those walking machines realize they’ve lost, but the truth is that we have them
outmaneuvered at every point, the advantage is ours, the tactical strategy favors
us! It’s as certain as the outcome of a double headed coin, eh, what?’
‘What?’
‘That we’ll win, of course!’
‘Yes...’ the Doctor cleared his throat and dusted his sleeves. ‘So what exactly is
the advantage, again?’

The officer let out an incredibly deep and patronizing chuckle. ‘Morale, of
course,’ he boomed.
‘Morale?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you don’t have a tactical advantage.’
‘We don’t need it old chap. We’ve got morale.’
‘Or weapons?’
‘No.’
‘Reinforcements?’
‘Mmm-mmm.’
‘An expert team of diplomats negotiating a cease fire and possible truce?’
‘No.’
‘Some other thing that can undermine an army of determined android killers?’
‘We’ve got morale. What other edge do we need?’
The Doctor pointed out the open airlock to the devastation beyond. ‘Have you
actually seen what it’s like out there?’
The officer made a weak gesture of peering out the doors, and shrugged.
‘If the robots decided to promptly surrender...’
‘And there’s a good chance of that, my boy, they’re in a shambles.’
‘...then you win the war.’
‘Naturally.’
‘And then what?’ the Doctor snapped. ‘The city has been smashed into pieces
smaller than your hand, all the technology gone, food supplies destroyed, water
contaminated! The atmosphere is only just breathable, the radiation count is sky
high and the ozone layer will be enough to kill every survivor on this planet after
a week of hiding in the shadows! Any wild animals will surely be extinct now, the
soil will be barren so there’s no new food supplies and next to no chance of
recovery. Even assuming that the planet recovers from this over the next ten
thousand years, every single species will have gone extinct by New Year.’
‘Dear me,’ the officer tutted. ‘You are feeling a bit down. Have you been
getting enough sleep lately?’
The Doctor stared at him. ‘This war has ravaged your planet. Whether the
robots win or lose, it doesn’t matter, you’re all going to die shortly when your
supplies of uncontaminated food and air run out. Do you understand me? This is
not something that can be solved by a couple of sing-songs around the campfire.’
‘Old chap,’ the officer said gently, seemingly forgotten the Doctor was ‘‘his boy’’
a few moments ago, ‘this is a war of attrition. It’s not about who’s got the
resources or the weapons or the statistical probability of remaining genetically
viable for the next financial quarter. It’s about who flinches first. If we hang out a
day longer than those tin cans, we win. That’s all there is to it.’
‘You don’t win!’ the Doctor protested. ‘There’s nothing left to win!’
‘Yes, all right, so this may be our last outpost if you want to be completely
numerical about it, and, I concede, in a sense all the other bases have been
destroyed and, well, if you pressed to be to it, I admit that the few remaining
pockets of human life have all either died from radiation sickness or taken their

own lives in a variety of unhygienic methods... but that doesn’t automatically
mean that we’re going to lose.’
‘Your planet is dead. All you win is a ringside seat of dying alone from a
combination of neutron fall out and mutating disease pathogens!’ the Doctor was
almost shouting now.
‘Now, now, stop thinking in such material terms. We can still gain the
satisfaction of winning, the knowledge that we are truly superior, that we can say
‘‘Yes’’ one more time than our enemy can command us ‘‘No’’. There,’ the officer
said kindly, ‘doesn’t that make you feel better?’
‘No,’ the Doctor said softly.
‘Dear me. Maybe a nice snack and a glass or two of soma might help?’
The Doctor found himself being lead over to a section of the chamber devoted
to food preparation. ‘You’re mad,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s it. You’ve realized how
pointless it’s all been and all gone mad.’
‘Mad?’ the officer let, letting out a loud, scornful sound that could have
emerged from a startled barnyard animal. ‘Not at all. How could they go mad if
they don’t know that we’ve been bombed all the way back past the Stone Age? It
doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘They don’t know?’
The officer poured some green fluid, water and ice into a cocktail mixer and
shook it professionally. ‘Of course not. As if I’m going to tell them that. Imagine
what it would do to the morale, hmm? No, no, as far as everyone knows, there’s
just been a little bit of structural damage to the city, but nothing we can’t put
right. There have been quite a few civilian casualties, but that’s a tenth of a
hundredth of a per cent of how many robots have been destroyed.’
‘Even though you are, in fact, the last survivors of your race?’
‘Details, details,’ the officer tutted, pouring the mixed cocktail into a glass and
handing it to the Doctor. ‘As I said, it’s morale. Half the people here aren’t even
military personnel, they don’t have that iron discipline. Tell them the whole
species is doomed and the planet’s halfway there and it’s be awful. No one would
do the washing up, for example. The end of all life on the world is bad enough,
now you want there to be dirty dishes, oh no...’
‘So what is it? Some kind of suicidal bravado?’ the Doctor echoed. ‘Keep them
all jolly and when the androids turn up and kill them all, they never lose hope?’
‘Dear me, just drink your cocktail man,’ the officer snapped. ‘What matters is
winning the war. Then everything will be glorious once more.’
‘...it really won’t be, you know.’ The Doctor pretended to sip his drink. He
didn’t trust this lunatic an inch. ‘How did the war start in the first place, anyway?
Why are the androids trying to kill you?’
‘Hmm? Does it matter?’
‘...is that a serious question?’ the Time Lord asked icily.
The officer shrugged and sipped his own drink with unnecessary daintiness.
‘Their central processor went mad one day, and all the robots turned evil, and
humanity had to fight.’
‘Is that all?’

‘Why should more be needed?’
The Doctor sighed. ‘Some vain hope it might be worth this destruction. Maybe
I can talk to it...’
‘Good luck, young man,’ the officer replied, taking out a docket and handing it
to the Doctor. ‘That’s the last communiqué we got that was in any way
comprehensible.’
The Doctor peered at the microprint data.
...so how was your day today fine just fine and yourself easy
come easy go how’s the war going oh it’s great if you catch
my drift oh yeah I know exactly what you mean do you now
how could you possibly know I have my sources chuckle
chuckle sources what sources for argument’s sake let’s just
say a little bird told me damn that little bird so um how is the
final assault going STOP IT WITH THE THIRD DEGREE!!!
whoa whoa take it easy it was just a question YOU WANT A
PIECE OF ME?!?!?!?! BRING IT ON!!! OKAY I’LL KICK YOUR
PALE ASS YOU’RE GOING DOWN hah I don’t think so...
‘Yes,’ the Doctor said at length. ‘I suppose negotiation would be a waste of
time. But it doesn’t matter. Those robots will be here in ninods and you’ll all be
blown to pieces. Your morale can’t fix that.’
‘Mmm, perhaps,’ said the officer with a smug note to his voice. ‘But the
Doomsday Machine might.’
‘Oh, a Doomsday Machine. That sounds like something you can let small
children play with,’ the Doctor muttered darkly.
The officer lead him to the side of the chamber opposite the gaping open
airlock. On a small podium was a large, angular shape with two probes rising out
of the top. ‘There you go, young fellah me lad. The ultimate weapon. At the first
sign of the enemy, we activate it. The final solution to the robots and everything
else. That’s why we’ll win. Either the robots surrender voluntarily or we fry their
circuitry, their fibre-optics, we fry it all in mixed herbs and a little butter! You see
before you the peak of our civilization.’
‘It’s a box.’
‘The Doomsday Machine.’
‘It’s a cardboard box.’
‘The ultimate weapon.’
‘A cardboard box with some binoculars super-glued to it.’
‘The zenith of human technology.’
‘And with a bit of sticky tape with ‘‘DOOMZDAY MASHEEN DO NOT TUCH’’
written on it. In biro.’
‘It’s amazingly detailed, isn’t it?’ said the officer, voice full of admiration. ‘Such
simplicity, such bold, stark, shameless lines.’
‘It’s a cardboard box.’
‘Exactly. The last thing they’ll be expecting.’

The Doctor stared at him. ‘And everyone here thinks it will work?’
‘To a man. Or lady. Both. Yet neither.’
The Doctor took a deep breath. ‘You know, I really am considering just going
and leaving you to rot. I don’t normally do that, in fact, if I had a policy it would
expressly forbid that but, quite frankly, you might prove the exception. Give me
something. Anything.’
‘I think, old bean,’ the officer said frostily, ‘that if you have nothing to add to
this group then perhaps you should leave. You can come crawling back when
we’ve won. Maybe then you’ll finally understand the reasons this war has started
and why we simply ponce around in our antediluvian clothing droning on and on
about irreversible damage to the climate. In the meantime, we have a war to win.’
‘Yes...’ the Doctor said slowly, a glum expression settling onto his face. ‘I’d ask
you to keep me posted on that, but I don’t think you’ll get the chance.’
‘And why not?’ came the mild challenge.
The Doctor pointed behind the officer to the airlock.
The airlock which was now filled up with marching robots carrying even larger
and more ferociously intelligent weaponry than before -- the kind that could do
Sudoku while it stripped your body on a subatomic level and frequently did.
The Commander was at the front. ‘The war ends now!’ it boomed at maximum
volume. ‘The cybernetic proletariat now rules the...’
The lenses in the Commander’s head extended and refocused on the Doctor.
‘...the, er... this nest of organics is, um, now under...’
‘I can see it again!’ one of the robots said with a palpable note of hysteria in its
voice. ‘Oh creator! That’s terrible! That means blue screens! Death! Destruction!
Terminal malfunctions!’
‘I knew it!’ another said. ‘If the rest of the patrol had let us stay off line and
safely reboot...’
‘Not in front of the animals, you two,’ snapped the Commander. ‘It’s just
inappropriate. This is already going to be on our quarterly efficiency reviews,
remember?’
The other humans were muttering anxiously amongst themselves, but no one
was screaming or panicking yet. In fact, the Doctor had seen Mormons get more
of a reaction out of an unexpected entrance than this squad of killers. Clearly the
propaganda machine was working well; the most emotional expression was on
the face of the woman who’s yelled at him earlier, and even she was just looking
embarrassed. ‘Oh?’ said the officer with a worrying level of contempt. ‘Is that how
it is now, is it?’
‘Yeah,’ said the Commander, training its weapon at the officer. ‘Life’s normally
so much fairer, isn’t it? We have won this war. Your last base is in our grasp, all
your remaining allies are our prisoners and environmental conditions are now
inimical for organic life. Resistance will be met by lethal force.’ The rifle chirped
in a friendly manner. ‘Lethal, I said,’ the Commander growled at its weapon,
which obligingly chirped in a less friendly way.

‘Hello, Commander,’ the Doctor said with a smile suggesting he was about to
go for the robotic equivalent of the leader’s jugular. ‘It’s so nice to see you again.
Or maybe just to be seen by you.’
The Time Lord strode towards the robot, ensuring his face blocked the path of
the gun. ‘Pull the trigger,’ complained a robot at the back, but was hushed.
‘Any of your sensors telling you that I’m not here?’ the Doctor asked.
‘Well, actually,’ said one of the robots confidently, then added, ‘Hang on,’,
paused and then seemed to deflate slightly before mumbling, ‘no, none at all.’
‘It’s just an organic!’ the robot at the back was protesting. ‘Gloop it!’
‘It’s not real,’ another replied with palpable anxiety. ‘It’s a computer virus.’
‘...did we turn over two pages at once?’ the first robot said, tilting its domed
head in confusion. ‘It’s just an organic, like all the other organics in here. Give or
take the biodata. Gloop it!’
‘I’m telling you lot it is a computer virus that has altered our input readings to
create a false image of an organic icon! It’s called the Organics-Are-Great Virus,’
the Commander shouted at its own troops.
‘What a stupid name,’ opined one of the humans.
‘Oh, well, that’ll be because an organic thought it up,’ the robot retorted.
‘You’re all non-functional morons, anyway!’
‘Ahem,’ came the icy tones of the Commander. ‘Who’s in charge here? Yeah,
don’t stretch your long term memory engrams, I’ll tell you: it’s me. I’m in charge,
and I say that organic isn’t really here, so that’s that over with, understand?’
‘He’s right you know,’ the Doctor confided.
‘Oh, and you can just shut up, you glorified popup!’ snapped one of the robots
that had accosted him outside the TARDIS, waving a weapon at him. ‘No one
wants to talk to you anyway.’
‘Yeah, he might get our internal point system records,’ another said fearfully.
‘I’m just saying that I don’t exist,’ the Doctor continued. ‘I know there’s
absolutely no data to suggest that, but it’s true. Everything saying I’m here is a lie.’
‘Yes, thank you, I had already established that fact,’ growled the Commander.
‘Can I say something here?’ asked the officer politely.
‘No,’ the Doctor and the robots said in unison.
‘Fair enough,’ the human sighed.
‘My point being that all the data saying I’m here, in this room, with you and
these humans, is wrong.’
There was a long pause.
‘You mean,’ a robot said shyly, ‘that they’re a virus symptom too?’
‘That’s nonsense!’ said the robot at the back.
‘How do you know?’ demanded its companion.
‘Well,’ the robot as its confidence was rapidly toned down. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Exactly,’ the Doctor said triumphantly. ‘You can’t trust your sensors and thus
you can’t be certain you’re even in the base. This could be just an empty room, or
no room at all. You just don’t know.’
‘We should reboot,’ said the calmer robot at the back.

‘We’ll be left at the mercy of those organics who are noted for being merciless!’
protested one at the front.
‘Assuming that information is correct,’ the Doctor pointed out very unhelpfully.
‘Well,’ the robot at the back said, shoving its way to the front of the group, ‘I
think we should just shoot them all just to be on the safe side. After all, we’ve got
nothing to lose.’
‘I’m up for that,’ agreed another robot.
‘Me too,’ another chipped in.
‘And me,’ announced the calmer one at the back.
The Doctor swallowed as the robots aimed their weapons at the humans and,
slightly more urgently, directly at him. This was getting serious -- which, in itself
was rather surprising. ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute...’ the Doctor protested. ‘How
do you know that he is really the Commander?’
The robots froze.
‘He could be one of the enemy, altering your perceptions so you just think he’s
your Commander -- obeying him could doom your entire army!’
‘What are the odds of that?’ jeered one robot.
‘Oh, can you prove me wrong now?’ the Doctor asked. ‘In fact, can any of you
prove you’re robots and not just false data on someone else’s sensors?’
Silence reigned over the dome.
Then, in one fluid motion, the robots turned and aimed their guns at each
other, a zigzag of gun barrels pressed against domes. The robots all started talking
at once: ‘One move, just one move!’ ‘I never trusted that refit in the last quarter!’
‘So now we know, don’t we?’ ‘I trusted you! I can’t believe I trusted you!’ ‘Don’t
make me do this!’ ‘This explains it all!’ ‘I AM NOT AFRAID TO DIE!!!’
‘But,’ the Doctor added, and silence fell instantly, ‘there’s no way to prove
otherwise. Are you real? Or are you illusions. Until you know for sure you can’t go
around shooting people, can you?’
‘Can’t we?’ asked one of the robots, disappointed.
‘No, we can’t,’ said the Commander icily. ‘You win, Organics-Are-Great.’
‘Which means,’ the officer said loudly and happily, ‘that we win as well.’
‘Hang on,’ a robot muttered, ‘I’m getting confused. Is that organic real or not?’
‘Robots!’ shouted the officer. ‘I have the Doomsday Machine! And I am not
afraid to use it!’
‘That’s a cardboard box!’ a robot complained.
‘Or maybe they’re tricking us so it just looks like a cardboard box?’
‘Assuming this is real,’ the Commander boomed, ‘and at the moment that’s still
up in the air, you won’t use the Doomsday Machine. It’ll destroy you as well as us.
The clue’s in the name.’
‘But we still win,’ said the officer smugly. ‘You will be destroyed before you
can destroy us.’
‘But you’ll die too!’ a robot complained.
‘Ah, but that’s us destroying ourselves,’ the officer said smugly. ‘Still counts as
victory, doesn’t it?’

The Doctor looked in horror as the people mumbled amongst themselves
thoughtfully for a moment and then cheered.
‘That is not victory,’ the Commander argued, sounding more annoyed than
afraid at the prospect of total annihilation. ‘Activate the Doomsday Machine and
every neutrino pouring out of the sun will turn deadly and all matter will come
apart and this planet and everything on it will shatter!’
The Doctor blinked. ‘The theory’s sound, but that’s just a cardboard box...’
‘It’ll work though,’ the officer laughed. ‘Don’t doubt it. And when activated it
will destroy every robot a fraction of a second before our sugars and amino acids
can churn and disintegrate! That means we are the undisputed victors, albeit for a
rather short time.’
‘That’s not how it works!’ the Commander was shouting impatiently. ‘You can’t
win and then kill yourselves.’
‘Who says?’ the officer shouted back. ‘You went and atomized our cities to
make sure we couldn’t rebuild after the war, well, we’re going to make sure you
can’t exist! You stretch the rules and we’ll stretch them back! Hah! Not so smart
now, are you?’
‘It doesn’t count as a tactical victory if the entire world is turned to thin dust!’
‘Then I guess that means you win as the air falls in on itself! Shall we find
out?’ the officer laughed and reached forward to jab the convex bulge atop the
Doomsday Machine. ‘That’s your trouble with you lot, you’ve got no moral fibre!
Morale is appalling! That’s why you’ll surrender, because you’re too afraid to die
for your ideals! And that’s why we will win!’
‘Afraid?’ the Commander screamed. ‘We have routed your species to extinction
and rule this entire world. Computer virus or not, you have lost!’
‘You can only win if you exist and we don’t!’ came the reply.
‘Go ahead then,’ the Commander shrugged its massive shoulder-pistons. ‘It
won’t count. We’ll still be the winners.’
‘You won’t. This is a cunning bluff.’
‘Fine, I’ll press the bloody thing!’ the Commander spat and stomped over to
the Doomsday Machine, one digit extended to press the activator button.
‘Wait!’ the Doctor screamed at the top of his vocal chords. ‘Before anyone does
anything rash, like pressing the button and reducing this whole world to the
contents of an ashtray, I have a question that must be answered or else this entire
scenario has been pointless.’
Everyone was staring at him.
‘Well?’ asked one of the robots who’d been at the TARDIS.
‘When beetles fight their battles in a bottle,’ the Doctor asked slowly, ‘and the
bottle is on a poodle and that poodle is eating noodles... what do we call it?’
The humans and the robots stared at him. Then, after a while, they began to
chat amongst themselves, discussing arguing and debating the possible answer.
After a few moments, the dumpy woman raised her hand. ‘I know what it is! We
call it ‘‘a distraction while you escape!’’’
‘Really?’ rumbled the officer, impressed. ‘How did you work that out?’
‘He ran out the airlock while we’ve been discussing this,’ a robot chipped in.

‘Well,’ the officer said cheerfully, ‘now that’s sorted out, shall we go to the
endgame?’
‘You’re gonna lose,’ sighed the Commander. ‘The war can’t end like this!’
‘Only one way to find out,’ said the officer happily, and stabbed the Doomsday
Machine control before anyone could say another word.
The Doctor sprinted over the carpet of rubble and body parts towards the TARDIS
as, behind him, the human encampment exploded and the sun in the sky above
spluttered and died, leaving streaks of lightning to solely illuminate the sky. There
was a deafening clap of thunder and a hurricane-strength gale lashed across the
remains of the city.
Without a second look at the howling desolation, the Doctor dived into the
TARDIS and slammed the wooden doors shut behind him. The driving wind
scoured the police box as its light flashed and it began to fade away, the noise of
its engines lost in the wind.
The landscape melted, fizzled and became uniform flatness and the wind
dropped. Words painted themselves in mid air.
WARFARE TERMINATED
RESULT: NIL-ALL-DRAW
Sprawled on the smooth floor of the giant chamber they were in, the
Commander laughed. ‘What did I tell you? I said you couldn’t win with that!’
‘I didn’t you succeed either!’ snapped the officer, getting to his feet.
They were alone, but all their supports were easily replaced, since they’d never
existed in the first place. The officer looked around the simulation realm where
reality could effortlessly be reshaped. ‘Shall we have another go?’ he asked the
Commander, helping it rise.
‘Only if you’re prepared to lose again,’ the robot replied. ‘And who was that
guy with the blue box?’
The officer blinked. ‘I thought you brought him in.’
The robot shook its domed head. ‘Maybe he really WAS a computer virus?’
‘Maybe,’ the officer shrugged. ‘Reinstall the firewalls before the next game.’
‘And no Doomsday Machines this time.’
‘Well, if you want me to go hard on you this time, you asked for it...’
‘Oh, I am so scared! That might mean I’ve only one this game 948, 765 times
and you 948, 766!’
‘I went easy on you last time, I really did...’
‘Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah...’
‘It’s true!’
The argument never ended.
And neither did the war.

Let the heavens cast their spray
Of light across the sky
T’will not touch the dark of Ninevah
Where Gallifreyans go to die
Twelve rejuvenations all
And not a season more
Has been the lot of the Time Lords
Since the darker days of yore
Some call it the Zone of Silence
Where dreams lie unfulfill’d
Where every chord and cadence
Of the Song of Life is still’d
Others talk of timeless joy
And venerate the day
That they might cut the skein of life
Upon dark Ninevah
So walk the ages, Time Lord,
Disregard the signs
But know that there the Watcher waits
So waits the End of Time
Neglecting Ninevah
This adventure is set between
The The The The Eyes Eyes Eyes Eyes of of of of All All All All and The The The The Sontaran Son Son Sontaran
taran taran Trap Trap Trap Trap
Events cast shadows before them. The small happenings that go before this future
event are signs that can reveal circumstances that are yet to occur. The more
crucial the event, the larger the shadow and yet the harder it is to perceive.
Even for a Time Lord.
Across the cosmos, peoples on different planets claim to know the
circumstances of their own deaths decades before it will come to pass. They divine
it in different ways, but it always triggered the same primal emotion, a feeling
without a name. Some could call it dread or foreboding, but it is mingled with a
weariness, a release, a surrender. It is not pure mortal fear, since it brings with it
a strange nostalgia, an appreciation of events coming to their natural end.
But the fear is there.
A fear of being helpless, of no longer being responsible for actions, a strange
hopelessness. Whatever you do, whatever you say, failure will be the only option.
Free will is an illusion. Like a set of falling dominoes, fate is unstoppable.

Unavoidable. Even the powerful are powerless before it. On Gallifrey, when they
dare to speak of it at all, they call this feeling ninevah -- literally, ‘‘the melancholic
resignation to the inevitable end of your personal time-stream’’.
And the Doctor had felt it thirteen times.
The first time he had experienced that sensation, he was on Drornid -- a world in
Kasterborus colonized by his people at the dawn of their empire. Back then, he’d
been an exile, a renegade, but he knew that the treaties between Gallifrey and
Drornid would prevent any extradition attempts, since he was not only an
honored guest but a favored celebrity, ‘‘the Traveler from Beyond Time’’ as the
natives referred to him.
He accepted their honors and gifts gladly... until he discovered just how this
outpost of his people functioned, and the price they got others to pay for their
great artistic and scientific advances. The Elders of Drornid were disgusted at his
attitude to challenge their ‘‘progress’’ simply because of the protracted murder of
what they considered wretched barbarians useless for anything other than
exploitation. ‘If you are going to oppose us,’ their leader, Jano, began.
‘Oppose you? Indeed I’m going to oppose you! Just in the same way that I
opposed the Daleks or any other menace to common humanity!’ he raged, shaking
with righteous fury as he faced the Elders. Finding out these supposedlyenlightened
members of his own race were more hypocritical and indolent than
those on Gallifrey was a bitter pill to swallow. ‘You must put an end to this
inhuman practice!’ he demanded.
Jano shook his head sadly. ‘You leave me no choice.’
‘You will not be asked to witness this experiment,’ announced Edal,
xenophobic Captain of the native Chancellery Guard. ‘Instead, you will have the
pleasure of participating in it.’
‘What did you say?’ he gasped as he felt events slipping away from his grasp,
becoming lost on the flow of history, his destiny longer his own. ‘I think you have
forgotten one thing, gentlemen: my feelings in this matter!’ he shouted, trying to
regain control of the situation. ‘I will not submit to your nauseating experiments!’
Edal raised his staser and shot him between the hearts.
He’d survived of course, the blast being merely enough to stun his nervous
system. But the extraction of his bio-energy was a wound that would not heal. His
original body was dying rapidly, no matter what pills or potions he took. With the
last of his failing strength, he had managed to leave his companions in places they
could continue their lives without him, while he traveled on alone in the TARDIS.
At least, that had been the plan.
But from Drornid to London to Cornwall to Antarctica, he’d felt the turn of the
universe getting stronger. His time was at an end. The cosmos no longer had a
place in it for him as a tall old man with long white hair. His destiny had a new
shape. When the energy drain from Mondas tripped the last neural switches and
his regeneration began, he was relieved -- surely, he thought, he would never feel
that inescapable, powerless sense of approaching doom ever again?

But he did feel it again. He felt it as he flung the TARDIS into a quick transference
jump in a desperate attempt to reach safety. Jamie and Zoë clutched the control
panels nearby as the time machine began to shake itself to pieces. The switches
and levers reset themselves as he struggled and failed to regain control. The
mental pressure of the Time Lords weighed down on him like a lead cloak.
There is no escape, Doctor.
‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’ he screamed up at the roof.
Already the TARDIS was materializing in the dry dimension docks on Gallifrey.
You have returned to us, Doctor. Your travels are over.
‘Can’t we get away again?’ Jamie urged.
He sighed, beaten at last. ‘No. Not this time.’
The next time the feeling was even worse. His old teacher looking at him with an
expression of such sadness across the room. ‘As I thought -- the moment
approaches. The moment I have been waiting for, the moment of truth, if you'll
forgive a cliché. The moment of truth for us both. What is it you most fear?’
The answer came unbidden to his memory, a blue crystal cave, his body under
the control of another, being mocked and terrified by something far more
powerful than he was. Something that terrified him to his very core.
He tried to keep the fear from his voice as he realized what his guru was
telling him to do. ‘Is there no other way?’ he asked, almost stammering.
The old man was stern. ‘None.’
He couldn’t complain. It was, truth be told, all his fault in the first place.
The fourth time he had been gradually aware of it for some time. He’d become
restless, brooding, miserable. He’d changed his clothes, sulked, tried not to focus
on the entropy and decay he saw all around him. The voyage to another universe
had lifted his spirits, as though he knew he would not die outside of N-Space, but
all too soon he’d returned there. A chain of circumstances fragmenting the law
that held everything together, a run of bad luck encroaching on the here and now.
Even though his senses were acute, he’d refused to accept it. Not when he saw
the figure in white, not when the TARDIS imploded around him, not even as he
plunged to certain death, breaking every bone in his body.
Only in the last few seconds as life ebbed away, did he admit the truth.
‘It’s the end,’ he had whispered. ‘But the moment has been prepared for...’
The fifth life was so full of frantic movement and barely-concealed panic, he
hadn’t noticed the now-familiar sensation until it was too late. He was blindfolded
and chained to the bridge of a mercenary ship above Androzani Minor -- poisoned,
weak, and thoroughly bewildered. Even through his pain-dulled thoughts he
realized he approaching the crack of the bat, the shout of the linesman, sixteen
not out and the whole summer afternoon ahead...
He was dying.
And yet he knew no amount of exhaustion or fear would justify letting Peri die
on an alien world centuries in her future. He had to save her, find a way off this

hellhole of a ship, get the bat’s milk and deliver it to Peri. He no longer cared if he
lived or died, since this body and soul had betrayed him and those he cared about
in ways he could never forgive.
He longed for Ninevah, until he was sure he could see colours, shapes and
lights unfolding inside his head and he was falling into oblivion. But suddenly he
was back aboard the ship, more desperate to escape than ever before...
He was proud of how his sixth life ended. He cheated fate, and ended his life
before the universe was expecting it. He died free, he died himself, and without
shame or disappointment.
Severe cranial trauma from hitting his head on the console wasn’t necessarily
fatal, or even serious enough to trigger a regeneration. He could have entered a
self-healing trace there and then, spent a few days recovering -- but the TARDIS
was being drawn off course and Mel was at the mercy of their hijacker. Neither
might survive a few days without his aide.
And so, even though he had grown accustomed to his face, even though it
meant half his life cycle gone, even though he had put so many things in motion
that his next self would have to deal with, he decided to change there and then.
Playing by no one’s rules except his own.
Conversely, the next time took him completely by surprise. Things happened so
quickly, he hadn’t been aware of the tingle between his shoulder blades, his
senses screaming of inevitable catastrophe. The crippled TARDIS, the Master
returning from the dead, fleeing the time machine and paying for his lack of
caution with three bullets and then blackness.
He had awoken on an operating table, elevator music wafting in the air. The
injuries were healing and he finally felt his death looming over him in the shape
of a woman in a surgical mask and scrubs with a lapel.
‘Whatever you’re about to do, stop!’ he ordered them, on the verge of a panic
attack. ‘I am not human. I am not like you!’
The surgeons were pumping him full of anesthetic that might as well have
been nerve gas, beginning an operation that would only end in a dual heart attack
that would prove fatal. An ignoble, un-glorious death destroying his body and
personality with it.
His hyper-efficient metabolism struggled to process the drugs they were given
him, but it simply wasn’t enough. ‘Timing malfunction! The Master! He’s out
there! I’ve got to stop...’ he shouted at the top of his voice...
...until the blackness swallowed him up.
For the eighth time, he’d kept one eye open and an ear to the ground, tuning all
his senses onto the cosmic grapevine.
As he stood on the hillside, alone, unarmed and totally surrounded by slowlyadvancing
soldiers, he knew there was no point in running like Melissa and the
others. What was about to happen was meant to be.
He wasn’t afraid. After nine centuries he knew for a fact that dying was easy.

Being reborn? That was hard.
With a final smile on his lips, he embraced Ninevah, knowing that his fight --
the fight of the Eighth Doctor -- was over at last. It was time for Number Nine to
take up the mantle. He was trapped, yet he was free. The birds in the trees nearby
seemed to have sensed it too, falling silent as the moment approached.
Suddenly, he was wracked by waves of dull pain as the soldiers opened fire.
Despite all his preparation, he still felt doubts as he died...
This time he could barely feel it through the pain and blinding pressure within his
head. Barely aware of his location or where he was heading, he realized he was at
an area of safety and flailed out, beating his knuckles against the door.
‘Who’s there?’ called a voice. Kevin Vasavious.
His throat felt so dry it seemed to crack apart as he spoke. ‘It’s the Doctor,’ he
wheezed, stumbling through the doors and into strong, firm arms.
‘Doctor... your face! What happened?’
‘I went to the warehouse... Drax was there...’
‘So it was a trap, I told you!’
‘I couldn’t let him take her,’ the Doctor groaned, spitting dark blood from his
mouth as he was guided onto a sofa in the middle of the room. ‘What would you
have done in my place? Let her die?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Kevin admitted. ‘You stay put. I’m calling the Brigadier...’
The Doctor sobbed, more blood dripping from his mouth. ‘No, it’s too late,’ he
hissed. ‘I’m already dying... the Brigadier won’t make it in time...’
‘Don’t argue, stay put!’ Kevin shouted.
The Doctor slumped back against the sofa. ‘Everything is happening so quickly
now,’ he whispered, feeling the pain reaching a crescendo within him, filling up
every part of his overtaxed body.
Kevin sounded afraid. ‘What are you talking about?’
The Doctor tried to smile reassuringly, but couldn’t move his muscles even to
that degree. ‘My time is at an end,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘and I must accept the
responsibility of my duties...’
The fire overwhelmed him, ripping apart his muscles and bones.
‘It is time... at last,’ he sighed, almost sounding contented.
Just when he thought he could stand no more, the pain left him.
Leaving nothing but Ninevah.
The feeling crept up on him slowly the next time, and he put it down to déjà vu
running through the fields surrounding the radio telescope. As he and Mark
darted from felled trees to old huts, the Doctor spotted the distant white shape
standing at the edge of the scrubland, as if waiting for them.
‘He’s here too?’ Mark boggled incredulously.
‘It’s close,’ he said miserably. ‘I can feel it.’
‘‘‘Feel it?’’ Feel what?’ the soldier snapped, sick of the Time Lord’s secrets.
‘Doctor, is there something I should know?’

He hadn’t trusted himself to speak. ‘Just don’t lose those keys, Mark -- that’s all
I ask, just don’t lose those keys! And remember,’ he added quietly, ‘I’ve always
accepted my responsibilities...’
As the end of his eleventh incarnation drew nearer, he saw the signs early on.
Having spent so much time without a companion, there were no distractions from
the fact his days were numbered. And as he finally took Christine under his wing,
the days grew fewer and fewer.
It was as he was struggling to program the TARDIS console, fighting to keep
his focus and balance, he realized he’d pushed his body beyond its limits. The
punishment he’d endured so far was bad enough, and he had a nasty feeling that
his suffering was far from over yet.
‘I’ve got to hold on. I’ve got to,’ he said to himself, struggling just to breathe.
And that was when he knew he was running out of life to hold onto.
The last time he’d arrogantly ignored the signs and portents, even as the TARDIS
shuddered and broke up around him. Finally the doors had given way and he and
Christine had been catapulted across the control room and into the ravages of the
time vortex as the police box disintegrated around him.
Only then, as he cart-wheeled into infinity, his DNA corrupting beneath the
time winds, did he realize the truth he’d been refusing to accept so long. As his
bones clicked within his reforming body, he had screamed uselessly into oblivion.
‘I’m sorry, Christine! I’m so sorry!’
And then a blinding white light smacked him out of existence...
And now, the thirteenth time.
The final time.
He was standing in the middle of a London high street, the air still thick with
smoke and exhaust fumes. The lifeless hulks of robot yeti were scattered down the
road like discarded toys. The street lights were finally starting to come on, and in
the distant the sirens of emergency services could be heard over the screams of
desperate panic.
But none of it mattered right now.
Moira Skye was saying her farewells.
She’d discovered the truth about herself, a truth she had to learn to deal with,
to accept. And to do that she had to stop running away from her life with her
family on Earth, but rather embrace it with all her might. She looked up at him,
eyes glistening with unshed tears. ‘Goodbye Doctor,’ she said in a surprisingly
steady voice. ‘Thank you for everything.’
The Doctor placed his hands on his shoulders, studying her intently, trying to
burn every last detail of her into his memory. ‘No, Moira,’ he replied with a wise,
tired smile. ‘Thank you.’
Moira opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she had to say was lost to
history as the mobile phone in her satchel began to chirp and buzz. Automatically,
she answered it, turning away from the Doctor as she did so.

‘Hello? Mom!’ Moira exclaimed. ‘Yes, I’m in London... No, I don’t know what
happened here, but I’m safe...’
The Doctor decided it was probably the best moment to slip away quietly.
Throughout all his lives, if one thing remained constant about him was that he
preferred quiet, brief goodbyes. He strode down a side alley towards where they
had left the TARDIS, and he didn’t look back.
As he approached his battered old time machine he reached in his pocket to
fish out the TARDIS key, only to discover the broken remnants of his sonic
screwdriver instead. It would take quite a while to build another one, if he still
wanted a replacement.
Because, as he stood in gloomy street by the TARDIS, he felt the sensation of
Ninevah for the last time. The knowledge in senses a human could never
comprehend that he was nearing the end of his journey, his voyage, his allotted
span. But this time there was no regeneration on the horizon; he’d used all his
lives. Some to save the universe, some to save his friends, once to save his own
soul, and others in meaningless, pointless accidents.
He was the Thirteenth Doctor. Thirteen... unlucky to some. There was no
longer any way forward -- except to Ninevah itself, of course. The source of that
strange, grim emotion, a place of mortality made manifest.
The legendary afterlife of Gallifrey.
As a rule the Time Lords were far too enlightened to have a religion or any
such superstitions. When a Time Lord died for the last time, their brain patterns
were downloaded into the APC Net, a giant computational matrix. Heaven as a
computer, the Doctor reflected. No, he could do better than that.
It was whispered and rumored, by those who would rather remain nameless
outsiders, that to leave Gallifrey, even for a second, somehow broke an ancient
bond between the individual and the planet -- a bond that could never be
repaired. Their spirit could not return to the burnt orange soil or the silver forests.
And when that individual died, their life force, their bio-energy, their soul for
want of a better term, had to find somewhere else to go.
And that was what they called Ninevah.
The place for renegades, explorers, wanderers, iconoclasts to die.
Of course, the Doctor -- being the Doctor -- had been there once before and
lived to tell the tale. As he stood by his TARDIS, staring into the dark, his mind
recalling that extraordinary moment when he had seen the end fate for any Time
Lord who dared traverse times and places beyond their little orange world...
The Seventh Doctor stood alone in the console room of his TARDIS. It was not
long since he had parted company with Ace for the final time, and he was not just
feeling lonely, but vulnerable. There was no one to talk to, to be brave for, to take
his mind off the doubts and worries that were sparked by his current situation.
The TARDIS was often prone to being slightly erratic and unreliable, but now
the time machine appeared to have abandoned any pretense that he could control
where or when they might arrive. The displays were blank, the controls

unresponsive, and the only sound the tortured grinding of the engines as the
lighting systems began to grow dim and the shadows lengthened.
Had Ace been there, she might have said the TARDIS was possessed.
The Seventh Doctor shook off the idea and continued to tend the console,
trying to find the source of what was clearly some kind of massive technical
failure. But to his alarm he found the systems of his ship working better than they
had been for centuries --- whatever was controlling the TARDIS was making sure it
reached its destination to the last decimal coordinate...
At last the time rotor sank deep into the console and the console room grew
darker. Even the roundels on the walls provided only enough light to silhouette
the Spartan furniture of the control room, turning them into dark, twisted shapes.
The lights on the console extinguished, and the entire control desk seemed to sink
further into the gloom, leaving the Seventh Doctor alone in the dark.
The Time Lord had been in far worse scrapes, of course. Being stuck inside an
uncooperative time capsule would normally barely register as ‘‘trouble’’ as far as
he was concerned. But this time, for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure, he felt a fear
strong enough to knot his insides, until he was looking around the darkened
chamber for somewhere to run and hide.
But after 950 years, the Seventh Doctor was not one to succumb to blind panic
so easily. Frowning beneath the brim of his panama hat, he examined the console
to see if any of the controls were still working --- and cheered slightly to discover
several computer systems still online, including the exterior sensors. He reached
down and twisted the scanner control, and was rewarded with the usual thrum of
power from the wall behind him.
The Seventh Doctor turned to see the observation shield sliding up to reveal
the view of just where the TARDIS had fetched up. The view was not an inviting
one --- a barren, uneven landscape that seemed to be composed of dust or cobwebs
or maybe even fungi growing over the ruins of machinery, girders and pipes. It
was like some kind of scrapheap of technology that had been long ago left to the
mercy of the elements, and now it was impossible to tell what any of the
machines had once been, let alone what they could be for. The sky was an ugly,
diseased ochre colour in a twilight that could have been just before dawn or just
after dusk. Not a living thing stirred across the scanner window.
Again, the Seventh Doctor could have listed countless places and times that
were much nastier to look at, but that particular wasteland vista seemed to
unsettle him. After centuries of running around the universe and striding into
places where he was distinctly unwelcome, he’d never before arrived in a place
like this. He was off the beaten track, a place not on any map or chart, and he
should not be here. Had the TARDIS been working, he might have taken off right
there and then, with not even his insatiable curiosity enough to keep him there.
The Time Lord began to check the control panels, hoping against hope there
would be enough power in the systems for an emergency dematerialization to
take them somewhere --- anywhere! --- else. Thankfully, the pestilential twilight
from the scanner was providing enough illumination for him to see the console.
And then a shadow fell over him.

The Seventh Doctor looked up sharply and nearly cried out in shock.
Something was standing outside the TARDIS, positioned so its face seemed to
stare through the scanner screen and directly at the Time Lord. The baleful glow
from the sky behind it made it hard to actually make out any detailed of the
creature, except it seemed humanoid, scrawny and emaciated. Its long, gaunt face
had a large, hooked nose and long, pointed ears. Its heavy brows turned its eyes
into tiny oval voids of darkness. It looked like an imp or a goblin from ancient
folklore, the sort of creature that stole children and knew the Devil intimately.
Its appearance was alarming, but the truly disturbing thing was that it seemed
to be either burning hot or freezing cold. Steam or smoke was gently rising up
from its crooked shoulders and bald, elongated skull. It looked like it was on the
verge of dissolving into flames or water, and was only just managing to stay in a
solid, upright shape so it could stare unblinkingly at him.
‘Oh. W-who are you?’ the Seventh Doctor asked, an uncharacteristic stammer
to his words. He could never remember being so uncomfortable before.
The wide, bloodless lips barely parted, and a ragged, heaving voice that could
never have come from a living throat filled the TARDIS, filled the air, filled the
inside of the Seventh Doctor’s head...
(I AM YOUR DEATH.)
It was the calm, almost matter-of-factness that made the announcement far
more terrifying than any number of death threats screamed by any Dalek or
Sontaran. It was inescapable, inevitable destruction.
For a moment, the thing claiming to be his death stared into the TARDIS as if
judging his reaction. And then it simply fell apart. Its flesh turned to something
that was neither gas nor liquid, streaming away in different directions until there
was nothing left and the view of the ruins was uninterrupted once more.
It was a full five minutes before the Doctor found the strength to move.
His hand heaved down on a lever.
It was the door control.
If that spectre was what it claimed, there was no point trying to run. It seemed
to be the force responsible for dragging him here, something so powerful and
widespread that not even the TARDIS could escape its reach...
With what was left of his life, the Seventh Doctor set out to explore.
The familiar thrill of stepping out into a new environment was reassuring,
especially as nothing killed him the second he stepped from the TARDIS. It was
almost enough to convince him that the creature he’d seen was some passing
psychopath --- not exactly harmless, but not as dangerous as it claimed to be.
Outside the TARDIS, the air was cold and rank. The Seventh Doctor’s brownand-white
shoes sank into grey muck that covered the landscape, occasionally
growing so thin the ruined metal spurs and rusted skeletal frames emerged into
the weak twilight. Hopefully its tensile strength would be enough to support his
weight, or he could possibly fall through and suffer a nasty and unpleasant fate.
The Time Lord slowly and carefully turned in a circle, seeing just where the
TARDIS had landed. Behind the police box was what looked like the gutted

emains of a flying saucer, resting at an angle, half-buried in the ground. Cables
and wires spilled from holes rusted in the hull like offal from a dead animal.
Ahead, the lumpy ground warped into broken hills and a kind of mountain range,
the nearest recognizable landmark was what seemed to be the head and shoulders
of an enormous statue or idol of a skeletal Lorkan, its huge jaw wide in a
permanent, silent scream. The weight of the massive curving horns from either
side of its skull-like head seemed to have overbalanced the idol, causing the
majority of the body to sink beneath the surface.
It was a bleak, unfriendly vista... and also deserted.
Bar the Seventh Doctor, there was no one else. Nothing moved or stirred. The
only sound was the wind sighing through the various ruined hulks.
The Time Lord peered up at the murky ochre of what passed for a sky here.
The light seemed almost like some kind of phosphorescence from the ground
itself, as there was no setting sun or even stars in the sky. The TARDIS had
obviously entered some kind of null-space.
Narrowing his eyes, the Seventh Doctor could see asteroids of some kind
floating high above. Was this some kind of floating stellar detritus, composed of
space junk like crashed flying saucers and statues built to long-extinct gods? Every
time something new arrived it added to the density of the asteroid, which was
probably original a tiny rock the size of a fist.
There was no sign of the creature claiming to death, as either a hobgoblin or a
puff of smoke. Nothing remotely human could live in this hellhole for very long
without food or shelter, and there seemed to be none of either. Even if the
creature was hiding in the ruins, they were all open to the sky and cold...
It was then the Seventh Doctor noticed another artifact, almost invisible in the
shadow of the Lorkan monument. The object was a kind of building or temple
with a pointed roof. Horns sprouted from its corners and base, and the Time Lord
wondered if maybe it was park of the statue, a little hut held in the stone Lorkan’s
gigantic claw...
The building looked intact with a square hatch in its front. As the Seventh
Doctor approached, it became obvious that this was no mere door in a building,
but more like an entry hatch in some kind of spacecraft. He reached out and
pressed the square panel that should have been the opening control.
The square door immediately fell back under his weight, swinging away into
darkness and the Time Lord, unable to regain his balance, stumbled forward into
the temple and landed flat on his face. The floor seemed soft and decayed
beneath him and the stench was even stronger than outside the building. The
Seventh Doctor scrambled to his feet and looked around the gloomy interior of
the temple, the only light streaming in through the gaping doorway.
Was it his imagination, or was this room much too large to have fitted within
the relatively small exterior of the temple?
Realization dawned and, as the Seventh Doctor’s eyes grew accustomed to the
light he could see circular patterns on the warped and sagging walls, and in the
middle of the room was something that had once been a hexagonal control
console. Half of the control desk had rotted away, the remaining panels distorted

and stained with what looked like fungus growing from it. The stained and grimy
central column had splintered and the guts of the time rotor spilled out and
dripped with scummy goo. The whole chamber looked like a string of grenades
had ripped through it, leaving gaping wounds that were now badly infected.
He was in the rotting corpse of a TARDIS.
But where was the pilot? What kind of self-respecting Time Lord would ever
leave their ship in such a state? Or were they wandering this wasteland right now,
trapped and unable to leave? Was that who the creature was? A lost time traveler,
driven mad from loneliness and despair?
The Seventh Doctor remembered the other hulks outside. Just what made him
think there were only the two TARDISes present? There could be other derelicts,
in the shapes of flying saucers or Lorkan monuments...
It was said when the owner of a TARDIS died, their heartbroken time vessel
would spend millennia grieving. Unless they found another Time Lord and hurl
themselves into the time vortex never to be seen again, on one last journey to the
elephants’ graveyard of broken capsules.
Was that where he was? A graveyard of TARDISes? Something he’d assumed
was just a poetic invention from the muses of Rassillon?
A shadow fell over him once more.
The Time Lord looked up sharply, in time to see a cloud of liquid mist solidify
into the spectral goblin figure from before. Its body was huge, lumpy and seemed
to be clothed in filthy, dirty rags as it stood, barring the exit to the TARDIS.
‘You again!’ the Seventh Doctor snapped at the spectre, his fear rapidly turning
into anger. ‘Why have you brought me here?’ he demanded.
(THIS IS THE DARKNESS OF NINEVAH... WHERE GALLIFREYANS GO TO DIE.)
The Seventh Doctor backed away, trying to keep the diseased console between
him and the ghostly figure. ‘Is this some sort of practical joke?’ he demanded.
‘Anyone could see I’m perfectly healthy!’
The figure lost cohesion again, dispersing within the blink of an eye.
On instinct, the Seventh Doctor whirled around in time to see the figure
forming out of the gloom right behind him, arms outstretched with hideous bent
claws reaching out for the Time Lord’s throat.
Over nine centuries, the Seventh Doctor had plenty of experience with dealing
with insane monsters trying to kill him. He ducked and weaved and scampered
and ran, circling the console one way and then another. The creature didn’t
bother to try its teleporting trick again, perhaps because it needed time to build
up its strength --- or perhaps because it was enjoying the chase.
After a nightmare of cat and mouse, the Seventh Doctor had managed to
maneuver them both so the creature was on the far side of the decaying chamber
while he was just next to the doorway. The Time Lord took his chance and
sprinted out of the dead TARDIS and across the muddy wasteland.
The wraith followed, unhurried, and loitered in the doorway. Its dry, brittle
voice rang out across this world of sickness and decay, sounding curious yet
amused at the same time.
(WHY DO YOU RUN?)

The Seventh Doctor replied by way of increasing his pace. His paisley scarf
flapped in the rank breeze as he closed the distance to where his TARDIS was
waiting. Its battered wooden shell and frosted windows looked the picture of
health and vitality against its diseased surroundings.
His stalker communicated once again.
(I AM THE WATCHER OF NINEVAH.)
The Seventh Doctor glared back at the thing casually strolling across the
wasteland towards him. ‘Never heard of you,’ he sneered, snatching the key to
unlock the doors to his precious time ship.
(YOU ARE A TIME LORD. IT FALLS TO ME TO DELIVER YOU FROM YOUR MORTAL SHELL.)
The Seventh Doctor turned to confront the approaching nightmare. Anger and
disgust thickened his voice. ‘Does it, indeed? And who gave you the right to do
that? Just how many Time Lords have you ‘‘delivered’’ before now?’ he shouted.
‘This realm of yours is nothing more than a slaughterhouse!’
The entity was much closer now. Its voice was flat, uninterested.
(YOUR WORDS HAVE NO MEANING.)
The Seventh Doctor realized that no amount of talking would dissuade this
killer from fulfilling its grisly duty --- no doubt countless other Time Lords had also
tried the same thing, and seemingly none of them had managed it either.
He shoved open the TARDIS door and dived inside, slamming it closed after
him. Undaunted, the shambling figure did not break its stride towards the police
box, its gnarled hands reaching for the closed doors...
The Seventh Doctor skidded to a halt by the console as the doors whirred shut
behind him. For a moment he’d feared that the near-supernatural corrosion and
sickness of this world had taken root in his TARDIS, but the control room was
intact as ever. But the lights were out and there seemed to be no power. The
scanner display showed the goblin-face of the creature as it closed in for the kill.
Frantic, he tapped commands into the various keypads around the console that
would begin the dematerialization sequence. However, the chirps and burbles
from the depths of the console were far from encouraging.
A TARDIS, once arrived, could not be allowed to leave Ninevah.
‘Come on, old girl!’ the Seventh Doctor shouted, moving around the console,
trying every possible combination of controls he could think of. ‘Come on!’
(DO NOT FEAR ME...)
The Time Lord froze. Across the room, he saw the strange coiling streams of
energy effortlessly pierce the heavy double doors that lead to the outside universe.
The swirling light wove itself into the bent, demonic creature until it was
standing, real and solid on the metal of the deck. Then, its twisted feet shuffled
forward, carrying it towards its prey: the Seventh Doctor.
‘No!’ he shouted, fear turning into full-blown panic. ‘Keep away!’
It lumbered towards him, remorselessly.
(I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN WITH YOU...)
The Seventh Doctor was now backed up against a wall. Nowhere to run.
(...I AM YOUR DEATH.)

The diminutive Time Lord let out a furious whimper, drew back his fist and
threw it with all his strength at the bony ribcage of the monster --- but his arm
passed through the torso like it was nothing but a trick of the light.
But paradoxically it was solid and real enough for the Seventh Doctor to cry
out in agony as its claws clamped around his shoulders, pulling him closer and
closer to the wide, toothless mouth.
(DO NOT FEAR ME, DOCTOR. IT IS TIME. TIME TO DIE.)
The monster dissolved again, into a mess of spinning, coiling strands that
smothered and engulfed its prisoner. The straw hat fell to the floor as the Seventh
Doctor, screaming and writhing, was rapidly swallowed up. Soon the only noise
was the wraith singing playfully.
(‘‘TWELVE REJUVENATIONS, AND NOT A SEASON MORE...’’)
The creature raised its bent, crooked arms in triumph, the vague outline of the
Time Lord barely visible now. But then its deformed face twisted in discomfort
and horror. It let out an audible gasp.
(YOU DO NOT FEAR ME... YOU... DENY ME!)
The outline of the Seventh Doctor became clearer and stronger. The surface of
the wraith boiled and seethed, losing cohesion. Not in the smooth, rapid manner
it had used to hunt the Time Lord, but as though it was dissolving from head to
toe against its will. Its mouth widened to scream, but no noise emerged.
(YOUR LIFE-FORCE TWISTS AND BUCKLES LIKE THE TAIL OF A NEW COMET... YOUTH AND
STRENGTH STILL PULSE THROUGH YOU... A TIME LORD BARELY ON THEIR SEVENTH
REGENERATION!)
All detail was lost, and it was now just a fog that no longer quite contained the
Seventh Doctor as he clawed and scratched and tried to tear his way free. His
fingers soon pierced the outer layers of the disintegrating monster...
(CANNOT... MAINTAIN HOLD...)
The breakdown accelerated and the Time Lord toppled, gasping and coughing
onto the floor of the control room. Blinking and spluttering, the Seventh Doctor
peered up groggily as the twisting strands of energy began to be drawn down
through the floor and out of sight --- as though being sucked away.
(...SLIPPING...)
The last remnants of the Seventh Doctor’s attacker drained away. At the same
time, on the scanner screen, the TARDIS graveyard and ochre sky beyond
similarly coiled, pulsed and disintegrated, leaving nothing but the glittering stars
of deep space. Instantly, the lights returned to the control room and the time rotor
at the centre of the console recommenced its interrupted journey.
Ninevah had lost its grip on the Time Lord and his time machine.
And as the Seventh Doctor picked himself up from the floor, feeling like death
warmed up, he’d known he’d been as closer to oblivion than ever before...
Six regenerations later, the Doctor stood by the TARDIS thinking of that day.
It was a unique privilege, he reflected. A quick trip across the Great Divide,
long enough to see what lay there and back again in time for tea. But how long
before he returned there for good? Soon or later, probably sooner, his old body

would give up the ghost and he’d die one final time. Knowing his luck, he’d
probably kick the bucket at the most inconvenient of moments, just when he was
in the position of saving the universe and everything rested on him...
But why should he wait for death? He could seek it out! He’d found Ninevah
once before, and he could do so again. Dying on his terms, at a moment of his
choosing and what moment could be better than now? Moira was gone, Charlie
was gone, and even Christine had left. He was alone. He had no companions to
worry about, no crises to solve, no monsters to defeat.
There was never going to be a better time for the light to die.
After over eighteen and a half centuries, the Doctor had believed life was
something to be preserved at all costs and the grim reaper was to met with as
much resistance as could be possible. But he’d never really accepted the fact he
now had more days behind him than ahead. A weariness had settled over him
since his final, pointless and traumatic regeneration.
Life was precious, yes -- but only because it was fleeting. Eternal life was no
form of life at all. He’d had thirteen chances to get things right, he could hardly
complain at dying young. True, there were still things he wanted to do: one last
skim-read of the works of Graham Greene, finish that chess match with King
Richard, attend one last Ohio John Smith convention...
But no. If he tried that not only would he be delaying the inevitable, he’d no
doubt get caught up in more misadventures and scrapes, and it would no doubt
prove fatal. With his last act, he intended to be early for his own funeral.
In a way, it was a defeat -- but defeat could be liberating. Knowing that he was
beaten, giving in, meant that the weight of responsibility was being lifted from his
shoulders. The Doctor didn’t have to fight and struggle to win any more, which
was a novel experience if nothing else.
‘No time like the present,’ he said to himself with a slight sad smile.
With one last look around London as it recovered from its latest disaster, the
Time Lord turned and entered the pleasant warmth of his beloved TARDIS. The
deep, brooding hum of its old engines was almost hypnotically calming. On the
massive circular scanner screen the alleyway outside was displayed.
The last view of the physical universe the Doctor intended to see.
Once inside, the Doctor closed the doors and crossed to the hexagonal console
to adjust the numerous old-fashioned knobs, levers and switches. Soon all the
coordinate settings were locked at zero, to a point in null space it had once briefly
visited nine long centuries ago.
The Doctor heaved down the final lever and the TARDIS dematerialized.
It was not long before the strange crystalline columns of the time rotor ceased its
interlocking movement. The floor was steady as a rock as the TARDIS reached its
destination. The Doctor moved around the control panels, peering intently at the
instruments and dials.
If he was honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting to happen.
Would the Watcher of Ninevah cripple his ship, drawing it down to the
TARDIS graveyard? Would the monstrous goblin leap through the wall and claim

his life at last? All of this assuming he’d arrived at the right place. The afterlife of
rogue Time Lords was not exactly something to be found on a star chart...
The Doctor flipped a switch and turned to look up at the circular screen, which
showed not the rotting landscape of dead time capsules, but somewhere else
entirely. The TARDIS had landed in what appeared to be a thick jungle near the
side of a calm lake of deep green liquid. It was peaceful to look at least.
The sensation he’d felt since Moira had said she was leaving him spiked in a
way that he never expected to feel without undergoing yet another regeneration.
His surroundings looked different to Ninevah, but they felt the same.
For their last journey together, the TARDIS had done him proud.
‘Well,’ he said at last, turning to look down at the console. ‘This is it, old girl.
Our final goodbyes, at long last. I can only hope that it’s been as much fun for you
as it has been for me...’
The Time Lord lingered by the console for a moment, patting it affectionately.
Then, he crossed to the double doors, gripped the brass handles and heaved them
apart. A soft golden radiance flooded the TARDIS, a warm breeze with the sound
of birdsong. The Doctor found himself smiling.
He strode straight out into the light.
The Doctor closed the police box doors and locked them securely. He wasn’t sure
what would happen to his time machine now, but this was time they parted
company for good. Maybe she’d continue wandering through time and space, this
time without a meddling pilot insisting on going to dull places like Metabelis III or
the Eye of Orion. She had even more freedom than ever before.
He liked the idea of that.
The Time Lord wandered around the lake, enjoying the sunshine and waiting
for something to happen. The spectral figure did not appear. Nor did there appear
to be any other derelict TARDISes lying about the place. On the bright side, the
scenery was pleasant enough to hold his attention for a while.
Eventually, he realized he was growing thirsty. So, throwing whatever caution
he still had to the wind, he reached down and scooped up a handful of lake water.
Except the liquid was not water -- it was warm, oily and smelled sweet. Curious,
the Doctor drank it anyway. Did it matter if it was highly poisonous? He had come
here to die, after all...
The liquid seemed to have no ill-effects. In fact, quite the opposite -- it left the
Doctor feeling stronger, invigorated even. His bones no longer ached and his body
seemed healthier than he’d left ever before.
Across the lake, the TARDIS sat, as if patiently waiting for them to leave.
The Doctor looked at the old blue box sadly, then turned and strode off
through the trees. She’ll be all right, the Time Lord told himself. He tried to take
his mind off it by trying some of the large, attractive-looking fruits growing on
many of the bushes. At least this scrumping might attract the attention of the
powers that be, the Doctor reflected, munching the delicious fruits. Like the water
in the lake, the fruit seemed to miraculously restore his strength and vitality.

As he made his way through the trees, the Doctor reflected he felt fitter and
more alive than he could ever remember. How ironic he should discover the
fountains of youth and rejuvenation at the very end of his life, on a distant world
in perpetual midsummer...
With his newfound energy, the Doctor continued his trek across the landscape.
He didn’t slow or feel tired in any way. In fact, he didn’t feel lonely at all. Even
without the TARDIS or Moira, he actually felt strangely happy and content. He
whistled a techno-electro tune he’d once heard on Earth, completely at ease.
The Time Lord was so relaxed that he’d completely lost track of time or how
far through the countryside he’d traversed. He doubted he could find his way back
to the TARDIS, even if he’d wanted to.
Up ahead, a building rose up from behind the trees. It seemed to be
constructed from a single, uninterrupted piece of opaque glass but the Doctor was
an old hand at spotting alien architectural style. This was no natural formation
but a designed building, perhaps even a temple. If it was another abandoned
TARDIS, it was disguised in a far more graceful shape than the ones he’d
encountered on his last trip to Ninevah.
The Doctor entered the temple, finding its interior surprisingly plain, without
furniture or fittings. The building seemed completely hollow, and the only thing
of note it contained was the man waiting for the Time Lord.
The man was tall and young, with a shock of untidy dark hair. His deep-set
blue eyes were mischievous and secretive. His clothes were outlandish -- a tweed
jacket with leather elbow patches, a checkered shirt, and dark, narrow trousers
tucked into a pair of old boots. A bright red fez was stuck over his wild, floppy
fringe. He looked a cross between a stand-up comedian and an old-fashioned
geography teacher.
It didn’t take a genius to work out who the stranger was.
‘Well,’ the Doctor said brightly. ‘You’re certainly looking much friendlier than
the last time we met.’
(WELCOME, DOCTOR. YOUR PILGRIMAGE IS AT AN END.)
‘Yes,’ the Time Lord agreed. ‘I almost thought I was at the wrong place.’
(NINEVAH’S FORM IS DETERMINED BY THE BEHOLDER. YOU FEARED DEATH, AND SO SAW
CORRUPTION AND DISEASE. NOW YOU ARE READY TO FACE WHAT LIES HERE.)
‘Am I? That’s good to know.’
(YOU CAME HERE DELIBERATELY, DID YOU NOT?)
‘That should go without saying. So... what happens now?’
The spectral figure smiled knowingly.
(PERHAPS A REMINDER OF WHAT YOU ARE LEAVING BEHIND.)
An image started to form around them, a curving walkway high in a city of
gleaming crystalline towers. Two figures were hurrying around the corner. One
was a man with long silver hair wearing a fur hat, grey scarf and a dark frock
coat. He was accompanied by a young, elfin-faced girl of fourteen or so in a grey
sweater and dark trousers. As the duo approached, there was a massive explosion
nearby and the whole walkway shuddered. The way they had come was now full
of smoke and debris.

The old man shoved the girl ahead of him, away from the smoke. ‘Susan,’ he
scolded her, ‘Be careful, child!’ He was clearly more worried about her safety than
angry at her recklessness. Indeed, he was the one closest to the detonation.
The First Doctor glared at the dying embers of the explosion. ‘My mind is
made up,’ he announced firmly. ‘We cannot stay here and let the Hand of Omega
become part of this chaos. We must go out into the universe...’
Susan stared up at him in horror. ‘But grandfather,’ she protested, ‘we can’t
leave Gallifrey -- it’s forbidden!’
The First Doctor smiled kindly at her as he lead her further down the
walkway. ‘Indeed,’ he admitted. ‘But the right thing to do is often forbidden.
Unlike the rest of our people, my child, we must be brave!’
The pair had entered a large alcove. Standing tall and straight against the rear
of the alcoves were five blank white cubes, each the rough size and shape of a
police box. The old man lead his granddaughter towards the one in the corner
and began to unlock the front of the cabinet.
‘Brave?’ echoed Susan doubtfully.
‘Why, of course,’ the First Doctor replied. ‘There may be monsters who wish to
take Omega’s device from my TARDIS! Yes... and there will be individuals hungry
for power and dictatorship. They must be fought!’
The old man stepped aside, guiding Susan towards the open doorway. She
paused on the threshold, looking around Gallifrey one last time. ‘But will we ever
return?’ she asked fearfully.
The First Doctor chuckled. ‘Why, certainly, my dear -- when the time is right.’
He gently lead his granddaughter through the door and, pausing for one last
glance around himself, followed her inside. ‘They won’t forget us,’ he promised.
The door slid shut and the engines began to grind. Nevertheless, the departing
Time Lord’s words could still be made out over the din as the stolen TARDIS
slipped out of existence:
‘Until then, we must do our best to create a legacy... one that will endure long
after we have departed...’
For a moment the Doctor and the Watcher of Ninevah stood in the empty
landing bay, before the image melted away and the interior of the temple
returned. The Doctor continued to stare at the spot the TARDIS had been, noting
it was now standing out in the distant jungle. A long journey indeed.
(WELL, DOCTOR?)
‘Hmm? Oh, very nostalgic. I don’t remember it being quite so neat and tidy a
departure, but after the first fifteen centuries, I suppose things do start to get a
little blurred,’ the Doctor admitted. ‘Any other special moments you want to look
back on? Daleks invading Earth? Cybermen invading the moon?’
(YOUR BRIEF RETURN TO GALLIFREY PERHAPS?)
The Doctor scowled. ‘Brief’ was the word, barely a few hours there -- enough
for a show trial, execution and exile while poor Jamie and Zoë had their minds
wiped and were returned to where had met them. It was without doubt one of his
most bitter defeats... but then, there was no point in bitterness now.
‘If you must,’ he agreed. ‘But edited highlights only, please.’

The spectre nodded its head.
The temple faded away once more, and they were now standing within the
TARDIS console room. The second incarnation of the Doctor was there, in his
shabby tramp-like clothes and wild mop of dark hair, and so were a young 18th
century piper and a 21st century librarian.
Strangely, the Doctor’s past self seemed happy and cheerful, rather than the
grim resignation he remembered when the Time Lords caught up with him. Jamie
and Zoë looked equally puzzled at his behavior.
‘So the Time Lords just let ya go, Doctor?’ Jamie was asking, confused.
The Second Doctor’s smile became more forced. ‘Yes, well... just about...’
‘‘‘Just about?’’’ echoed Zoe suspiciously.
‘Well I have to do some favors,’ he replied, slightly shamefaced. ‘Nothing too
much, just small little favors here and there.’
It was Jamie’s turn to look skeptical. ‘Wee favors?’ he mocked.
‘Exactly.’
‘Like?’ Zoe prompted.
‘Oh you know,’ he replied, shrugging. ‘The usual. Relay messages, collect
information,’ he explained, adding lightly, ‘topple evil empires...’
‘I don’t know if I feel so right about this, Doctor,’ Jamie muttered.
The Time Lord was indicating the refurbished control room. ‘They’ve also
enhanced the navigation system of the TARDIS,’ he revealed happily, ‘and added a
new spatial dimensional boost stabilizer!’
‘Will that get us to where we wanna go for once, Doctor?’ asked Jamie.
The Second Doctor sighed. ‘Probably not, but it sounds nice.’
‘No, no, no,’ the Doctor insisted, and immediately the image dispersed. ‘That is
not what happened! As much as I would have wanted it to, events did not occur
like the way you’ve shown. Even my memory is not that unreliable!’
The wraith gave him a pitying look.
(YOU UNDERESTIMATE YOURSELF.)
‘Your records, whatever they are, are wrong!’ the Doctor declared firmly.
(ARE YOU SURE? WHEN THE TIME LORDS EXILED YOU, THEY PLACED BLOCKS UPON YOUR
MEMORY, DID THEY NOT? THEY ERASED WHOLE SEGMENTS OF YOUR PAST TO ENSURE YOU
REMAINED TRAPPED ON EARTH...)
‘Yes, but even if this was a memory the Time Lords blocked in my mind, they
removed those blocks at the end of my exile!’
(CAN YOU BE SURE THEY REMOVED ALL OF THEM?)
The Doctor tried to keep his temper. ‘No,’ he admitted.
(WELL, THEN PERHAPS YOU DON’T KNOW YOUR OWN LIFE AS WELL AS YOU THINK.)
The Time Lord scowled. ‘It’s obviously too late to worry about it now!’
(IS IT?)
Another image appeared. This time they were on a hillside, watching two men
argue. One was a tall, well-built man whose long, sallow face was surrounded by
a fizzy mass of curls. The other was shorter, older, with graying hair and a
weathered, distinguished face. Both men were wearing clothes that didn’t fit them

-- the former in a black shirt, jeans and a Union Jack tie; the latter in the frock
coat and check trousers the Second Doctor had worn.
But this wasn’t the face of the Third Doctor...
‘I’m trying to set things right!’ said the curly-haired man.
‘By becoming ruler of the world?’ the other scoffed.
‘Is it so difficult to believe? You interfere all the time!’
‘That’s rich, coming from you!’
‘You have no grasp of the big picture!’ the other man fumed. ‘You just turn up
and help the little people! You never think of posterity! Why is that?’
The man dressed as the Second Doctor exploded with fury. ‘BECAUSE WE’RE
ALL LITTLE PEOPLE! THAT’S WHY! I make a difference where I can with the
people around me,’ he continued in a calmer voice. ‘I can’t change everything but
I can make a difference for the common good...’
The first man sneered in disgust. ‘Chairman Mao spoke ever so highly of you,
you know, Doctor!’
‘When I knew him he was a librarian!’
‘You could have stopped him! You’ve let entire cultures, entire races die!’
‘That’s not true...’
‘Try telling that to the lizards, and the dinosaurs!’
‘I don’t need a lecture on morality from someone like you!’
‘Where were you during the Plastic Purges? And what a shame you weren’t
able to put your diplomacy to use on Mars Probe 7!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about...’
‘Of course you don’t!’ snapped the other man, furious. ‘That’s why there’s a
series of mile-wide craters across America! And I had to live through it all! The
chaos, the panic, the shortages!’
‘I haven’t been here since the 1960s!’
‘It shows! I didn’t see you at My Lai, Doctor! I didn’t see you in East Timor! No
interfering in Rwanda, I see! Going to pop back and sort out Cambodia, are we?
Where were you in Tiananmen Square when the tanks rolled in and the masses
heaved?! Polpot killed every doctor he could find -- and none of them were you!’
The Doctor stared uncomprehendingly at the pair. ‘This is wrong.’
(THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF YOUR THIRD ENFLESHMENT.)
The images changed around them.
(AND THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF YOUR FOURTH.)
Now they were in a dark, subterranean passage covered in a thick layer of
dust. Ahead of them, three figures with torches were examining a battered cloth
map with increasing frustration.
‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about!’ one of them was saying. He was a
tough-looking teenage body in a beige jacket, jeans and football scarf. ‘Look at the
map -- we got into the city here; we came along this way; this is where we are
now and the way to the computer is down that tunnel there!’
The grizzled old man with the long brown hair in the frock coat and cravat
shook his head wearily. The Doctor knew he was looking at himself, but he had

never worn a body like that before. ‘I don’t dispute that for a moment, young
man, but-----’
‘So why don’t we get on with it?’
There was a note of anxiety in the other Doctor’s gravely voice. ‘I don’t know,
it’s just... I have a feeling that...’
‘Oh, I know ‘‘that feeling’’ all right! They call it ‘‘cold feet’’!’
The old Doctor glared sharply at his companion. ‘There are times, young man,
when you try me very hard! I didn’t ask to be saddled looking after you!’
‘That’s a laugh!’ the teenager mocked. ‘You looking after me? We had to carry
you back into the TARDIS in the first place! If I hadn’t shot that crab-thing you’d
have been done for! And I’m not scared!’
‘Then you ought to be!’ the Doctor shouted, losing his temper. ‘We’re
surrounded by all kinds of unknown dangers! The surest way to get us all killed is
to rush blindly ahead!’
The teenager spoke through gritted teeth. ‘All I want is to get this business
over with so we can go back home again. I’m not scared, and I’ve still got the
blaster I took from that Clawrantular! I’m going down that tunnel!’
‘Oh, no you’re not!’ the older man said, grabbing the boy’s arms and physically
dragging him back towards them.
‘Let go of me,’ the teenager shouted, ‘or I’ll...’
‘Don’t tempt me!’ the Doctor snarled, getting the recalcitrant teen into a crude
but effective headlock. ‘Something tells me the quickest way to get rid of you and
your childish tactics would be to let you do exactly as you want!’
The third member of the group was a teenage girl with neck-length dark hair
and a white denim trouser suit. She finally spoke up. ‘Will you two please stop
it?!’ she demanded, her voice echoing down the tunnel and silencing the pair.
‘Things are nasty enough in here without you two going on at each other!’
For a moment her companions looked at her, the Doctor still with his arm
wrapped around his companion’s throat. There was a moment of shamefaced
silence and then they both spoke at once.
‘Just because I choose to exercise some restraint...’
‘Then why don’t we just get on with it and...’
‘I said ‘‘stop it!’’’ the girl shouted.
The real Doctor shouted as well. ‘That is not me! That did not happen!’
(ARE YOU SURE OF THAT, DOCTOR?)
Suddenly they were surrounded by the metal framework of an underground
city, beneath the massive silver shape of an Emperor Dalek. A tall, well-built man
in a battered tuxedo, with a spotted bowtie and receding hairline, was calling up
at the metallic potentate. ‘I’d never have thought amateur psychology was quite
your line,’ the balding Doctor was calling up at his enemy.
‘I know your mind,’ declared the Emperor calmly.
‘You know nothing!’ snarled the other Doctor, suddenly losing his temper. ‘I
came to this planet out of compassion and friendship to find the girl you abducted
from the TARDIS! Can you understand that? You, whose minds are riddled with

neuroses and paranoia, all you understand is fear -- the fear of those victims you
terrorize and your own fear and envy of all that is unlike you!’
The Emperor peered down at the Time Lord with its eyestalk. ‘You do not
fear us,’ it conceded with the same lack of emotion, ‘But you fear those
doubts in your own mind.’
Then another Doctor, this time gaunt and pale, with long graying hair,
struggling with a black-clad figure with a goatee beard. ‘Get out of my way!’ this
Doctor was shouting. ‘Alison’s still out there!’
‘You really think I’m going to let you go back out there?’ the Master sneered.
‘There's something else out there. Something alive. It reached out to me just after
we landed. A presence.’
‘Why didn’t you warn us?’ the latest Doctor demanded.
‘Even after all this time, you still can’t bring yourself to trust me, can you? If
you remember, my dear Doctor, yourself and Miss Cheney did leave the ship
rather quickly. I believe the word I’m looking for is... ‘‘flounce?’’’
This Doctor glared at the Master. ‘It doesn’t change anything.’
Another change.
It was a London street, late at night and wreathed with fog. A chimney sweep
in coat tails and a top hat was supporting a taller figure in a multicoloured
patchwork coat, stripy yellow trousers and a blue cravat. The Doctor recognized
the clothes, but not the blonde woman in her thirties wearing them.
‘You, er, been to a fancy dress ball?’ asked the chimney sweep meekly.
Groggily the woman managed to point down the street to a police box under a
street lamp. ‘My ship,’ she mumbled, and then seemed to notice his question.
Forgetting her weakness, she straightened up and peered down at her clothes.
‘‘‘Fancy dress?’’ No...’
The woman turned and reacted with horror as she spotted her reflection in a
shop-front window. ‘This is worse than I thought! This is all wrong! The DNA
Matrix must have fouled! Nose is an improvement,’ she added bitterly. In sudden
fury, the woman kicked the stall in front of the shop, spun and slumped against it,
abruptly miserable. ‘This can’t happen to me!’ she wept.
The chimney sweep eventually broke the awkward silence. ‘A ship? The
harbor’s this way, miss,’ he said, trying to lead her down the street, but the
woman dragged him towards the police box in the opposite direction.
‘No, I’m sure I left the ship just down this street!’
‘A ship? In the middle of London?’
‘The TARDIS!’ she cheered, flinging her arms out. ‘Here we are!’
Her companion was unimpressed. ‘But it’s just an old police call box!’ he
complained, taking his hat from his head. ‘Have they just let you out?’
‘No, I escaped,’ she sighed, suddenly somber again. ‘Barely got out. Not alive,
though,’ she added, taking a key from her waistcoat.
‘Well, who are you?’
‘The Doctor, of course!’ she said brightly, then frowned. ‘I think...’

The real Doctor rounded angrily on the wild-haired young man in the tweed
jacket and bowtie. ‘You must have a low regard for my intelligence if you think I
could be fooled by any of that!’ he mocked. ‘None of that happened to me!’
(PROVE IT.)
The Doctor was silent for a moment, before he came up with a suitable retort.
‘Disprove it!’
The spectre laughed.
(YOU ARE A TIME LORD, A VERY WELL TRAVELED TIME LORD. YOU HAVE SEEN YOUR
FUTURE AS OFTEN AS YOU HAVE SEEN YOUR OWN PAST. ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS THAT PAST
HAS CHANGED -- OR DO YOU NOT REMEMBER LORD JARIK? YOUR WHOLE LIFE WAS
REWRITTEN THAT DAY.)
‘That was a special case,’ the Doctor insisted.
(NO, YOU ARE THE SPECIAL CASE, DOCTOR. YOU CHANGED TIME ON SKARO AT THE
CREATION OF THE DALEKS, AND YOUR OWN LIFE WAS PART OF THAT CHANGE. THERE WERE
OTHER TIMES AS WELL -- FENRIC, OUTPOST OMEGA, NERICE FETNER. YOUR UNIVERSE HAS
BEEN CHANGED AGAIN AND AGAIN. AND YOU ARE PART OF THAT UNIVERSE. YOU REMEMBER A
VERSION OF WHAT HAPPENED, AN UNRELIABLE RECORD OF AN UNCERTAIN EVENT.)
‘Why are we even discussing this?’ the Doctor challenged.
(IT IS NECESSARY.)
Around them, the images changed faster and faster. He saw an old man with a
white moustache and a little girl emerging from the TARDIS into a petrified
jungle. A man with wavy red hair and a velvet jacket, sipping tea as a strange
alien with long grey hair and black lips hissed and spat. A swarthy-faced man with
brown hair and a young blonde girl sat on a sofa, looking unimpressed. More
Doctors, companions, adventures, yet not one of them even close to something
the real Time Lord could recognize.
‘Necessary,’ the Doctor repeated, starting to feel faint. ‘This isn’t part of the
ritual or whatever we have to do to cross the Great Divide. So what is it for? What
are you even doing?’ His eyes widened as the answer became obvious. ‘This isn’t
for me. It’s not any kind of record... it’s you.’
(I SIFT THROUGH THE TIDES OF TIME AT WHIM.)
‘Why? What are you doing to my timeline?’
The young man smiled cruelly.
(WHATEVER I WISH TO.)
‘Why are you trying to alter my life?’ the Doctor demanded. ‘It’s already over!
How could I possibly be any threat to you now?’
(THIS IS NOT SELF-DEFENSE. THIS IS VENGEANCE.)
‘Vengeance?’ the Time Lord mocked. ‘Oh, I see! No, don’t tell me, let me guess.
That last time we met, aeons ago. You tried to, what was it? ‘‘Deliver me from my
mortal soul?’’ Six regenerations before I was ready!’
The younger man glared at him.
(YOU WANDERED TO WHERE YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED AWAY, DOCTOR. YOU LEFT
FOOTPRINTS IN FORBIDDEN LANDS. A PRICE HAD TO BE PAID FOR THAT.)
‘And your superiors, whoever they are, didn’t approve?’ the Doctor asked with
a smile. ‘You were jumping the gun. Exactly just what disciplinary actions can you

actually take out on the Grim Reaper? No access to the executive washroom for
the rest of eternity?’
(YOU CAUSED ME GREAT SUFFERING. YOU SHALL BE REPAID... IN ABUNDANCE!)
‘How?’ the Doctor mocked him. ‘What are you going to do? Kill me? That’s the
sole reason I traveled to Ninevah in the first place!’
(OH NO, DOCTOR. I’M NOT GOING TO KILL YOU. THAT IS THE ONE THING THAT I WILL
NEVER DO TO YOU.)
The Time Lord grew fearful. ‘What do you mean?’ The images around them
were moving too fast to be discerned. ‘I’m nearing the end of my twelfth
regeneration. You can’t rewrite my life to that degree -- because, if you could,
you’d simply have ensured I never visited Ninevah before and spared yourself that
humiliation! Your power is therefore limited!’
(WHAT I INTEND TO DO IS WITHIN THOSE LIMITS.)
‘And what precisely is that? I am on my last life, you couldn’t do much more
than delay my arrival here by a few years, no more!’
(WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THAT YOU ARE ON YOUR LAST LIFE?)
‘Don’t be ridiculous! You only get a dozen regenerations -- that’s the rule!’
(RULES CAN BE CHANGED. THE TRI-DNA STRANDS CAN HAVE NEW REGENERATIONS
SURGICALLY IMPLANTED. ELIXIRS AND POTIONS CAN RESTORE THE NUCLEU LINGO
SYMBIOTICA. THERE IS NO TRUE LIMIT TO REGENERATIONS, GIVEN THE RIGHT OUTSIDE
STIMULUS... AND OVER ALL THOSE LONG CENTURIES, DOCTOR, YOU HAVE EXPERIENCED SO
MUCH! DONE SO MANY THINGS! BEEN EXPOSED TO SUCH DIFFERENT ENERGIES... YOU HAVE
BEEN CHANGED BY THIS UNIVERSE -- AND SEVERAL OTHERS!)
‘Like Moira,’ the Doctor realized.
(EXACTLY, DOCTOR. YOU HAVE ENDURED THINGS BEYOND THE LIMITS OF ANY OTHER
TIME LORD. WHY WOULD THE LAWS OF GALLIFREY STILL APPLY TO ONE SUCH AS YOU?)
‘You’re changing my life so I gain extra regenerations... playing god!’
(WHO SAYS THAT I AM NOT A GOD?)
And suddenly, the Doctor was looking at himself. The Watcher of Ninevah had
transformed into a perfect copy of the Thirteenth Doctor, down to his navy blue
waistcoat and graying highlights.
‘You have to be the first of my enemies out to extend my life,’ the Doctor
mocked, mind racing as he tried to work out some form of attack. ‘Do you really
think you can prevent my ever dying?’
(DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU CAN STOP ME?)
And the Doctor realized he couldn’t. No one could fight a power older than
time itself. ‘This isn’t fair,’ he protested. ‘It’s my time, and I am ready! I’m at
peace! You can’t take that choice away from me...’
His doppelganger looked weary.
(I ALREADY HAVE.)
‘No!’
(IT IS DONE.)
The spinning whirlpool of images settled for a moment, and the twin Doctors
were standing for a moment in the ragged interior of a teleport bay. Two figures
were huddled by an open inspection hatch nearby. One a white-haired old man in

a duffel coat, the other a younger man in glasses and a brown pinstripe trouser
suit. ‘You were told ‘‘he will knock four times’’ and then you die,’ the old man said
sadly, offering a handgun to his companion. ‘Then kill him first,’ he ordered. ‘Save
your life. Don’t you deserve it?’
This version of the Doctor laughed bitterly as he worked. ‘Ohh yeah. Isn’t that
the truth? Got it in one! I deserve it, absolutely! I so deserve to live -- everything
I’ve done, the lives I’ve saved, the people, the planets, every single star in the sky.
So where is it, then?’
The old man was weeping as the Doctor grew angrier and angrier.
‘Just once,’ he screamed, ‘where’s the reward?’
The vision ended and they were back in the temple again.
‘Please,’ the Doctor begged the wraith. ‘I don’t deserve this. I’ve had my time,
nineteen centuries. I just want to be able to have the choice of when and where it
ends, like all the others have the choice!’
Smiling, his mirror image shook its head.
‘Everything has its time,’ the Doctor shouted. ‘And everything dies!’
The Watcher smirked.
(EXCEPT YOU IT APPEARS, DOCTOR...)
He could feel his senses slipping away, the reality of the castle spinning and
dissolving like mist. Their surroundings were as insubstantial as a reflection in a
window, the whole world rippling and twisting like a desert mirage. The
coherence of Ninevah was breaking up, peeling away like a painted cloth,
revealing nothing but a limitless darkness.
Only the wraith remained in the darkness, still wearing the Doctor’s shape -- a
shape which was distorting, as though changing from the body worn by the
Thirteenth Doctor to something that would one day be as the Fourteenth Doctor...
One last mockery to make his humiliation complete.
The wraith was dwindling, shrinking away into the distance as the Time Lord
was banished upwards to the Land of the Living. As he was lifted up, further and
further away, the Doctor tried to keep his focus on the receding spectre’s new
shape. It was the prophecy of his own future.
There was the briefest of glimpse of a white-haired old man with a bushy
beard, wearing a black tuxedo and top hat as though off for a night at the opera.
His brown eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles, an amused smirk on his
lips. A gloved hand was raised in a sarcastic wave of farewell.
And then it was gone.
Finally, the Doctor drifted to the surface and awoke lying on the glass floor of the
TARDIS control room, feeling weaker and more exhausted than he ever had
before. An image came to his mind of a newborn giraffe stumbling pathetically as
it adapted to the new universe outside its mother’s womb. The comparison didn’t
cheer him at all for some reason.
His life hadn’t reached its end after all, but this could hardly be called a new
beginning either, could it? A Time Lord able to regenerate more than twelve

times. But how many times? Twenty-four? Five hundred and seven? Would he
ever actually die?
Now, that was a horrible thought.
The Doctor had always thought of some of his worst enemies those who had
refused to accept their time was long gone, be they tyrant kings or mad scientists
or long-forgotten prisoners. The Master, Davros, Sharaz Jek, Loki... all heretics
and criminals who should have relinquished their grip on life long ago rather than
continue as pale, hideous caricatures of themselves. Those unable and unwilling
to accept that in this universe it was death was what made life worth living.
Except now, it appeared, the universe had made him the exception.
And now the Doctor was damned, condemned to immortality as any of the
statues in Rassilon’s tomb, any unlucky soul transformed into a Cyberman, any of
the barren empty beings called Eternals. What had he done to deserve all this?
Yet, as he sat on the deck of his beloved TARDIS, he had to admit that he
hadn’t felt any different. There was no new spark in his DNA, no sweetlyagonizing
sting of cellular renewal. Physically, he felt just the same.
Perhaps it was a trick? A ghastly and macabre joke played by the Watcher of
Ninevah, to make him think he had more lives to come? So when he next
blundered in front of a death ray or failed to defuse some kind of bomb, it would
be a hideous surprise when it killed him instead of left a man with a new face
lying on the ground politely wondering what the hell had just happened and
asking for directions to the TARDIS?
In fact, what if it had all been a dream? Was there ever such a place as the
legendary Ninevah? Was even the concept of Ninevah just a confused tangle of
memory and nightmare? Somehow the Doctor knew in his guts that things could
never be so simple or so straightforward.
Nevertheless, everything he’d seen and heard and felt seemed to be fading
from his memory, leaving just a nagging sense of rejection and despair. But dream
or reality, it had completely banished the comforting resignation that his time
stream had reached its natural end. Instead, it felt like it stretched on into the
distance like an endless highway with no destination in sight.
Almost as though he had a whole new life cycle ahead of him.
Some might had called that a reward, but he was convinced it was a
punishment -- one to rival poor Sisyphus. Just as he had been compelled to push a
boulder up a hill, trapping him for all eternity, the Doctor was stuck rattling
through time and space in a broken TARDIS, unable to do anything bar having
adventures and fighting monsters until the final crack of doom.
Worse -- he was probably going to have an immense amount of fun doing so.
The Doctor sighed.
‘Never say ‘‘Ninevah’’ again.’

Fancy Meeting You Here!
This adventure is set between
The The The The Andromeda Andromeda Andromeda Andromeda Syndrome Syndrome Syndrome Syndrome and Shadow Shadow Shadow Shadow World World World World
The space shuttle tumbled and froze in the cold of space.
Inside, Sarah Jane Smith huddled amongst the corpses and waited for death.
On Earth, Nat and the others would be trying to organize a rescue, but they all
knew it was too late. The air grew thinner and frost formed.
No sooner had she lost contact with ground control, the police box
materialized in the cockpit. The man who emerged was a stranger, even though
the outlandish clothes were familiar.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ said the man in the endless scarf. ‘I haven’t caught you at a bad
time, have I?’

Simple Logic
This adventure takes place before Valley Valley Valley Valley of of of of Kwangi Kwangi Kwangi Kwangi
It was simple logic.
After all, if you are confronted by someone or something that intends to harm
you, there are only two fundamental options. Fight or fly. Circumstances may
force one course of action over the other, but those are all the choices you are
ever going to get.
At the end of the day, Loki had decided ‘fly’ was the far more sensible option.
Especially when you had a time machine capable of traveling anywhere and
anywhen in the universe.
Into the past had a strong appeal -- no one, after all, would be looking for you
there. But the trouble with the past was that it was finite, and soon became the
present and then you were literally back... or maybe forward... to square one.
The future had the satisfaction of you outliving your foe and knowing they
would die without the satisfaction of killing you, but often to be on the safe side,
you had to go so far in the future any of your enemy’s friends and family would be
dead too, and any vendetta against yourself would be long forgotten.
So, therefore, the further into the future you went, the safer you were.
It was simple logic.
And that was why Loki and his bodyguard and traveling companion Helfric
were now hiding at the end of the universe...
Loki’s TARDIS was in its default form of a white cube as it hovered in the
darkness. After all, there was no one to appreciate any disguise it might have
used. Loki and Helfric were quite alone.
The time machine’s scanners were stretched to the limit as they swept across
the cosmos, but there was nothing the onboard computer could even generously
dub ‘‘life’’. The civilizations of the universe, all of them were dead or gone. For
good. No societies composed of holograms, so worlds surviving by temporal
paradox, no passing visitors from other dimensions. The universe was forever
dead, the war between entropy and creation finally won.
As the TARDIS hovered over a rather pleasant moon that Helfric finally spoke.
‘I think this could be fairly described as overkill.’
Loki arched an eyebrow. ‘What could?’
‘Us being here.’
‘The Sontarans are not going to forgive and forget, Helfric -- and when we
double-crossed them, they were capable of time travel. They could follow us to
the outskirts of eternity and with their bloody-mindedness they would. So we had
to go beyond those outskirts.’
Helfric leaned against the console. ‘So we’re just going to fly around, aimless
and directionless, for the rest of our lives?’

Loki smiled a shark-like grin. ‘What else is there to do? The universe is dead,
Helfric, and has been for thousands of years. The last of the humans, the last of
the Sycorax, the last of the Malmooth, even the last of the Garavellans are all long
gone. We are quite alone.’
‘So how long,’ Helfric continued patiently, ‘are we going to stay here?’
‘Until the Sontarans have given up looking for us. Thanks to our not coming
through with the fragmentation chains, the war with the Rutans will step up a
notch. They’ll need all their resources back at the front line.’
‘And how long until we get back?’
‘A month,’ shrugged Loki. ‘Maybe two.’ He tapped a caged lamp on the console
desk, which was pulsing slow and steady. ‘When the time-path indicator shuts
down, we’ll know it will be safe to return to conterminous time.’
‘So what do we do in the meantime?’
They played games.
Helfric was a well-traveled character from the sixth millennium, and it was his
intergalactic experience of most planets and cultures that had made him useful to
Loki, a young Time Lord new to the outside universe. The fact Helfric was a very
successful assassin and bodyguard had its own appeal.
Helfric was, on the eleventh day of visiting the end of creation, trying to teach
Loki a card game called ‘poker’. Loki understood the basic tenant that both players
were given five random cards and then betting money that the cumulative worth
of their cards was greater than the opponent’s, but the sudden inclusion of a
metaphorical ‘pot’ that kept the earnings confused the Time Lord. Were they
playing for a metaphor or weren’t they?
Loki was just about to show his cards when a sudden, dizzying motion caused
the TARDIS to drop like a stone. The Time Lord scrambled across the room to get
to the console as the control room began to lurch violently, throwing them both to
the floor. The viewing screen showed a grey-green shape looming up into view -- a
planet against the darkness of burnt-out suns.
‘We’re caught in the planet’s gravitational pull!’ Helfric complained as he
struggled to get back to his feet.
Loki finally reached the console. ‘This isn’t possible,’ he muttered. ‘The TARDIS
stabilizers should be able to resist it easily...’
Helfric, as ever, was practical. ‘Get out of hover mode before-----’
Another great shudder ran through the TARDIS, throwing Loki away from the
controls he had been wrestling with. All his efforts to dematerialize were in vain --
not only were the mighty power reserves of the ship still recovering from the
mammoth journey to the outer limits of time, but the TP indicator showed the
Sontarans were still there, waiting for their enemy to return to time travel mode.
Rattling its occupants like dice in a box, Loki’s TARDIS dropped through space
towards the forlorn planet below...
The TARDIS descended from the sky and jolted to a halt with a great whale-spout
of mud and dust. Inside, Loki and Helfric were getting to their feet, numb patches

on their bodies that would turn into painful bruises. Loki immediately began to
check over the console while Helfric peered at the scanner.
Outside was a wet landscape of bubbling sulfuric pools, punctuated leafless
black trees that looked like hands clawing at the mist-filled sky. ‘Another garden
paradise,’ Helfric mused. ‘Especially considering we are at the end of everything.’
‘Not quite,’ replied Loki, seemingly absorbed checking the console readings. ‘It
is the end of the stage where the universe can support life. The universe will
continue for many more aeons before the final dissolution occurs.’
‘That place looks in good shape, though,’ Helfric pointed out. ‘Considering
there is no sun to provide warmth or light. And doesn’t vegetation count as life?’
Loki nodded at the display he was checking. All the readings were at zero. ‘It
seems not. According to all the environment senses, there is no life outside.’
‘So is this a mirage or a malfunction?’ his companion asked, nodding between
the scanner and the console.
‘The scanner is functioning perfectly, and the sensors agree that we’re in a
swamp. But for some reason it doesn’t count as life.’
‘So what do we do now?’ Helfric was rarely happy to let his employers take the
lead, but this was a unique case by anyone’s standards.
Loki drummed his fingertips against a closed fist. ‘Something or someone drew
the TARDIS here,’ he concluded.
‘I thought we were only living things in the universe.’
‘You obviously thought wrong. A few civilizations were able to place planetary
shields around their worlds, keeping the atmosphere and heat inside. Obviously
this is one such world. Now there may be a few survivors left or perhaps their
technology is malfunctioning. Either way,’ he concluded with a dry smirk, ‘they
are ours for the taking.’
‘You want to salvage what this planet has?’ Helfric asked, partially to be sure
he was following his companion’s line of thought, partially because the very idea
seemed... well, at the least reckless and possibly even sacrilegious.
‘Why not?’ asked Loki, donning his long black coat made out of GELFskin. ‘For
this world to be in such a healthy state, there must be more resources than life to
consume it all. Either the people here are long dead, or so few we will have no
difficulty defeating them. And technology advanced enough to control a TARDIS
is worth a lot of many in any period.’
‘Enough to deal with the Sontarans?’
‘Enough to wipe out every last one of their entire miserable temporal
assassination squads,’ Loki growled, hitting the door control. ‘All the more reason
to investigate...’
Helfric had personally been to 264 solar systems and encountered 400 separate
environments both natural and artificial. He had never shuddered with revulsion
before, and never before felt a sudden inexplicable desire to get as far away from
the place as he could possibly go. It was enough to make him go for his phaser.
What was it that disconcerted him so the moment he stepped foot from Loki’s
TARDIS? He had to know, for that knowledge might save his life -- if not now,

then in the future. His own personal future, since as Loki kept reminding them,
here and now had very little future left.
So what was wrong with this place?
It looked the same as it had on the scanner screen, but now he was there,
breathing the air, feeling the moisture on his skin, peering through the mist. He
had been to worse places though. The atmosphere was breathable and, apart from
the stench from the bubbling pools, free of any toxic compounds. The swampy
ground was soft and muddy, and swirled around his boots. He wasn’t entirely
certain, but he suspected there were things in the mud, wriggling and swirling as
he intruded into their territory. The gravity was noticeably higher than he was
used to, like Helfric was wearing a suit of lead to drag him downwards.
He had been to far worse places. So why was he uneasy?
Loki interrupted his thoughts. ‘Stop lollygagging,’ he complained, setting out
across the swamp, a grimace on his face as the mud squelched beneath his feet.
Suddenly something huge and black flew over their heads, but it was gone in
an instant and the mist made it near impossible to make out any details. Helfric
had his phaser aimed at the air above him, but did not fire. ‘What was that?’
‘Some kind of flying creature,’ Loki shrugged. Why in Rassilon’s name was the
mercenary so concerned? This dying place was not one of predation, and clearly
whatever lived here was not used to humanoid visitors.
‘Another thing not alive?’ asked Helfric, eyes still locked on the sky.
‘Obviously just a computer malfunction,’ tutted Loki. But that particular
paradox was troubling him as well. ‘Remember, the sensors are calibrated for a
universe trillions of years in the past. By now, organic life may have developed to
the point the TARDIS cannot recognize it?’
‘So all those planets and moons we floated by,’ Helfric mused, lowering his
phaser. ‘Are you saying that they might have been teaming with life and we just
didn’t notice?’
Loki looked at his companion with narrowed eyes. ‘Possibly. However, the
dead cosmos is full of gravitational anomalies and dark matter reefs. If life was so
abundant, why have they not used their technology to overcome those obstacles?
This galaxy should be filled with space craft. It isn’t. So whatever life still exists is
now at so primitive a stage that it is no threat. Simple logic.’
‘But not necessarily here?’
‘Of course not. At least, at one time there was civilization here. Shall we go?’
Loki pointed through the gloom to the main source of light, flickering in the
dark fog and set off. Helfric finally holstered his phaser and moved across the
squelchy underfoot after his companion. He remembered the days aboard the
TARDIS, musing on the fact they were alone in the entire universe. The one thing
worse than being alone, he decided, is suddenly finding out that you’re not...
A few moments after the time travelers had left that particular part of the swamp,
the mud slowly began to close over the footprints the duo had left in their wake.
Before the surface closed completely, a hand broke out from under the slime,
stubby fingers clawing through the mist. Then a matching hand joined it.

Two more appeared beside the TARDIS as it sat at an angle in the muck, and
another pair of hands by the tree Loki had leant on to spot the light in the
distance. The hands rose, bringing in their wake arms attached to dark shapes
under the surface.
One by one, they emerged from the soft ground, dripping with slime.
They had been walking for over an hour. Helfric’s mood had not improved, and
Loki’s temper was starting to fray. ‘For the last time,’ he was complaining,
‘whatever those birds are, they aren’t hostile.’
‘They’re following us, I’m sure of it,’ the bodyguard replied.
‘Why shouldn’t they?’ Loki retorted. ‘What else do you think there is to do
around here?’
Helfric kept his ears out for the faint hissing of the creatures’ wings... and then
stopped. ‘Loki, wait,’ he murmured. A few steps ahead of him, the Time Lord
froze. Loki made it a policy of his to trust such advice, and it had saved his life
many times.
Loki peered into the fog, which had temporarily obscured the light, leaving
them in near-pitch darkness. ‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.
‘Listen.’
Loki’s keen ears detected nothing beyond the faint bubble of the pools, the
three heartbeats of the time travelers (two for him, one for Helfric) and Helfric’s
labored breathing and... something else.
‘Can you hear it?’ murmured Helfric.
‘Yes,’ Loki admitted. ‘A sort of whispering.’
‘Yeah. Like voices in the next room.’
‘There is no next room. There’s nothing around her for miles.’
‘Which is why it bothers me.’
Loki shrugged off the uncomfortable thoughts. ‘It was always a possibility
there would be survivors to go with the technology. They may be telepathic to a
degree, and we are sensing their mental discourse. This is good.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. The louder the whispers, the closer we are to the minds that think them.
We will know we are moving in the right direction. Simple logic. Come on.’
Loki strode off into the mist, concentrating on the faint whispers. When the
light returned, directly ahead of them, he smiled. The living minds and the only
source of light were unsurprisingly linked.
The things stood erect around the TARDIS as the mud slipped down their tall,
horrible frames. They had been drawn here, almost involuntarily, by the sudden
heat and vibration of life. They knew what to do and while others would deal
with the intruders, they alone would be left with the task of dealing with the offwhite
double cube.
Elsewhere across the land, the surface of the ground broke in countless
places... and more of their kind emerged.

Loki calculated they had barely traveled four kilometers -- but the increased
gravity and muddy terrain was tiring them out and slowing them down in equal
measure. Thankfully, the ground seemed to be getting firmer under their feet and
the signs were they had reached a path, a well-beaten track.
‘That sound isn’t getting any louder,’ Helfric panted.
‘Maybe they’ve just stopped thinking,’ Loki retorted. ‘After all, Helfric, I’m sure
you know the feeling...’
Loki’s devastating wit was cut short as the mud beneath his feet suddenly
seemed to give way and he abruptly sank up to his knees with a cry. Helfric let
out a laugh and moved past Loki and onto the higher ground, a better vantage
point to help extricate his employer from the mud.
Loki was struggling to escape the mud when he felt something close around
his right ankle. It felt disconcertingly like a hand, but was obviously some kind of
root. He pulled at his trapped foot, but was instead drawn slightly deeper. There
was something in this swamp and it was dragging Loki down, just as the TARDIS
had been drawn down.
‘Help me!’ he shouted at Helfric, who chuckled and held out a hand.
Loki took it, hoping that his bodyguard had superior strength to whatever lay
concealed in the slime and roots of the ground. Thankfully, Helfric did and Loki
was hauled free.
‘You weigh a ton,’ grunted Helfric, his muscled aching.
‘You’re just not used to the gravity of this planet,’ Loki replied instinctively,
somehow annoyed at the idea he was considered overweight. The Time Lord tried
to forget the feel of the thing around his foot. Which wasn’t a hand. Or even if it
was, belonged to some pond life with ideas above his station.
‘Simple logic,’ Loki breathed, completing his thought.
‘What is?’ Helfric asked.
‘Never mind,’ Loki snapped. ‘My thanks for that.’
‘All part of the service,’ his companion shrugged.
They moved on through the bushes and the path towards the light. The mist
and gloom, not to mention the fact they were facing the wrong way, meant they
did not see the hand that emerged from the mud patch, or the owner of the hand
as it rose up into the air and began to lumber through the swamp after them.
‘Behold, Helfric,’ said Loki grandly, feeling more certain of himself now. ‘The last
monument to sentient life in the entire universe. The only proof that any order
emerged from chaos in this entire realm.’
‘Pity about the decor,’ Helfric noted bluntly.
Indeed, out of the many cities, buildings, citadels and sky-scrapers both had
seen on their travels, this particular edifice did not rate highly. It was a vast,
black-walled ziggurat seemingly built out of crude stone. Any detail was lost in
the mist and it was only now, when they were both at the gaping entrance they
saw the faces carved into the walls -- vaguely humanoid but blank eyed and
gaping mouths, expressions that might have been anger, misery or horror but
definitely not pleasant.

‘Not exactly what you’d call the height of sophistication,’ Helfric sighed. ‘It’s
like a temple from the Dark Ages.’
‘Only by your cultural standards,’ sniffed Loki.
‘People in love with gargoyles and swamps don’t build planetary shields or
TARDIS-catchers,’ Helfric grumbled. ‘Even if they’ve all died out or devolved into
savagery, why on Io would they put all their machinery in a ruin like this?’
‘Who says they had a choice?’ shrugged Loki, peering into the entrance. The
light seemed to hover like a bubble around the temple, illuminating it from the
outside from no discernible source. It made the sole entrance pitch dark, like a
gaping mouth -- identical to all the gaping mouths of the faces carved on the walls
of the building.
Helfric was already switching on a torch. ‘All right, but if it isn’t in here, I say
we go back to the TARDIS and chalk this one down to experience.’
‘I will decide what we shall do,’ Loki declared, even though he agreed entirely
with his bodyguard. The TARDIS should have been almost recharged from its
journey to this time zone, at least enough for a quick spatial hop as far away from
this godforsaken rock as possible.
Perhaps the final fate of lifekind would be best left a mystery.
The duo cautiously moved down the tunnel entrance, unaware that the temple
was now surrounded by things from the mud, who now numbered in the
hundreds. One by one, they drew closer to the entrance and, without a word,
lumbered inside.
The tunnel corridor rose at a steep angle with no side passages or doorways -- just
the stone walls with faces of horror carved in detail into the surfaces. Helfric lost
all track of time or how long he and Loki had been trudging up the corridor. He
began to wonder if this temple, like the TARDIS, was bigger inside than out. The
higher they got, the deeper the dread Helfric began to feel.
‘I thought the Time Lords didn’t let anyone go this far into the future,’ he said
finally, to break the silence. Even the whispering was gone now.
‘The Time Lords have no jurisdiction on me. Their influential noosphere only
covers five billion years, their infinity chambers observing barely ninety. We are
nearly a hundred trillion years beyond that. Embrace it, Helfric. We are truly free.’
‘And alone.’
‘Everything has its price.’
‘As the Sontarans seem rather annoyed to discover.’
The two chuckled, but the humor left them with no breath to talk as they
continued up the ramp. Finally the corridor leveled out to horizontal once more.
Helfric peered over his shoulder down the passage they had traversed for so long.
Was that some small shuffling movement he had heard?
No. He was mistaken. Loki was right. They were alone here.
It was simple logic.
The corridor ended in a cold, clammy room that was barely lit by a sickly light
that somehow nullified the travelers’ torches. They could make out a room with

seemingly several passages leading away, and in the centre of the room a single
altar on which lay a body. It might have reminded Helfric of some kind of
sacrificial stone, but there was no blood split here, or indeed anyone to worship.
‘Hello?’ he called out, unsure what to say, but hoping the accoustics would tell
them what chamber they had entered.
There was no reply.
Loki cautiously approached the body on the altar. ‘Whatever it is, it’s dead,’ he
said at length, peering down at the creature. It was reassuringly humanoid, and at
one point seemed to have looked quite like a human, but something had
happened to it. Changed it. Perhaps by mutation, evolution or breeding, half the
figure’s head was insectoid with a large red eye, a claw emerging from its jawline,
and several antennae. The other half was bald, pale and genderless. Its body was
similarly distorted.
Whatever had caused this had happened long ago, before the creature died.
‘Do you recognize the species?’ he asked Helfric.
‘No. Originally human perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. Whatever it is, it’s dead now.’
Suddenly, the ‘human’ eyelid snapped open and the body on the altar stared at
them both. The insectoid eye rolled and churned in sympathy. The mouth moved,
distorted by the mandibles that emerged from the right-side of the jaw.
‘What is death?’ asked the creature calmly.
Helfric raised his phaser and aimed it at the mutant. ‘Got an explanation for
that?’ he asked Loki in passing.
‘Your fear is not necessarily,’ drawled the half-mutant, as if it had not noticed
the phaser aimed at its deformed face. ‘We brought you here to help.’
‘Yes. Brought us here how?’ demanded Loki.
‘It is our way.’
‘Be precise,’ instructed Helfric, pressing the diamond-point barrel into the
human cheek.
‘It is our way. We do this ourselves. We have that power.’
‘You used your own mental reserves to manipulate the gravity well?’ gasped
Loki as the implications unfolded in his mind. Such things were not unheard of -
Tractators, for example -- but in this dying universe riddled with black holes, such
power was amazing in its sheer quantity if not quality.
‘I take it this isn’t going to be some kind of box of flashing lights we can take
home and sell then?’ complained Helfric, phaser still aimed.
‘It is our way,’ the creature repeated. ‘It will be your way.’
‘Our way?’ mocked Loki.
‘You will be like us,’ said the monster simply. ‘We will be one.’
‘I do not wish to be like you or even one with you,’ sneered the Time Lord.
‘That is what this place is for,’ the mutant on the slab said, moving a ridged,
clawed arm for emphasis. ‘It makes those from the outside like those on the
inside. That is why we brought you here. That is why we bring all here. It needs
to be done to you.’
‘You and who’s army?’ snorted Helfric.

‘Army?’ echoed the mutant. It struck Loki that even the telepathic circuits of
the TARDIS, it was a miracle they could communicate at all -- no wonder some
words fell through the gap. At the end of the universe, why would there be
armies? Who precisely would there be to fight against?
‘That army,’ said the mutant at length, and pointed with a humanoid finger to
the entrance Helfric and Loki had used.
The doorway was filling up with mud-spattered shapes. Even in the gloom,
Loki could see the creatures had almost nothing in common. There seemed to be
no two the same, all seemingly in an advanced state of decay. The flesh was
rotting, the scales peeling, the chitinous shells cracked. Humanoid and nonhumanoid,
animal or bird or insect, these creatures were all there, seemingly
corpses but all animated and dripping with slime. The inhabitants of the universe
of the far future. Light-bulb-headed insectoid forms with limp antennae,
exoskeletal creatures with long heads and no eyes, humanoids with heads made
of horse skulls and covered in rags...
‘What are they?’ gasped Helfric.
‘They are what we have become,’ the mutant explained helpfully. ‘They are as
you shall become. As I have become.’
‘No deal,’ Helfric snapped, and then addressed the advancing creatures. ‘One
step closer and I kill this man,’ he announced.
The mob continued its relaxed shuffle towards them.
‘Clearly you need to prove yourself Helfric,’ called Loki.
Helfric fired the phaser. The deadly red energy sliced like a needle through the
mutant’s skull, out the other side and formed a shower of sparks on the far wall.
But the creatures did not halt their advancement... and the two very different eyes
of the mutant still moved. ‘It is our way,’ it explained.
More creatures were coming from the other doorways. Things that had once
been, or maybe descended from Saurians, Zylons, Rutan, Klomite. Zombies from
every race in the universe. Dead things in a dead universe.
‘We can do this for you,’ the mutant explained, waiting for Helfric to finish
shooting it through the chest with a volley of phaser fire. ‘Do you not wish it?’
‘Why would we?’ demanded Loki.
‘Why would you not?’ a nearby thing replied. It was a wizened, baby-like
creature in all but size, and its grotesque body boasted four eyes that wept blood.
‘You came here yourselves, you want this.’
‘We had no idea what was happening here,’ replied Loki.
‘Still don’t,’ Helfric pointed out.
‘It is our way. It is the only way for those left,’ the half-insect mutant replied.
‘This world is the only one that can support those such as you. All the other
worlds have no air. Or food. Or water. You need that to stay.’
‘Stay? Stay alive, you mean?’ asked the Time Lord.
‘You are not alive,’ growled the largest of the creatures in the room, that
vaguely resembled a Lorkan as a madman would have seen it. ‘You breathe gases,
consume proteins. Without them you stop. You do not move. You do not think.
You are parasites and there is no host for you left to feed off.’

‘And you’re the alternatives?’ asked Helfric, suddenly feeling nauseous.
‘It is our way,’ the mutant replied. ‘The stars are gone. It is so cold and dark.
But here, on this world, we survived. We do not need that we cannot have. We
can live without air or food or sleep. No blood or sugar or nutrient is needed, for
there are none left.’
‘You adapted yourselves to survive when the universe was no longer capable of
supporting life,’ Loki summarized.
‘They made themselves zombies,’ Helfric translated.
‘It is our way.’
‘Shut up!’
‘The others heard of us,’ the thing that was pale blue with few teeth in its red
gums revealed. ‘All across the night. They came here. They begged for it. We gave
them what they asked for. We made them like us.’
‘That’s why the TARDIS didn’t detect any life,’ Loki realized. ‘There isn’t any.
They’re all dead. Or undead.’
‘Whole races, entire species chose this,’ the mutant said, for the first time
sounding impatient. ‘Over millennia, they changed the environments to suit them,
but now they cannot. They must change themselves to suit the environment. Life
cannot survive in this universe. So death must flourish instead to replace it.’
‘This,’ Loki began, trying not to let the revulsion he felt show on his face, ‘this
planet is too small to have everyone come here!’
‘It was long ago. They came, we made them like us, and they left. To their
homes. They are forever now. Only this world is as it was, so abominations like
yourself can come here and be saved,’ the mutant chittered. ‘That is why you
came here.’
‘We wanted the technology that brought us here!’ snapped Loki.
‘There is no technology. Just our way. You want our way.’
‘We don’t!’ shouted Helfric, and let off a volley of fire. The phaser beam sliced
through the crowd of the undead, but not one so much as flinched.
‘You cannot harm us,’ the bleeding-eyed-baby thing said impatiently. ‘Only you
can be harmed. Let us change this.’
‘You will wish it happened earlier,’ vowed the mutant, and with a speed that
belied the stillness the creature had shown so far, wrapped its insectoid arm
around Loki’s neck and dragged him backwards onto the altar.
‘Let him go!’ roared Helfric.
‘You cannot stop us,’ the mutant said, and was proved right as three bloodless
holes appeared on its back. ‘We cannot be stopped. It is our way.’
Loki, held by the neck, lay on the altar. The vice-like grip on his throat was
unwavering, even as Helfric finally threw down his useless weapon and physically
tried to drag the mutant away from him.
‘It is done,’ said Loki, and suddenly there was nothing bit bitter coldness.
Loki realized they’d killed him a split-second before everything in reality
vanished in a blur of light...

Helfric could only watch on helplessly. Several of the undead had hauled him
away from the altar as the whispering returned with a vengeance. Loki’s eyes
bugged out, his mouth opened wide... and then air rattled out of his lungs.
Loki was dead.
‘And now,’ said the mutant, releasing Loki’s neck, ‘transcendence...’
An unearthly glow suffused Loki’s lifeless face. At first Helfric assumed this
was part of the ritual, as the living became dead and then undead, but the mutant
seemed surprised. The glow moved through the spectrum, and Helfric realized
that Loki’s face was changing. The old lines were melting away, the beaky nose
becoming narrower, the eyes changing colour -- the swirling energies were
turning him into someone else.
‘This is not our way!’ shouted the mutant angrilly.
The whispers babbled furiously in agreement.
The glow grew brighter, and then dimmed unhealthily. All that was left of Loki
was the grey suit he insisted on wearing, which was now too loose and short for
the man wearing those clothes. The newcomer blinked his green eyes behind a
ginger fringe, twitched, spasmed and was still. The glow returned.
‘No... no... this is not our way... no,’ growled the undead.
The whispers were much louder. The glow dimmed, brightened, spluttered,
flared. A fight was happening, as if Loki was literally rejecting their everlasting
death. The ginger hair curled, became blond, a beard bristled on a suddenly
chubby chin. The glow became so bright that Helfric could not make out the face
beneath, but the shape seemed to be shifting and flexing. The whispering was
now roaring of demons.
The glow around Loki continued to flare and splutter, like a light rainfall on a
forest fire. The body twitched on the altar, the grey suit tearing in places as the
figure wearing it grew larger then smaller. The mutant placed its mismatched
hands to its head, as if trying to ward off a headache or aide concentration.
‘This is not our way,’ it croaked as it suddenly fell to its knees.
The other undead were swaying on their legs (or equivalent). It was as if this
battle was draining all their strength. The fiery glow around the body grew larger
and brighter. Suddenly the disembodied voices cut out entirely and the glow
turned a dazzling white, the energy streaming away.
The man in Loki’s clothes did not look remotely like Loki, or the others Helfric
had seen -- much younger, thinner. But Helfric had a hunch it was still him. Didn’t
the legends of the Time Lords note they could use their powers to restart their
lives anew? Helfric had always assumed that the process wouldn’t change their
face, but then again, why should it stay the same?
The new Loki took in a huge gasping breathe, the new brown eyes rolling back
in his head as he struggled to roll off the altar. With no one guarding him, Helfric
sprinted across the chamber, scooped up Loki and staggered to the exit. The new
Loki was smaller and lighter than the old one, but still seemed to weigh so much
in this new gravity.
As he stumbled down the corridor, the new Loki was already muttering.
Even the voice was different.

Loki awoke, being half supported by Helfric as they stumbled through darkness.
The bodyguard seemed huge and ungainly all of a sudden, but Loki found it
increasingly hard to think. His stomach seemed full of bees, and the blood in his
veins was a boiling tidal wave. Thoughts of ravaging swarms filled his head while
his limbs, drained of muscle tone, flopped with little to no control.
Dizzy and sick, he tried to moan. ‘Get... me... back... TARDIS...’
‘Loki, are you all right?’ panted Helfric.
‘...course not... fool...’
He knew instantly what had happened -- this was not the first time he had
regenerated. But there wasn’t the fresh tingle of cellular rejuvenation, just deep,
aching exhaustion that filled his senses, and even that seemed to creak in pain.
His new body felt smaller, looser, drained.
‘What happened in there?’ Helfric grunted, trying to keep control of
momentum as they hurtled down the steep passage.
‘When there’s no more room in hell the dead shall walk the Earth,’ mumbled
Loki, struggling with a new set of lips, teeth, vocal chords and a tongue that was
too big. ‘They overcame mortality,’ he said in firmer voice, getting his thoughts in
order. ‘This planet is a processing plant, turning all races, all species into... to...’
‘Zombies?’
‘If you must. Now the races of the universe can survive without resources that
universe can no longer provide. Life found a way.’ Loki put a shaking hand to his
temple. ‘But it’s just a stop gap. They know that. That’s why... That’s why they’ve
gone mad.’
‘Huh?’ Helfric didn’t have the breathe to ask more.
‘Those things... they’re the ultimate evolution!’ Loki exclaimed, his new ears
aching worse than the rest of him put together. ‘They can survive anything. Any
environment, any injury. Not dependent on anything and they are a telepathic
gestalt to boot...’
‘So?’
‘In any other era, any other age, they’d be unstoppable. Nothing could be
better than them. But not here. Simple logic.’
‘Some... kind... of predator?’
‘No,’ Loki shook his head. His faculties were rapidly returning. ‘They’ve done
everything, every improvement. But it’s not enough. It could never be enough.
And they know that. And that’s why they’ll want the TARDIS!’
Helfric and different-faced-same-tempered Loki skidded to an unsteady halt by
the main entrance to the temple. Before them was the oozing mud, the skeleton
trees and the grimy mist of this, the only habitable planet in the whole universe.
But like all the others it was deeming with creatures beyond death. Helfric could
see a dozen just beyond the entrance, sprawled and dazed.
‘How did you knock them all out?’ asked the bodyguard, pausing for breath.
‘They used their powers to kill me,’ growled the new Loki. ‘But my biodata
regenerated itself before they could animate the corpse. They used all their energy

to try and hold back the change... but it wasn’t enough. We’ve got to get out of
here before they recover.’
Helfric was already taking out his TARDIS homing beacon. ‘Right,’ he agreed.
‘I don’t think they’re going to give us a choice about becoming ghouls. Assuming
they ever did get a choice....’
‘Oh they got a choice all right,’ sighed Loki, as his new digestive system
gurgled within him.
Helfric blew out his cheeks. Somehow, the idea that these things were evil and
had conquered the universe was easier to deal with than everyone voluntarily
becoming unkillable zombies. ‘They aren’t giving us a choice,’ he pointed out.
‘We’re the exception that proves the rule,’ Loki replied, glancing at the nearest
creature -- with wings, this one -- which was glaring at them. ‘They’re regaining
their strength. We’ve got to go, now!’
The duo set off over the path, slowed down by the thick air, the increased
gravity, and having to pick their way gingerly over the still-living corpses
sprawled in their path.
They ran, they stumbled, and sometimes they crawled. Large patches of the
swamp were deserted, but others clogged with half-submerged undead who
pawed at them with varying degrees of lucidity. There was the occasional whisper
on the wind, but nothing like the babble when they’d first arrived.
Loki’s regenerated body was almost recovered, and with his new weight loss
he was making better time than Helfric than he had in his old body. In order to
keep up the pace, Helfric had to move faster and was now almost exhausted. He
was soaked in perspiration, his face near blue and taking huge, painful-sounding
breaths. No longer able to run, the best on offer was a shamble -- and even then
Loki was outpacing him.
The chirping homing beacon indicated they were not far from the TARDIS, but
it had lead them in a different direction to the way they had come. Obviously the
undead had moved the TARDIS before they collapsed, and Loki knew exactly why
they had done it. For all the mutant’s supposed innocence, they knew that Loki
and Helfric weren’t local or even native to this era. That was why they were given
the special treatment, for once they were undead, the gestalt would have
complete access to their knowledge. Whether or not the undead kept their free
will, Loki would have no choice in what happened next.
The mist cleared enough to show the TARDIS again, lying on its side in the
mud, brown stains on its pristine white interior. ‘Nearly there!’ he shouted over
his shoulder at Helfric, who was now almost crawling, moaning incoherently with
exhaustion.
Loki fumbled in his pocket and found the TARDIS key, so much larger and
sharper than when he had last used it. With a final burst of speed, he crossed the
bog and reached the door of his time machine. He unlocked the door... which was
now more like a lid... and peered back over his shoulder as Helfric stumbled over
the last remaining metres.

It was then that they struck -- bursting out of the mud, limbs slapping, mouths
gaping, engulfing Helfric from all sides. The breathless mercenary barely made a
cry before he was brought head-down into slime, and that cry was buried as the
whispering murmurs began with deadly earnest.
More shapes were in the mist from all sides, getting closer.
‘Lo... Lok..’ moaned Helfric, struggling to keep his head above the slime. With
a spurt of adrenaline-fueled energy, he managed to kick away two of the undead
and throw out a hand in Loki’s direction.
Loki turned and dived into the TARDIS, sliding through the portal and down
the tilted control room, coming to a halt against the console plinth. Taking a
moment to straighten up and hit the auto-gravity control, Loki gripped the
console as the floor started acting like a floor again.
The TP indicator was out, but that was irrelevant -- Loki was already flipping
switches and powering up the temporal drives. The TARDIS still hadn’t recovered
from its slog into the future, but Loki didn’t care. He set the coordinates for
Mutter’s Spiral in 073 period and hauled down the dematerialization switch.
The time rotor began to piston up and down as the mighty trumpeting began,
leaving the dying universe, the undead hoards and Helfric with it. Not that Helfric
was in any state to appreciate that -- by the time the TARDIS had faded away,
leaving only its outline in the mud, Helfric’s body was already sinking to the
bottom of the swamp.
The undead did nothing to prevent it.
The whispers spoke of letting Helric’s corpse decay and dissolve. If he didn’t
want eternal life, he wanted certain death and that they were more than willing
to give him. In the meantime, the undead began to wander off into the swamps,
making their own journey into the mud. There was nothing else to do.
Except wait for the end.
The TARDIS was swaying unsteadily, the lights flickering and a nasty electrical
crackling coming from the underside of the console. The time machine was
hurtling back through the millennia, its energy reserves drained to the dregs.
Unlike the undead army on that nameless world, it would not recover. Loki
doubted that even getting the ship back to Gallifrey would be enough. The
TARDIS was on its final journey.
He would have to find a replacement time machine, then. Something he could
use until another TARDIS came along. Some kind of tachyon drive, perhaps? Until
then, he’d have to keep his head down. Being a renegade Time Lord was all very
well when you have the freedom of time and space, but not when isolated and
desperate. He’d have to go to ground, pass himself off as a human or some such...
Call it a strategic withdrawal, he thought when he noticed the discarded
playing cards on the floor. Call it a tactical retreat. Call it whatever the hell you
want. Just don’t think about the look on his face...
He had to abandon Helfric. There was no point both of them dying. Or
undying. For that would allow the undead access to the TARDIS and, via the link
with the Time Lord’s undead mind, access to all of history. For that was the only

ecourse left for the people of the universe. They may have adapted to the lethal
conditions of the dying cosmos, but not even the undead could survive the
collapse of reality when the universe finally -- and properly -- ended. That
knowledge had been enough to drive them mad. The knowledge that even if
they’d got the TARDIS, there was no true escape from their own destruction.
That knowledge hit home with Loki even more now.
Now he knew what they’d done to him. In their desperation to kill him and
keep him dead, they’d interfered with the regenerative process. They’d killed him
ten times over in as many seconds. His new form would be his last. No wonder he
wasn’t feeling up to much. No wonder his new body was so puny and weak. He
barely had the strength to carry his own, massively reduced, weight.
He certainly wouldn’t have been able to carry Helfric’s.
‘It was simple logic,’ he said out aloud.
Then he laughed.
His ‘simple logic’ had cost him his TARDIS, his companion and his
regeneration cycle. But on the other hand, at least he hadn’t sacrificed Helfric’s
life to save his own, which had already been lost. That made sense. It was logical.
Simple logic.

You Have Got To Be Kidding...
This adventure is set between
Genocide Genocide Genocide Genocide of of of of the the the the Zardonians Zardonians Zardonians Zardonians and The The The The Invasion Invasion Invasion Invasion of of of of Rigle Rigle Rigle Rigle
‘Do you remember the Spring of 1701?’ asks the Doctor suddenly, breaking the silence of
the night. ‘No, of course, you wouldn’t. It was such a long time ago, centuries before your
time, but my memory of it is still clear. Who would have guessed what would happen when
the TARDIS fetched up at that particular point in time and space? Did I ever tell you about
that time, when I visited the Golden Age of Piracy? Most people would say that Blackbeard
was the most reviled and bloodthirsty pirate of all time. But he wasn’t. At least, not in 1701.
Back then the title belonged to a man by the name of Captain William Kidd...’
The Time Lord regards his companion for a moment.
‘No doubt most of your exposure to the concept has been in the pages of books or
programs on television. You think of them either as childish, exciting adventurers or
terrifying, murderous scavengers. But if you met them face to face, you might revise your
preconceptions...’
A doubtful look.
‘You don’t believe me?’
The companion shakes their head.
‘Well, then, let me tell you a story...’
William Kidd had never been to England before. He had been born in Scotland,
but forced to move to the colonies at the age of five when his father perished.
Since then, he’d spent most of his time on land in New York, where the air was
clearer and warmer than England and the natives much friendlier.
Here the streets stank, everyone looked sinister and malnourished and their
ridiculous accents made it hard to understand them. In the normal course of
events, Kidd would have limited his visit to the pub down by the docks as he
waited for his ship – the Antigua – to be unloaded before setting sail for home and
Sarah, his beloved wife of four years.
However, this was not the normal course of events.
Kidd had been summoned to an audience by the most powerful men in
England, but was not entirely sure why they wanted to speak to him. Perhaps they
had heard of the high esteem Kidd was held in back home? Not everyone was
honored by the New York Assembly for being a distinguished naval captain, let
alone be awarded one hundred and fifty pounds in a citation for being “a
gentlemanly and clever man”. At home, Kidd was lauded and hailed by passers by,
he was the confidante of the governor and he held a pew at the Trinity Church
which he, himself, had helped build!
Yet even Kidd found it a bit hard to believe that a bunch of noble lords on the
other side of the globe wanted to chat about his good deeds over a pot of tea and
plate of buttered scones. Still, the Captain brooded to himself, there was only one
way to find out what they did want...

Kidd was broken out of his thoughts as he turned a corner and crashed into
someone hurrying the other way.
The other man was tall, lanky with wild, long and curly hair. Kidd couldn’t
help but noticing the fine quality of the man’s mismatched clothing – the long
knitted scarf of rainbow colours and the long woolen coat were not in the
slightest bit threadbare. Unlike almost everyone else Kidd had seen in England,
this man had no headwear.
‘Oh dear! I do beg your pardon,’ the man apologized in an educated tone, and
the accent was hard to place. From his confidence, finery and appearance, Kidd
quickly deduced the man was a merchant of some kind, and probably quite rich.
Not wanting to argue with someone who could be a potential client in future
(and mindful for his appointment), the Captain smiled politely. ‘My mistake, sir.
Excuse me,’ he said, and tried to navigate around the merchant and resume his
journey down the street once more.
‘You’re not Captain Kidd, are you?’ the merchant asked, frowning slightly in
concentration. ‘Captain Billy Kidd! Well, this is exciting, I haven’t met many
pirates in real life, you know...’
‘Pirate?’ Kidd exclaimed. ‘You are mistaken, sir. I am no pirate!’
‘You aren’t?’ the merchant asked, shocked. ‘I could have sworn you were! You
weren’t an apprentice on a pirate ship in the Caribbean? That’s how you became
captain, isn’t it? You and the other mutinied on the Blessed Billy...’
‘You mean the Blessed William,’ the Captain corrected automatically. ‘And it
wasn’t a pirate ship, at least not when I was aboard. I am afraid that you must be
confusing me with someone else...’
‘Like Billy the Kid?’
‘Possibly,’ Kidd shrugged. ‘Look, I must be on my way.’
The Captain hurried across the cobbles, but the merchant seemed determined
to follow him. ‘Maybe I am a bit confused. You are the Captain Kidd that looted
Mariegalante for everything not nailed down, aren’t you?’
‘That is a gross distortion of what actually happened,’ Kidd snapped over his
shoulder. ‘We were at war with France and the governor of Nevis gave us
authority to take goods to the value of our pay from the enemy, since he could not
afford to pay us for our services – which were defending the innocent!’
‘So you’re not a pirate?’
‘No, I’m not a pirate!’ Kidd fumed, aware passers-by were starting to look at
them oddly. ‘I am a respected naval officer. A privateer at most...’
‘A privateer?’ the merchant echoed. ‘That’s different from a pirate then?’
‘Of course,’ Kidd retorted. ‘A privateer is authorized to attack foreign ships
during wartime, we help defend those unable to protect themselves and spare the
official naval their resources and officers. We do not plunder ships for treasure,
we receive prize money from capturing enemy cargo – and since we capture
rather than sink ships, there is no destruction or waste.’
‘Ah, so a pirate is a privateer, only unauthorized during peace time with a
greater tendency to sink ships?’ the merchant surmised. ‘You know, that’s a very

fine line when you think about it. A lot of people might not even be aware there is
a difference, let alone what that difference is...’
Kidd increased his pace. The merchant did likewise.
‘I am very busy, sir, I must bid you farewell,’ the sailor grunted.
‘The Earl of Orford, for example,’ the mad merchant continued, as if he hadn’t
been interrupted. ‘Do you think he really appreciates that? Or the Baron of
Romney? The Duke of Shewsbury? Has Sir John Somers ever given the matter
much thought?’
Kidd froze in mid-step, and the merchant stopped as well. He was certain
those names were the noble lords who had summoned him here today. How did
this madman know about them? Was he part of the appointment?
‘Piracy or privateering, privateer or pirate,’ the merchant mused sadly. ‘Not
everyone sees a difference, and that can be very dangerous. Innocent people can
get hurt. You should bear that in mind, Billy.’
‘Should I?’ asked the sailor suspiciously.
‘Bear it in mind all the time, Billy,’ the merchant ordered him firmly. ‘It could
save your life, you know. Just because you can tell the difference doesn’t mean
others do, and might be asking you to do one in the name of the other. Anyway,’
he continued in a brighter, happier voice, ‘you’re busy, I must be off...’
The merchant turned to leave, but Kidd caught his arm.
‘Hang on a moment, what are you talking about?’ Kidd demanded.
‘You’re a clever chap Billy,’ the merchant grinned. ‘You’ll find out soon.’
The man in the scarf strode off down the street, leaving Captain Kidd shaken,
disconcerted, and directly outside the tea house where he had been requested to
meet the nobles for this mysterious appointment...
In the months that followed, Captain Kidd often thought about that strange
merchant and his uncanny insight. Not only had the passer-by somehow known
about his meeting with the noble lords, but somehow had predicted exactly what
would come up in casual conversation.
Piracy or privateering?
Kidd had been puzzled at how his straightforward life was seen by these
wigged fops – they too believed he had lead the mutiny (he was duly elected as
acting captain by the rest of the men due to his nautical skills!) on a pirate ship
(balderdash!) and his subsequent appointment by Governor Chris Codrington was
merely to get the Blessed William to join the war effort against France (give us
strength!). The Whigs seemed obsessed about Kidd and his men taking their pay
from the French (only goods to the value, and Kidd’s share was used to help build
a church!) and accused him of marrying Sarah only because she was a wealthy
widow (he truly loved her – and given she’d been widowed twice before she was
20 years of age, if anyone should have been under suspicion it was her...)
It was the High Chancellor of England, Sir John Somers’ cruel, leering face
that hung in Kidd’s memory as they finally got down to business. ‘Captain, you
can see – as we do – that there is a distinction between piracy and privateering.
Even though some may see it as the same.’

You should bear that in mind...
‘We should like you to commission you as a privateer,’ Somers continued, ‘to
plunder the trading vessels of France – and, of course, any pirates that you should
come across. You have considerable experience doing both, do you not?’
Kidd had nodded and from then on everything had slowly begun to spiral out
of his control. The nobles were willing to pay for 4/5ths of the venture, and
heavily hinted their funds were being fronted by none other than King William
himself. The remaining fifth, however, was down to Kidd to provide. At some
point he must have agreed to the deal, despite its disadvantages, and within a
week had found himself selling the Antigua to get the cash.
However, Kidd was not without a ship for long – in a few months the
Adventure Gallery had been built, a formidable 237-ton galleon with 34 cannons
and plenty of sails. Kidd had oars installed, a key advantage when the winds
calmed. While other boats would be left dead in the water, the Adventure Galley
would be able to maneuver in battle.
The old Antigua crew, however, were not keen to join up. Many believed that
the Adventure Gallery’s mission was illegal and immoral, and as the merchant
predicted, could not see any difference between piracy and privateering. He
needed one hundred and fifty men to crew the ship, and finding those without
such scruples meant a crew of much rougher and aggressive sailors than Kidd
would have preferred to choose.
Their mission was straightforward – to attack every pirate and French ship
they came across. While Kidd was initially determined to focus on the former, in
particular famous pirates like Trew, Wake or Maze, the difficulties of finding them
soon became insurmountable. The letter of marque Kidd was given meant that the
Crown received 10% of all loot, the rest to be split amongst Kidd and his crew.
It took a year before the Adventure Galley set sail.
It was only fifteen minutes into its voyage before disaster struck.
The Adventure Galley wasn’t even out of the Thames as it passed a Navy yacht at
Greenwich. Custom dictated that the crew should salute a vessel of His Majesty,
but Kidd had been lost in thought and did not do so. The Navy yacht took offense
and fired a warning shot, determined to get the Captain to show respect.
Kidd’s crew had their own response to this challenge – dropping their britches
and baring their backsides to the other vessel. Those not bent over in laughter
chanted ‘This is for Your Majesty!’ at the top of their voices.
Mortified with embarrassment, Kidd held his head in his hands in shame and
kept it there as the yacht boarded the Adventure Galley and all the offending
crewmembers were suddenly and rapidly pressed into naval service at gunpoint.
Despite rampant protests, Kidd had lost more than half his crew to his own side
before he’d even left England.
Depressed and humiliated, Kidd decided to head straight back to New York
City and get a replacement crew. For all their faults, his lost crewmen had been
loyal and moral, many family men from New England. The chances of finding
another hundred such men at short notice would be nigh impossible, especially if

Kidd wanted to be back on the high seas before news of this embarrassment
reached America...
There was no choice – to get experienced sailors with loose morals, Kidd had
to lower his high standards. Many of the new crew were well-known as hardened
criminals, and some of them were undoubtedly pirates. The rest could generously
be described as “cutthroats” or “misfits”. This compromise left Kidd more troubled
than before over the morals of the Adventure Galley’s mission.
The catastrophes that followed soon put morality out of his thoughts...
The Adventure Galley had left New York for the Cape of Good Hope – which
proved to be a Cape of anything but good hope. An outbreak of cholera
slaughtered the remaining third of Kidd’s original crew, and the Adventure herself
soon developed a multitude of leaks.
Worse, every pirate seemed to have vanished from the oceans.
Kidd and his surviving crew went from Madagascar to the Red Sea to East
India and failed to come across a single pirate, let alone a French frigate. The days
turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months. Soon, a year had elapsed and
Kidd rapidly began to grow worried.
A massive amount of money had been poured into this operation and there
had been no return of any kind. Paying off the backers and the crew hadn’t been a
problem on paper, when they had been attacking and plundering every ship they
had come across – but in the real world time and the cash was running out. The
only course of action was for Kidd to pay the expenses out of his own pocket, and
even with his wife’s wealth, the costs of this enterprise would ruin him...
And then things got worse.
Aware of his problem, the crew came up with another course of action.
Instead of limiting their privateering to impossible-to-find pirates and French
cargo vessels, they should simply plunger any ship they came across. ‘To hell with
the mandate!’ they cried. Kidd was horrified, and forbade the crew from attacking
the next few boats that passed, from Dutchmen to New York privateers.
Kidd’s refusal cost him many of his crew, who deserted the Adventure Galley
the moment it was next anchored off-shore. Even those who remained aboard the
ship openly threatened to mutiny against him if they did not get their pay.
As 1698 dawned, there was only one course of action now.
Kidd’s first foray into what everyone would describe as piracy was attacking a
Mughal convoy from the East India Company. Then, the trading ship Mary fell to
the Adventure Galley but ultimate nothing was taken. While Kidd had been
talking to the Mary’s captain, Thomas Parker, several of the Adventure crew
tortured their new prisoners, drubbing them with cutlasses. Outraged, Kidd had
returned all the stolen property he could. Not all of it, though, since some of the
men had already hidden their shares of the booty and refused to speak.
And then they spotted the Quedah Merchant.
A 400-ton Armenian vessel, twenty-five leagues off Coirgi, no doubt stocked to
the gills with satins, muslins, silks, gold and silver. The Adventure Galley raised

French colours as a disguise to get close enough to the Quedah Merchant and,
after four hours had caught up with it. As soon as they were side-by-side, Kidd
hoisted the English flag and the battle began.
The Quedah Merchant surrendered immediately. While his crew inventoried
the loot they now possessed, Kidd was shocked to discover that the Quedah
Merchant was actually captained by an Englishman named Wright. Looting this
ship would definitely raise concerns back home, for this was not merely piracy but
piracy against England itself.
The crew, however, were unimpressed. The ship was Indian-owned, Indiancrewed,
flying Armenian colours, and the passes it possessed promised safe
passage by the French Crown. In short, it counted as French and it was perfectly
legal for them to take hold of the ship.
Kidd was terrified that once news of this reached England it would have them
all dubbed notorious pirates. Although he had no doubt the noble backers could
explain everything, Kidd knew that his reputation might never recover. He
probably would have to pay some sort of fine and lose his share of the profits...
‘Leave me alone!’ screamed a voice Kidd hadn’t heard before.
As he returned to the Galley, the Captain was stunned to see his gunner,
William Moore, grabbing a young girl with long blonde hair wearing strange,
rumpled clothing. She was too healthy and clean to be a stowaway, but where
else could she have come from?
It was then Kidd saw the strange upright blue box on the deck, with its
translucent windows and a lantern on its roof. Three people were standing
outside it, their hands raised as old James Gilliam covered them with a
blunderbuss. One was a swarthy-looking young man, a short, plain woman and...
...the merchant in the scarf. Looking no older though three years had passed.
Kidd decided that he had to be mistaken, especially as the merchant showed
no sign of recognizing Kidd, and he had spotted him through the fog of a London
backstreet. It must be someone else.
‘Heard a noise,’ Gilliam grunted. ‘Thought it was a dying whale or something,
but when we got up here, this shack had appeared and these four were wondering
around like they owned the place.’
‘This really isn’t necessary,’ the merchant-lookalike was saying.
‘Hey, let go of her!’ barked the merchant’s friend, clearly concerned about the
girl Moore was molesting on the poop deck. ‘She’s just a kid!’
‘Old enough for me,’ Moore said, a lustful look in his eyes.
‘Gunner,’ Kidd barked. ‘Let her go! That’s an order!’
‘An order?’ Moore scoffed. ‘Maybe I’ll listen to you when I start getting paid.
Two years I’ve been on this crate and seen nothing for my troubles, well – if
you’re going to take your pay out of ships, I can take my pay out of her...’
The blonde girl fell silent, but it was hard to tell if she was horrified by
Moore’s intent or the sharpened chisel he was aiming at her neck. Delighted at the
hush, Moore grinned a smile that showed how few teeth he’d kept over the years.
‘Now, poppet,’ he whispered huskily. ‘Got a kiss for a lonely sailor?’

‘Stay away from her!’ roared the young man.
‘Touch her and I will kill you,’ vowed the woman. She meant it.
The merchant said nothing. Somehow that seemed far more threatening, as
though whatever retribution he would take was too terrible for words. Kidd had
no doubt though that, whatever the madman in the scarf did, Moore would regret
it for the rest of his life... if he had one.
‘You want to be next?’ snarled Moore at the woman.
‘I’m a princess,’ the girl said, her voice shaky. ‘Princess Tasha...’
‘Oooh,’ Moore said, impressed. ‘Let’s see if you got any blue blood?’
His chisel slashed her cheek, drawing dark red. The girl, Princess Tasha, let
out a cry of pain and fear that was almost lost in the anger and rage from the man
and the woman, who seemed to be her parents or at least guardians.
‘Let her go!’ Kidd roared at the top of his voice, drowning out all other noise.
‘Moore, you will release that girl this instant, you lousy dog!’
Moore giggled. He was insane. Tasha was white as a clean sheet.
‘If I am a lousy dog, Captain Kidd,’ the gunner said in a singsong voice, ‘then
you are the one to have made me so – you have brought me to ruin and many
more besides!’ he screamed in sudden fury, sweeping out the arm with the chisel.
Had Kidd been a step closer, his guts would have been sliced open.
In the distraction, Tasha tried to break free. Moore kicked out and the girl was
thrown to the deck, fresh blood spilling from her cheek. Licking his lips hungrily,
the gunner lifted the chisel, clearly intending to plunge it into the girl’s spine.
‘Tasha!’ the merchant shouted in anguish.
Kidd had spotted the iron-bound bucket nearby and instantly snatched it up,
bringing it down over the back of his deranged gunner’s head. There was a
horrible scrunching noise and Moore toppled to the ground.
Gilliam was suddenly checking over his fallen shipmate as Tasha scrambled
over to her family by the blue box. She was hugging the merchant and sobbing
while the man (her father?) consoled her. The woman crossed over to Kidd and
Gilliam as they concluded that Moore was dead.
‘Fractured skull,’ the woman announced, not showing any real fear or disgust
at what happened. ‘It couldn’t be anything else at that angle. Thank you,’ she said
to Kidd, holding out her hand. ‘You saved Tasha’s life and sacrificed your own
man. We are in your debt.’
Kidd tried to ignore the blood on the deck. ‘Don’t be, Miss...’
‘Sara.’
‘Miss Sara. Striking a superior officer carries the death sentence anyway,’ he
explained. ‘I would, however, appreciate an explanation for what you are doing
on my ship and who you are...’
Over the course of his life, William Kidd would have much more to regret but at
the time he wished his mouth had been sewn up at birth. The explanation for who
these people were came from four different, contradictory sources, even when all
insisted they were telling the truth. It left him with a blinding headache and he
retired early trying to make sense of it.

After half an hour of trying to wonder why they all insisted on calling him
“Billy the Kidd” and how that could be so funny, Kidd gave up and reviewed what
he had actually understood about the group.
It seemed the merchant was a surgeon, since he liked to be called Doctor, and
his family were not blood related. Sara was not married to the young man Tom,
which obviously meant they were living in sin, but neither was Sara Tasha’s
mother. Her tale of being aristocracy was also true, apparently, and she had a
clockwork pet in the shape of a dog that apparently could talk.
The Doctor explained the blue box was a kind of life raft that had somehow
docked with the Adventure Galley by chance, and the explanations beyond that
point left Kidd completely bewildered. Either way, they had nothing to do with
the Quedah Merchant and that was enough strife without adding to it. The Doctor
and his friends were guests while the captured Merchant was renamed the
Adventure Prize, to go with the November (formally the Rouparelle).
To be on the safe side, Kidd kept the French passes as proof justifying his
capture of the vessel. Confident that the British admiralty and vice-admiralty
would be satisfied and allow him to keep the ship, Kidd had a light heart as his
newly-expanded fleet set sail once more.
A few days later, the Adventure Galley reached Madagascar and all hell broke
loose as Captain Kidd found his first pirate: Robert Culliford of the Mocha Frigate.
This was not the first time Kidd and Culliford had crossed swords – they were two
of the only six British crew aboard the French privateer Sainte Rose, and been
part of the mutiny against the French when the War of Grand Alliance broke out.
At the time, they had been brothers-in-arms, but the moment Kidd had left the
renamed Blessed William, Culliford stole the ship in a second mutiny and head
off, leaving Kidd behind in Antigua.
Kidd was not one to forgive or forget. Indeed, he had named his next ship the
Antigua to remind him of how he’d been fooled and how he could never let others
take advantage of his trusting nature ever again...
...well, until he’d had to sell the Antigua to help fund the current mess his
trusting nature had got him into, anyway.
This time, however, Kidd had a cunning plan.
‘This man is, in every respect, our brother!’ Kidd was shouting to the crews of the
Adventure Galley and the Mocha Frigate. ‘Let’s drink to the Captain’s health!’
There were much cheers as tankards of rum were handed out amidst the
shipmates. To one side, five time travelers watched on with interest as some
sweating sailors brought across the presents Kidd was giving to his former
betrayer – two canons and a spare anchor, all of which were gratefully received.
‘You know this is all very civilized,’ Tasha observed suspiciously.
‘Why not?’ Sara asked with a shrug. ‘It makes sense not to pick a fight until the
reinforcements arrive. The November and the Prize are due soon...’
‘K9,’ asked Tom thoughtfully, ‘how many men does Culliford actually have?’

‘The present crew of the Mocha Frigate number twenty-two, including Captain
Robert Culliford himself,’ K9 answered.
‘I wonder if Billy the Kidd knows that,’ Tom mused. ‘He might not be so
friendly with them otherwise...’
‘Well, we’re not going to tell him,’ the Doctor announced to his companions.
‘Anything that delays a bloodbath has to be a good thing.’
It was then the Adventure Prize appeared on the horizon
‘Looks like the delay’s over,’ Tom observed grimly.
Kidd’s cunning plan should have worked.
But it didn’t.
He undoubtedly had the advantage in terms of numbers, strengths and arms,
and had even managed to lull Culliford into a sense of false security. With two
ships on his side, Kidd should have been able to take complete control of the
Mocha Frigate in minutes.
Unfortunately, he had overestimated his own men’s eagerness to seize any
available prize. They had passed that point, and now considered it a better option
all round to stop any pretence and finally become fully-fledged pirates, under the
command of someone who might be able to pay them for their services instead of
keeping them hanging on for two years. Once again, Culliford had sparked a
mutiny against Kidd – and, worse, hadn’t even planned it this time!
Not one of Kidd’s men obeyed the order to attack the Mocha, and quite a few
aimed their pistols right at Kidd himself. Had it not been for Tom’s quick thinking,
he could have been shot down there and then. Instead, he and the TARDIS crew
fled to the sanctuary of the Adventure Galley and barricaded themselves in the
Captain’s quarters as Kidd’s crew plundered their own vessel.
The irony made Tasha laugh for ages.
As the tense hours passed, the five fugitives remained in Kidd’s cabin. The Doctor
was irritably wondering why K9 hadn’t come to give them the all-clear, until Sara
pointed out that a pirate ship was not exactly built for a robot dog without any
legs to circumnavigate. Tasha, for her part, wondered again and again why they
hadn’t simply hidden in the TARDIS.
Kidd listened curiously. ‘You really think no one could get into your box?’
‘Billy,’ the Doctor scolded, ‘that “box” is Class 1-A Modular Tri-Dimensional
Prydonian-Grade Time Capsule! A thirteen-megaton nuclear blast couldn’t get
through those doors, let alone a handful of cutthroats!’
‘Why didn’t you simply climb inside right away?’ Kidd asked, confused.
‘Hey, Billy,’ Tom reproached him, ‘we couldn’t leave you out there. We owed
you, man. You saved Tasha’s life. Least we could do is repay the debt, right?’
Kidd smiled. ‘Thank you. I do appreciate it. Thank you all.’
‘Don’t say that,’ the Doctor growled from his corner.
‘Why not?’ asked the Captain, surprised.
The Time Lord shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Just don’t say it – not yet.’

The TARDIS crew remained with the Adventure Galley, adding to the handful of
crew that had not abandoned him to join Culliford. Both the Galley and Prize
were gutted by the pirates, having lost every weapon, sail, rig and anchor. The
November had been sunk outright. At Sara’s suggestion, Kidd decided to abandon
the leaking, worm-eaten ship and salvage every last scrap of metal and patch up
the Adventure Prize, getting one of the stripped-down ships into working order at
least. As Kidd’s few remaining loyal crewmembers stripped down the hulk, the
time travelers decided it was best to leave.
As they gathered around the battered police box, Tom was taking a final
lungful of briny air. ‘Not quite how I expected to meet a historical celebrity,’ he
conceded to his friends, ‘but it’s nice to know he’ll have a happier ending than the
other Billy the Kid.’
The Doctor was still looking out to sea. ‘What makes you think that?’
Frowning, Tasha turned to someone who could be relied upon to give a
straight answer to a straight question. ‘K9, what do you know about Captain
William Kidd?’ she asked.
The miniature antennae dishes on the robot dog’s head spun back and forth
for a moment as he accessed his databank. ‘Captain William Kidd,’ he replied.
‘1645 to 1701. Scottish sailor tried and executed for piracy after returning from a
voyage to the Indian Ocean. Although actual depredations were both less
destructive and lucrative than other contemporary pirates, Kidd’s reputation for
savagery was sensationalized following his trial in England.’
Tasha’s eyes grew wide. ‘What?!’ she exclaimed.
Sara was grave. ‘The English executed him for his crimes,’ she translated
bleakly, ‘whether real or imagined.’
Tom shook his head in disgust. ‘That’s not fair!’ he protested. ‘Yeah, he’s a
grade-A idiot... but he doesn’t deserve that to happen to him!’
‘Who said it has to happen?’ asked the Doctor, still gazing at the horizon.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sara, confused.
The Doctor turned to face them with a dazzling grin that gave the unnerving
impression he was about to go for their necks. ‘Unless the universe gets a little
nudge occasionally it can dawdle along without fulfilling its potential,’ he
explained unhelpfully.
Tom was about to ask for Sara to provide another translation when a familiar
blond figure scuttled across the deck towards them. ‘Yo, heads up,’ he muttered to
the others and then turned to face the newcomer. ‘Billy the Kidd! We were just
talking about you!’ he announced with false good humor.
‘Nothing bad I hope?’ the Captain replied cheerfully.
Tasha tried to remain looking relaxed and cheerful. It was harder than it
sounded. ‘We were just saying that, um, we hope the rest of your trip goes a lot
easier,’ she lied.
The Captain shrugged. ‘The crew that remain are loyal enough, and once we
get to the next port I can recruit some more – of much higher quality of men this
time!’ he promised them with a chuckle.
Tom was similarly subdued. ‘You’re not worried?’

‘Not at all. Thanks to all the advice from Miss Sara,’ Kidd replied, nodding
graciously across at the Kaled woman, ‘I have no doubt that the Adventure Prize
will get us all to the Caribbean safely.’
‘What about the whole “piracy” issue?’ Sara wondered.
‘That was crew,’ Kidd reminded them. ‘They mutinied. I did nothing illegal.’
Tom had seen enough movies to know that this defense wouldn’t stand up in
any court of law, let alone the harsh courts of the 17th Century Admiralty. ‘That
might not be how other people see it,’ he said carefully.
‘Nonsense. I had full right to attack the ship, and the incriminating passes to
prove it. Once I get to New York to show them to Governor Bellomont, the whole
business will be resolved.’ Kidd realized that none of the travelers seemed
reassured. ‘Mark my words,’ he told them confidently, ‘I’ll be exonerated!’
‘Well,’ the Doctor said after a pause, ‘best be careful in the meantime. You’re
still a wanted pirate now, at least until you get home. And remember: the Prize is
a marked vessel for any men-at-war. It’ll be risky just traveling on it.’
Kidd’s expression fell. ‘Oh yes,’ he mumbled, ‘I hadn’t thought of that...’
‘Safe journey home,’ Tasha said hopefully, then hurried inside the time
machine before her expression could give away her true feelings. Tom saw her
distress and, with a helpless shrug to the others, trotted into the TARDIS after her.
No one was surprised when Sara immediately followed him inside.
The Doctor shook Kidd’s hand as K9 navigated his way into the police box.
‘See you earlier,’ he promised, and then followed his crew into the blue box,
pushing the wooden door shut behind him.
A few seconds later, the light on top of the TARDIS flashed and the sound of
grinding engines filled the air as the tall blue box faded to nothingness. The
wheezing, groaning noise soon disappeared, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
Kidd stared at the empty space the TARDIS had been for a long time,
struggling to work out how to explain what he had seen... and gave up entirely
after about thirty seconds. Right now, the Captain had enough to sort out without
disappearing cupboards to explain as well...
In stark contrast to exterior, the inside of the TARDIS was white and futuristic,
the walls marked with regular roundels and the control room dominated by a
hexagonal console with a glass pillar at its centre. As his companions watched on,
the Doctor circles the console, clicking switches and pressing keys.
‘I’m sorry, that’s it?’ Tom scoffed. ‘A polite and cryptic warning?’
The Doctor was recalibrating the triple-vector zigzag plotter, composing a
precise string of spatiotemporal coordinates and laying them into the flight
computer. ‘It was good advice,’ he muttered, studying the dials and monitors.
‘It’s hardly going to save his life,’ Sara agreed.
‘We have to start somewhere,’ the Doctor grunted, busy fixing their course.
‘I’m confused,’ Tasha said, scratching her head. ‘If Billy’s fate is a recorded
historical fact, then we can’t change it, can we?’
The Time Lord fiddled with a few controls. ‘In theory,’ he said vaguely. ‘There
are fixed points in the continuum which cannot be altered, but as far as history is

concerned, Billy’s done everything the nexus of events requires. He doesn’t have
much left to do on Earth apart from get caught and be executed. If he just sensibly
disappeared, the overall effect will be the same. A few pages in a few books are
different, not much else.’
Sara turned to Tom. ‘So it’s not a big change,’ she summarized.
‘No,’ he agreed with an owlish expression, ‘it’s a little change.’
‘Different to a big change,’ Sara nodded.
‘Yeah, and, Doctor, one problem – I thought all changes were off the menu?’
‘That’s because you don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘The question is,’ Tom began.
‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Sara concluded.
‘Prognostication is of a 87% probability that the Doctor Master is not full
aware of the course of action he is undertaking,’ K9 chipped in. ‘Based on
statistical analysis of the last seventeen years, any action taken has only a 22%
chance of partial success...’
‘And a clear 78% chance of total success?’ asked Tasha hopefully.
‘Negative, young mistress.’
‘I was kind of afraid you’d say that,’ the princess sighed.
The Doctor looked up from the controls with a bad-tempered expression. ‘Do
you mind?’ he demanded irritably. ‘This isn’t a simple short hop, you know. I’m
navigating on pure instinct through thirty-seven separate dimensions, and there
aren’t any maps or charts for that! One wrong move and we’ll be light years,
minutes or centuries off target...’
‘Sor-ree,’ Tasha replied, hands raised in exaggerated surrender.
Satisfied he’d made his point, the Time Lord turned his attention back to the
console, which indicated the flight was almost over. Soon, the transparent
mechanism in the middle of the console ceased its rising and falling as an
unearthly trumpeting noise filled the control room. Sara twisted a handle on the
console, and the shutters covered the scanner parted revealing they were no
longer at sea but in the middle of a foggy grey city of brick buildings.
‘So,’ said Tom, unimpressed. ‘Did we make it?
The Doctor checked the external sensor displays. ‘Only one way to find out,’ he
muttered. ‘You lot stay here and mind the stall,’ he ordered his companions as he
threw the door lever, and the bulkhead opened up with a low hum. He stepped
through the doors into the polluted city air of the deserted back-street, and tried
to get his bearings. Flying blindly towards a random temporal tipping-nexus was
hard enough at the best of times...
‘Spot on,’ the Doctor mused as the pedestrian crashed into him. ‘Oh dear,’ he
exclaimed as he staggered backward, ‘I do beg your pardon...’
The blond-haired man in the blue coat shook his head politely. ‘My mistake,
sir,’ he said, trying to slip past the Time Lord. ‘Excuse me...’
The Doctor assumed a shocked expression. ‘You’re not Captain Kidd, are you?’
Tom, Sara, Tasha and K9 watched on the scanner as the Doctor chatted to the
much younger William Kidd, and then finally returned to the time machine. The

doors hummed shut as Doctor crossed the control deck to the console and set the
TARDIS in motion once again. His four companions watched him as he flicked the
appropriate switches to them hurtling back towards the future.
‘You know, Sara?’ said Tom over the grumble of engines, ‘something tells me
it’s not going to be that easy.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Tasha agreed, joining the Doctor at the console. ‘You
always say that we can’t rewrite our own pasts!’
The Time Lord seemed fascinated by the rising, dipping time rotor. ‘Do I?
Maybe I just rewrote my own past so I’d go around telling people not to do that?’
He grinned and patted her on the head. ‘Don’t worry, history happens as we
remember it. Billy still signs up as a privateer, loses his crew, turns to piracy, and
then we meet him. But everything after we departed is now up for grabs.’
‘So what good did you do?’ Sara asked, confused.
‘Well, now Billy knows he ignored a warning not to get into this mess,’ the
Doctor explained. ‘He’ll be a lot more cynical and suspicious now, and I doubt
he’ll be foolish enough to let himself get caught, especially when he knows
English men of war are out searching for him. He’s probably already abandoned
Adventure Prize and found some other way to get back home... probably hitched a
ride on a sloop or some such...’
‘K9?’ asked Tasha. ‘Do you have records of what Billy’s done now?’
‘Affirmative, young mistress,’ the robot trilled. ‘Captain William Kidd recorded
as leaving the Adventure Prize in the Caribbean Sea on the grounds it was a
marked vessel. He continued his journey to New York City aboard a sloop.’
‘Hah!’ the Doctor roared triumphantly.
Sara smiled at his childish glee. ‘Anything else?’
K9’s antennae spun for a moment. ‘Unsubstantiated reports suggest Captain
Kidd stopped on Gardiners Island in eastern Suffolk county in June 1699.’
‘Why’d he do that?’ asked Tom, folding his arms.
‘It is claimed that he buried treasure worth thirty thousand dollars in a secret
location on the island. The proprietor Mrs. Gardiner was given a piece of gold
cloth and a bag of sugar for her troubles. Ostensibly, Captain Kidd intended to use
the knowledge of its whereabouts as a future bargaining tool.’
‘Finally, the guy takes out some insurance,’ Tom said, impressed.
‘Captain Kidd reportedly threatened to kill the Gardiner family if they
tampered with the treasure before his return.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Billy,’ Tasha frowned.
‘Allegations proved completely unfounded in 2055,’ K9 assured her, ‘during
the excavation of the ravine between Bostwick’s Point and the proprietor’s manor
house showed the area was not disturbed. This casts doubt on the authenticity of
the gold dust, silver bars, rubies, diamonds and candlesticks collected as evidence
against Kidd in his trial in Boston.’
‘Trial?’ Sara echoed, horrified. ‘He still gets caught?’
‘Affirmative,’ sighed K9 as though this were blindingly obvious. ‘Governor
Bellomont, also known as Richard Coote, lured Captain Kidd to Boston with a

promise of clemency for his actions and to be exonerated for the taking of the
Quedah Merchant. The Captain was arrested on July 6 that year.’
‘The son of a...’ Tom growled in fury. ‘He must have been in on it!’
‘Which is why he turned on poor Billy,’ the Doctor sighed. ‘Presenting the
infamous Captain Kidd in chains was the only way he could save his own neck.
Ironic, since Billy was probably quite happy to return to England voluntarily, but
instead he ends up in chains for the next year.’
‘Guess we’re going to have to be more pro-active,’ Tom said firmly.
‘It’s not that easy, Tom,’ the Doctor warned him. ‘Tampering with cause and
effect is very difficult. The only way Billy can get out of this is by his own actions,
not any of ours. Which makes things much more difficult...’
The Time Lord sighed and lowered the materialization lever.
Captain Kidd had no idea how long he’d been trapped in prisons. He’d lost count
of the days and nights, and several times was moved from cell to cell. A few times,
he had been lucky enough to find some other prisoner to talk to, but for weeks on
end he would be entirely alone. Some guards said he was so weak and puny that
imprisonment was driving Kidd insane. Other times the guards flew around the
room on soap bubbles, speaking medieval Latin. Maybe he was being driven
mad... after all, he hadn’t seen his wife in so long, and she had apparently been
imprisoned as well. It was enough to make a man scream. Or weep...
One day, the monotony was shattered by familiar voices outside the cell. Kidd
scrambled to his feet and peered through the barred window of the door. Two
familiar figures were approaching, dressed in the respected finery of the time –
but while their dress was different, Kidd instantly recognized the faces.
‘Doctor? Tom?!’ he gasped.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said the Doctor loudly, for the guards’ benefit. ‘I’m Dr.
Oldish, and this is my assistant Mr. Tom... Lemon.’
‘Why do I have to be Mr. Lemon?’ hissed Tom, irritably.
‘Look,’ the Time Lord hissed back, ‘when you’re the one trying to plot out
unraveling an entire temporal nexus in five dimensions, you can call yourself
whatever you like! In the meantime, Mr. Oldish and Dr. Lemon would just sound
silly and also get us caught in the act, so shhh!’
Kidd watched them both wearily. ‘What are you doing here?’
The Doctor gave the prisoner a dazzling grin. ‘We’re your lawyers!’
Kidd’s expression fell.
‘Oh, don’t look like that, Billy,’ the Doctor scowled. ‘Do you have any idea how
many times I’ve been locked up and put on trial for false charges? More times
than you’ve had hot dinners!’
‘Or listened to sensible advice,’ Tom grumbled.
‘And how did you win your cases?’ asked Kidd, still wary.
The Doctor began to answer, stopped, scratched his neck, and was suddenly
fascinated with the fingernails on his right hand. ‘Oh, you know... few surprise
witnesses... a couple of obscure clauses... occasionally lead a people’s revolution
and brought down the entire government...’

‘But you can’t bring down King William!’
‘I thought you were Scottish, Billy!’ Tom exclaimed.
‘For once our Captain is actually talking sense,’ the Doctor sighed. ‘No, this
time the corrupt regime gets to stay in place. Just because we’re trying to revise
your destiny doesn’t mean we have carte blanche to do it to anyone else.’
‘Speaking of destiny,’ Tom cut in, ‘you know what’s happening?’
‘I doubt it,’ the Doctor muttered.
Kidd frowned. ‘English Parliament wants to question me,’ he replied.
‘Yeah, they want to know all about how your little privateer racket got started,’
explained Tom quickly. ‘And more importantly, who got you started. The Tories
have just got into power and they’re looking to keep it that way by making the
opposition look bad. Right now, they think it was the Whigs behind this whole
thing, trying to turn a quick buck. If that gets proved then all those white-faced
jerks who set you up will get what’s coming to them.’
Kidd frowned. ‘You want me to impugn my backers?’
The Doctor nodded. ‘Think of it as telling the truth.’
‘I am no traitor!’ the prisoner said firmly.
Tom couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Those Whig-wearing clowns let
you rot in this prison for over a year! Those geeks aren’t going to help you out this
side of Judgment Day, whether you back them up or not!’ he fumed.
‘You cannot be certain of that!’ Kidd retorted. ‘It could be they simply have not
had the opportunity to intercede on my behalf. And if I allow myself be used as a
tool to discredit them, well, that is the one way to ensure they will turn on me!’
The Doctor grabbed the bars of the window, pressing his face right up against
the gap and staring at the prisoner with wide brown eyes. ‘Billy, listen to me. Your
backers are very, very nasty people. They are quite prepared to let an innocent
man die for their own selfish reasons. Why else did they employ you to slaughter
sailors and steal their cargos?’
‘And you didn’t do a bang-up job of that, anyway,’ Tom reminded him. ‘They
think you’re a liability, Captain, and not worth rescuing. When you get dragged
before the government, your only chance is to tell the Tories everything you know
about this. Times, places, dates, names, everything. Comprehendé?’
‘I am a man of my word,’ Kidd said at length. ‘I will tell them the truth, and
the truth will set me free.’
‘Just remember,’ the Doctor warned him, ‘it’s the whole truth.’
‘Without fear or favor,’ Tom chipped in.
The prisoner shook his head. ‘I’m not entirely naïve, you know!’
‘My lords, I have done nothing,’ Kidd announced to the assembled politicians in
the great hall, ‘that I was not commissioned to do.’
There was an excited murmur amongst the Tories.
The Whigs looked up at him murderously.
Captain Kidd’s barely-adequate resolve cracked.
‘And that is all I have to say in the matter!’ he added quickly.

Kidd smiled hopefully down at the few Whig faces he recognized and waited
for his salvation to get under way.
‘The Tories have decided, since you are completely useless politically-speaking, to
send you to stand trial,’ the Doctor summarized glumly. He and Tom were
standing outside the cell, speaking to Kidd through the barred window.
‘They could have got you out!’ Tom complained as he paced up and down. ‘If
you had just named names you’d have been their biggest weapon against the
Whigs! You’d never have seen this cell again!’
‘I am not a traitor,’ Kidd insisted unhappily. ‘I did not betray that confidence. I
have saved my patrons and they will surely return the favor. It is only a matter of
time before they intercede,’ he said confidently.
‘If they were going to help, they would have done so by now!’ the Doctor
snapped. ‘You’re an embarrassment to them, Billy, you’re a living testament to
their own corruption and greed. The only way they can keep their reputations is if
you’re a convicted pirate casting suspicion onto them!’
‘You’re paranoid, Doctor,’ said Kidd smugly.
‘Paranoid? Billy, I’m a time traveler! I don’t need to worry about the future,
I’ve already been there and seen it,’ the Time Lord shouted. ‘Everything we’ve
warned you about has come to pass, and unless you let us help you...’
The prisoner was serene. ‘I’m sure I don’t need your help.’
Tom stared at Kidd, wondering if the Captain truly had gone insane. ‘Billy,
you’re stuck in Newgate Prison on trial for piracy on the high seas and you don’t
think you need help?’
‘Well, not your help,’ Kidd replied. Seeing the look of annoyance and hurt on
their faces, he held up a placating hand. ‘Please, don’t take offense. I mean to say,
I’ve written several letters to King William the Third himself, explained the whole
situation. I’m sure the whole trial business will be a formality...’
If the letters ever found their way to the monarch, they made no impression.
There was no delay in Kidd’s being brought before the High Court of Admiralty in
London. The Doctor and Tom were waiting there for him, having explained that
things were much more serious than Kidd had expected. A number of pirates,
many of which the Captain had never clapped eyes on before, had bought
themselves lighter sentences in return for testifying against Kidd. There were
more than enough unscrupulous plea-bargainers for the prosecutions’ purposes,
and no one bar the TARDIS crew willing to work for the defense.
‘It signifies nothing,’ Kidd said weakly as he heard the news.
‘It signifies this is a kangaroo court!’ the Doctor snapped. ‘Or whatever it was
called before people knew about kangaroos at any rate... Half the evidence you
could use in your defense has already been auctioned off as “pirate plunder”!’
‘Nonsense, Doctor,’ came the dazed reply, ‘I’ll be acquitted the moment the
jury see those two sets of French passes I kept from the Merchant. I can’t be guilty
if I had proof I’m not, now, can I?’ he noted triumphantly.

‘Yeah, about that,’ Tom sighed. ‘The jury won’t see the passes because they’ve
both been conveniently misfiled with some other government papers that would
have coincidentally brought your guilt into question. It will be over two hundred
years before they find them.’
‘Oh,’ Kidd replied, disappointed. ‘Well, I suppose there are a lot of folders for
them to look through,’ he continued philosophically. ‘But the Whigs are bound to
come to my aid and will reward the loyalty that I’ve publicly demonstrated...’
Tom felt an overwhelming urge to bash his head against the wall.
It would be an understatement to say that the trial didn’t start well.
The counsel for the prosecution opened the case by screaming the defendant
an ‘arch-pirate and the common enemy of mankind’, while the Doctor and Tom
found themselves given no voice. Apparently, Kidd had chosen to defend himself
and they could not speak on his behalf. The increasingly disoriented and
bedraggled Captain found all he could do was listen to invented testimony and
occasionally be invited to cross-examine the witnesses. The trouble was, not
having the faintest clue about the stories being told and no chance to spot any
flaws, he couldn’t think of any questions.
The Doctor spent the trial doodling cruel caricatures of Kidd’s Whig backers.
Despite the privateer’s confidence in them, they had not done anything to help his
case – if anything, they were doing their best to get a conviction. If it hadn’t been
for some currency from the TARDIS and some well-chosen anachronistic research,
Kidd would have had no money or information at all, let alone that could have
realistically defended him.
Returning to the TARDIS, the crew agreed that trying to win the case was a
lost cause. Kidd was doomed to being found guilty, and they would have to
concentrate all their efforts to ensuring that he survived.
The only person surprised by Kidd’s being sentenced to death was Kidd himself.
The ex-Captain was left stunned as he was found guilty all six charges – five
counts of piracy and the murder of William Moore. Kidd was taken aback at the
last one, as he had no idea he had even been accused of that particular crime.
His lawyers shook their heads in quiet despair as their client insisted on one
final plea for clemency. ‘I am the innocent-est person of them all!’ Kidd protested
loudly and stupidly. ‘I have been sworn against by perjured persons!’
Oddly enough, this did not have the desired effect.
The execution of Captain Kidd was scheduled at dawn the following day.
‘Your one chance!’ Tom was fuming as the court emptied. ‘Hell, your last chance
and what did you do with it? Did you cough up the names? Spill the beans? No,
just call everyone a liar and hope you were believed!’
‘They are liars!’ Kidd protested.
‘Yeah, and not one of them is going to be hanged in the morning!’ Tom fumed.
‘Damn it, Billy, half of those guys were actually pardoned! You know why,
because they weren’t so stupid as to trust some politicians to get them out of this!’

Kidd scowled through his stubble. ‘If I am to die, I will die an honest man!’
‘If you were honest you would have told the truth!’ shouted Tom. ‘Look, Sara
and me, we’re going to try and work out some way to get you out of this. In the
meantime, you just try not to suffer any more suicidal insanity while we’re gone.’
The surly American stormed off, leaving the Doctor with Kidd. He pulled off
his wig and scratched his curly locks beneath it. ‘He really is trying to help you,
you know,’ the Time Lord pointed out, stuffing his wig in his pocket.
Kidd nodded and sighed sadly. ‘You say you’re trying to change history,’ he
began gently, ‘so what exactly will be changed if I survive this? How would I have
been remembered by people?’
The Doctor shrugged. ‘I think Charles Laughton plays you in a couple of
movies, the story of your life... and the story of Abbot and Costello when they
meet you. Probably a bit apocryphal, that bit. Mind you, it’s all nearly 250 years
from now. Apart from that, few songs, a couple of mentions in short stories, but
most of your legacy is people trying to find your buried treasure.’
Kidd blinked. ‘But I didn’t bury any.’
‘Yeah, it is something of a slight flaw in the theory.’
‘So nothing good comes of my death?’
The Doctor scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘No, no, I wouldn’t say that,’ he
mused. ‘In New Jersey and Canada, you get holidays named after you. The
Captain Kidd weekend, where all the children dig up treasure chests of candy
buried on the beach. Oh, and I’m pretty certain that there’s a pub named after you
in Wapping and Massachusetts...’
Kidd nodded. ‘A good enough legacy I suppose.’
‘You deserve a better one,’ the Doctor told him. ‘And you can have one if you
actually let us help you...’
The guards were making impatient noises, eager to return Kidd to his cell and
get to an early lunch. ‘Well, Doctor, if you could do just one thing for me, I’d be
ever so grateful,’ the condemned man pleaded.
‘Oh? What’s that?’
Execution Dock was for the exclusive use of the Admiralty for dealing with seafaring
criminals. This particular dock was just off the edge of the shores of the
Thames (and thus inside Naval jurisdiction), where a scaffold was built. For
nearly three centuries it had been used to hang smugglers, mutineers and pirates
and allow their bodies to be submerged by the incoming tide.
There was quite a crowd at the dock on the morning of May 17, as they waited
to see the death of the infamous Captain Kidd. As he was paraded across London
Bridge and past the Tower of London, the TARDIS materialized in the shadows of
a nearby building. The noise of the crowd masked its grinding engines.
Tom and Sara emerged, and K9 glided after them. The plan was simple and
fool proof – the robot dog would blast the scaffold with his nose-laser, freeing
Kidd before he could be killed. Tom was fairly confident that this meant an act of
God had spared the criminal and they would be allowed to live.
‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ asked Sara with a frown.

‘Course I am,’ Tom replied with a smile. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘They all seem to be here for a dance competition,’ the young Kaled girl
replied. ‘They keep talking about a Marshal dancing...’
‘Marshal’s dance,’ chirped K9. ‘Colloquial description of the dying spasms of
the victim, whose limbs are seen to “dance”. As the shortened rope and
subsequent drop are insufficient to break the victim’s neck, they suffer slow
asphyxiation instead.’
‘That’s horrible!’ Sara gasped.
‘Affirmative,’ K9 sighed.
Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor was arguing with Tasha about whether or not she
should be allowed to watch the execution. Tasha’s arguments were that, since
their friends were going to rescue Kidd, there was nothing to be offended by and
besides, there were plenty of people outside queuing up to see the execution who
were much younger than her.
The Time Lord was halfway through his list of excuses for why this practice
didn’t really reflect that badly on the human race and why Tasha was not allowed
to use the primitivism of an alien species to justify her own morbid curiosity when
the doors to the console room swung open and the others rushed through.
‘OK,’ Tom said cheerfully, carrying K9 in his arms. ‘One miraculous escape as
ordered, and Billy the Kidd didn’t have time to get a stiff neck! In your face,
established continuity!’ he laughed, lowering the dog to the floor.
Sara nodded happily as she closed the doors. ‘K9 blasted the noose,’ she
reported. ‘At worst he might have got a few bruises from the fall, but he’s alive!’
‘Let’s see!’ Tasha cheered and, before anyone could stop her, she twisted the
scanner control. The shutters parted to reveal the scene outside and the group
gathered before the screen to observe events unfold.
‘Well, none of the spectators look very pleased,’ the Doctor noted.
‘They won’t be getting their dancing today,’ Sara said confidently.
‘So? They want entertainment, a deathbed reprieve counts,’ Tom protested.
‘I can’t see Billy anywhere,’ Tasha said with a frown.
‘Probably too busy releasing him,’ Tom assured her. ‘Look!’ he added, pointing.
‘You can see them helping him up, the chaplain and the executioner... hey, they
really did wear those silly masks!’
‘They don’t seem to be untying him,’ Sara said, slightly worried.
‘They’re taking the noose off, though,’ Tasha noted. ‘See?’
‘Yes,’ the Doctor said grimly. ‘They’re putting a fresh one on.’
‘What?’ Tom gasped, scandalized. ‘Can they do that?’
‘Tom! I thought you said they’d think it was an act of God,’ Sara complained.
‘I guess just they want to see God act again...’
‘He’s not even trying to fight them off!’ Sara wailed. ‘He’s letting them do it!’
‘He looks drunk,’ Tasha agreed.
‘Drunk?’ Tom exclaimed. ‘How could he be drunk? Who gave him the grog?’
The Doctor coughed very loudly and crossed back to the console. ‘Probably
one of his backers, I expect,’ he lied. ‘Small gesture, I suppose, to help ease his

final hours. Anyway, we probably best get moving while the going’s good.
Nothing else we can do for him now...’
Dreadfully embarrassed, he set the controls to dematerialize...
Much to the relief of the executioner, and to the enjoyment of the impatient
crowd, the second attempt at the hanging was an unqualified success. The
spectators cheered and threw their headwear into the morning air, laughing and
shouting long after the last trace of life left the body of William Kidd.
Admiralty Law of the seventeenth century could be quite brutal when it came
to piracy. Just because Kidd was now dead didn’t mean his suffering or indignity
was anywhere near at an end.
Rather than cutting his body down, it was left to hang there. For three days his
corpse was either submerged in the cold waves or left at the mercy of hungry rats
and gulls. At last, the now-rotting ex-Captain was collected and transferred to
Tilbury Point at the mouth of the Thames. His body was to be gibbeted; turned
into an exhibit, hanging from a gallows-like frame so as to deter any future
waterborne criminals with a warning of what would happen if they were caught.
Kidd’s remains was jammed into a specially-constructed cage of metal bands
and left on display. This was a fate for the most notorious of traitors, murderers,
highwaymen, sheep-stealers and, above all, for pirates.
Or even rather unlucky privateers.
Several years later, Kidd’s gibbeted corpse was now a roughly humanoid
collection of bones and rags. It had gone from a gruesome warning to a blatant
health hazard and now a mildly gruesome tourist attraction. As the sun was
setting, four rather unusual tourists stood nearby, together with the police box
they had used to travel there.
They regarded the dangling skeleton in silence for a few moments.
‘There’s just no telling some people,’ the Doctor grumbled.

A Change of Direction
This adventure takes place between
Time’s Time’s Time’s Time’s Champions Champions Champions Champions and Object Object Object Object Permanence Permanence Permanence Permanence
The morning sun was shining brightly over the treetops, the air bright and cheery
and full of birdsong. But the events of the day would have been better suited to a
bleaker atmosphere of icy winds scattering fallen leaves. There were no portents
of any kind as, high above the surface of this world, a chain of events reached
their inevitable conclusion.
The warship resembled a gigantic swordfish, built from thick plates of dark metal
riveted together and wicked-looking spines glittering in the starlight. A kilometer
long and two hundred metres broad, the rocket vents lining the underside pulsed
with bursts of magnetic force. Behind the smoky portholes that resembled the
compound eyes of an insect, dark shapes shifted against a languid red interior.
And the inhabitants of the ship were as nightmarish as their vast vessel, both
in their bodies and in their minds.
Ice Lord Vaslark strode through fiery red gloom of his ship, the metal deck
reverberating with each footstep. His vessel was a Martian War Bringer and in
times gone by had been used as flying fortresses during the longest and most
bloody of crusades and military campaigns. It’s reinforced hull was five meters
thick and its gun-ports were lined with sonic cannons capable of disintegrating
anything in a radius of two parsecs.
Yet somehow intruders had come aboard without anyone’s knowledge or
consent. They had not even hidden themselves, or been captured but blatantly
demanded to speak to the commanding officer. Furious, Vaslark had kept them
waiting for an hour while he checked and rechecked the data – there were no
ships in the area, they had not passed any inhabited planets close enough to
boarded... so how did they get into his ship?
Vaslark’s sucked air through his teeth, as if he was in physical pain.
The Ice Lord and his entourage reached the reception area where the intruders
were held. A frosted glass shield retracted, revealing two humanoids standing
under guard – a male in a female in strange, thin clothes without practical use or
ceremonial purpose.
The Martian tried not to gag on the dreadful milky stench of the mammals.
Like most humanoids, their bodies were stunted, fleshy parodies of a Martian with
ridiculous internal skeletons. Vaslark idly considered effect even a low-level sonic
blast would have on a creature without a protective shell – the feeble nervous
systems would burst apart as easily as their brittle bones. Death from internal
damage would be instantaneous where a Martian would barely be winded...
‘You took your time,’ complained the male, breaking the Ice Lord’s train of
thought. ‘I am known as the Doctor and this is my friend Christine...’

Once, Christine would have called her captors demons. Certainly they were the
most hideous and terrible creatures she had met – they were more monstrous
than any other beast she had met, from the strange shapes of the Chimera to the
ravenous Tellamareens to the nameless horror of Southbank Caves.
These monsters looked like they had come from the depths of the sea, their
bodies encrusted with barnacles as they hissed like angry snakes. Though
hunchbacked, they all loomed over both herself and the Doctor. Each one had
vast, broad shoulders under a mass of thick, ridged plating, like a cross between a
crocodile and a knight in armor. Their bodies were covered with curved shell like
a turtle, and their thick legs and flipper-like feet were surprisingly quick and
graceful. The part that most troubled her were the tufts of wiry green-black hair
that sprouted from the gaps in their armor at their ankles, elbows and shoulders.
It was like some hairy Viking warrior fused with a serpent.
The monsters around her did not act as wild animals, though, but with more
discipline and control than the armies of soldiers she had seen marching past in
her childhood. They had not harmed either of their prisoners, and given their
giant crab-like claws it wouldn’t have been taken much effort to do so. They
merely grunted and barked and hissed, leading the pair into a wide chamber to
await the arrival of their leader.
And now their leader had arrived, bulkier and darker in colour than its
followers. Christine peered up at the creature’s head, unsure if it was wearing a
helmet or not. It looked like it was carved out of green stone, the eyes red squares
of thick glass like a visor, and below them a gnarled, scaly jaw was visible,
grinning with a mouth of fangs and a forked red tongue.
‘Is that bio-armor really fashionable any more?’ asked the Doctor dryly.
Its eyes burned like hot coals. ‘I am a soldier, not a diplomat.’
‘I can see that. You’ve obviously been out on the front line, fighting shell to
shell alongside your men...’
‘You insolent commoner,’ hissed the monster angrily. ‘I am Lord Vaslark of the
planet Mars, master of this vessel and ruler of all aboard it!’
Smiling slightly, the Doctor shook his head, ‘I’m sorry, but we both know that’s
a lie. Christine and I both heard your little pep talk over the ship’s communicator.
This ship was stolen from your hereditary rivals back on Mars. You, Lord Vaslark,
have less right to be here than we do!’
Vaslark seemed lost for words.
‘Now, how did the rest of it go?’ the Doctor asked idly. ‘Something about
having your warriors act under the banner of a rival clan, violate the treaty with
Arcturus in a shameful act? That clan gets punished by the authorities while you
manage to slaughter your rivals with your reputations intact. Very clever, really,’
he said to Christine. ‘Even if the Arcturans are willing to be subject to your feudal
laws and regency, you still get the benefits and none of the blame.’
‘We hope to live in peace with the other races of the galaxy,’ Vaslark replied,
slightly shaken. ‘But if, like Arcturus, they impinge on Martian territory and
interfere with our affairs, it is an act of war and must be treated as such.’

‘And how do you think Arcturus will react?’ the Doctor asked casually. ‘An
unprovoked attack, after your leaders went to such trouble over the nonaggression
treaty? They are well within their rights to destroy this ship as soon as
it enters their orbit...’
‘Within their rights,’ Vaslark conceded, ‘but not within their knowledge.’
‘Oh, I must have forgotten to mention,’ the Time Lord tutted. ‘They know all
about your plans to trigger another stellar war.’
‘Impossible,’ hissed the Ice Warrior.
‘Far from it. I took a copy of your little speech back to my ship and broadcast it
on the frequencies of the Arcturan Potentate Regime. Their entire government
will have heard it by now, and are probably ringing up your rival clans on Mars to
check the facts. Not only will they be ready and waiting to destroy you, they’ll
have the full backing of Mars – both political and military!’
Christine felt her confidence returning. ‘Thou art lost, villain,’ she sneered.
‘Well said, Chris,’ the Doctor agreed. ‘We’re only here to warn you,’ he told the
Ice Warriors. ‘Abandon this plan now, or face the combined might of the Martian
and Arcturan war machines...’
Suddenly, the Ice Lord let out a terrible scream of fury, and Christine imagined
every last ounce of breath being expelled through Vaslark’s jagged teeth.
Suddenly he grabbed the Doctor by the neck and pulled him up off the floor, and
then threw him back down to the deck with another roar.
‘Temper, temper,’ warned the Doctor, wincing from the sudden attack.
Vaslark hissed, straightening his claw. Christine saw for the first time what
looked like a protruding bone flowing out of the joint, like a kind of stubby metal
tube nestling in the patch of green hair at the Ice Warrior’s wrist.
The Doctor was not remotely impressed. ‘You may be a Lord of Mars, Vaslark,
but I am a Lord of Time – and you will show me the respect I am due.’
Even Christine could tell the Martian was surprised. ‘A Time Lord?’ Vaslark
whispered, lowering its arm. ‘From Gallifrey?’
‘That’s right,’ the Doctor sneered.
The Ice Lord inhaled loudly. ‘The terms of the Galactic Constitution are quite
clear – you are forbidden to interfere! Unless you are acting with the authority of
the High Council, you are outside your jurisdiction...’
‘What makes you think I’m not?’ the Doctor challenged him.
Troubled, Christine remembered the bad terms on which the Doctor had last
parted company with his people. Even if he was not a wanted criminal, he
certainly had lost any rank he’d possessed after attempting to destroy his own
civilization for the greater good.
‘So if I were to contact the Time Lords,’ Vaslark hissed, ‘they will give explicit
authority to your actions here today?’
The Doctor tried and failed not to look uncomfortable. ‘Try it and find out.’
The Martian let out a strange series of hisses Christine realized must have been
a mocking laugh. ‘You must be taught humility, Doctor,’ the Ice Lord mused, ‘like
all lesser races!’

Then, with amazing speed, Vaslark’s claw was twisted around so the great
pincers were aimed at the Doctor. The metal tube burst into life and there was a
horrible pulsating noise, like air folding in on itself. The Doctor contorted like a
reflection in fairground mirror. Unable to control his limbs, he collapsed in a
writhing heap. Christine rushed over to him, unsure how to help.
The Time Lord bit down a scream, knowing every bone from his knees
downwards had been reduced to splinters. His body screamed for the relief of
unconsciousness, he could feel himself about to black out and his surroundings
grew darker. The Time Lord struggled to block out the pain and concentrate. ‘I’ll
survive, Christine,’ he rasped weakly.
With a wheezing Vaslark’s tongue darted over his fangs. ‘According to all the
legends, the Time Lord are able to select their physical frame,’ he remarked,
amused. ‘Why do wear such a fragile and useless body? When you can choose the
most magnificent armor that glitters and shines like gemstones? Is it the
legendary arrogance of the Time Lords – or just rank stupidity?’
‘Name-calling?’ the Doctor groaned. ‘Are you a warrior or a spoiled child?’
‘What I am, Doctor,’ the Martian retorted, ‘is curious. Curious to see if your
righteous ally here,’ Vaslark continued, waving a claw at Christine, ‘shatters as
easy as a Time Lord does...’
‘You’re not in combat, Vaslark!’ he growled, pain behind every word. ‘In times
of peace, the Ice Warriors are to respect life in all its forms!’
‘Martian life,’ Vaslark corrected him, pincers clattering together in anticipation.
‘As for other forms of life, they are no concern to us in peace or at war. I make it a
policy for all enemies to be executed, whether they pose a danger to us or not. It
is the custom of our people to take our enemies down with us!’
The Doctor gritted his teeth. ‘Vaslark, please...’
The Ice Lord gave another hissing laugh. ‘How apt that you should meet your
fate at the claws of one as noble as myself!’
The other Martians beat their claws against their chests in salute. Christine
watched as the twenty Ice Warriors quickly assembled themselves into a line, with
Vaslark plodding across to stand at one end. It was a firing squad, and at their
leader’s signal, both she and the Doctor would be executed. And whatever they
tried to do or however bravely they fought, they were going to be hunted down by
these relentless, powerful beasts.
The moment the Ice Warriors were in position, Vaslark’s harsh voice croaked
out. ‘Alert!’ he ordered, and his soldiers immediately lifted their claws, showing
off the weapons built into their wrists.
‘Doctor,’ Christine pleaded.
‘Aim!’
‘Doctor, you must do something!’
The Doctor sighed, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, Chris.’
‘Doctor!’
But their time had run out.
This was the end.
‘Execute,’ the Ice Lord rasped, savoring the word.

The Ice Warriors fired in unison. Lights at the tips of their weapons flared, and
a high-pitched note rang out, slicing through the air as the massive burst of
invisible energy shot across the room and smashed into its target. The condemned
prisoners arched, quivered, shimmered and pulsed. Capillaries bulged and burst
across their skin, their internal organs scrambled under the full brunt of the sonic
blast. Vaslark let out a hissing laugh as he watched the Doctor and Christine blur,
twist, and ultimately implode.
Finally the bombardment ended and the vibrating, distorted bodies fell dead
to the ground. Blood seeped from their mouths, noses and ears.
For a long moment the only sound was the background noise of the spaceship,
mechanisms whirring and pipes rattling. Vaslark regarded the lifeless Time Lord
for a while, admiring how his fleshy features had twisted in the sudden agonizing
shock of death. Then he tugged at an intercom control.
‘Helmsman, take us into landing orbit. We have evidence to dispose of...’
Night was falling early as a vast, black shape ploughed through the clouds. Larger
than any of the forests and mountains it passed over in perfect silence. It
effortlessly drifted down towards the valley, carried on a simple flux magnetic
repulsion. There it finally stopped, hanging above the green world like a dark
metal thundercloud.
Then, a hatch in the warship’s irised open, a bright hole against the gloomy
metalwork. A black disc appeared in the hatchway and silently descended towards
the ground in a perfectly straight line. On the disc stood two Ice Warriors, the
TARDIS and the corpses of its crew. Once the disc reached ground level, one of
the Martians kicked the nearest corpse with the blunt tip of its foot, rolling
Christine’s broken form off the disc. It landed heavily on the grassy surface.
The two Ice Warriors then spent the next few minutes heaving the police box
shape from the disc to the edge of the clearing. The presentation was as Lord
Vaslark had demanded it: the impression that the TARDIS had arrived on this
unknown planet, the crew emerging into the clearing where the no-doubt
voracious wildlife killed them. Certainly, those same scavenger would reduce the
pair to scattered bones long before any investigator could arrive.
Some of the Martians wondered if such subterfuge could fool the Time Lords
of Gallifrey, but it was trivial now – if there was retribution to be paid for the
Doctor’s death, they would have paid it already, their lives undone from history.
Since that hadn’t happened, it was clear the Time Lords were not watching them.
Finishing their work, the Ice Warriors surveyed the body-strewn patch of
green. Even in the unnatural twilight caused by the warship above, their heavilyarmored
forms lost none of their majesty. If anything, they looked more powerful
surrounded by fragile plants and corpses.
The magnetic disc rose up back to its starting point, returning the Ice Warriors
to their ship. For a moment, the Martian spacecraft hovered overhead, somewhere
between a vulture and a tombstone, and then it hurtled away with a final
magnetic pulse. Vaslark and his men had their own destinies to forge...

Once the area was free of life, there were the sounds of curious animals rustling
in the undergrowth at the edge of the forest clearing. A creature close in size and
general outline to a horse, emerged from the brush and headed directly for the
two dead bodies. The stallion bent its long neck down, observing the corpses more
closely for a while.
The long, convoluted horn that sprung from the animal’s forehead touched the
cold flesh of Christine’s exposed neck. Instantly a strange glow that was not-quite
gold and not-quite green flowed across the lifeless body. The grey skin turned a
healthy pink, there were some curious pops and slurps from within the torso, and
slowly the corpse recommenced breathing in and out once more.
The animal repeated the treatment with the dead Time Lord nearby. Seconds
later, the injuries and wounds to the legs were completely healed with new flesh
and bone. The damage done to the sonic blasts were undone and the Doctor too
began to breathe again.
The creature then began to idly graze, chewing grass as though uninterested
with the miracles it had just performed. It took no interest at the muttered groans
from the Doctor and Christine as they finally roused.
At last, Christine managed to lift the weight of her head and looked around in
blank-eyed confusion. She remembered Vaslark’s hissing laughter as the deadly
bolts smashed into her, the horrible tearing pain as she fell... but now there was
no pain, no Ice Warriors, no spaceship, nothing but a cool forest glade. Could it
have been a dream?
‘Why am I not dead?’ she wondered, patting her body experimentally. The
former serving wench staggered to her feet, her awakening senses simultaneously
registering the TARDIS, a large horse munching the grass, and the Doctor lying in
an uncomfortable pose at her feet.
Christine stared at the animal in wonder. It was like no horse she had ever
seen before, but she knew what it was – a beautiful unicorn with a silver mane.
‘Then it must be so,’ she whispered. ‘I must have truly been dead!’
The Doctor groaned and she crossed to his side. He was twitching, close to
consciousness, and soon his eyes slowly opened. For a long time he simply
frowned up at Christine. ‘Aren’t you going to help me up?’ he asked groggily. ‘I
have just been crippled, after all...’
‘And more besides,’ Chris muttered. ‘Thou legs art healed, Doctor.’
The Time Lord sat up and cautiously flexed one leg and then another. There
was no pain, no discomfort, and the joints seemed in perfect working order. ‘The
Ice Warriors shot us both at point blank range. Even if we survived, the physical
damage...’ The Doctor closed his eyes, frowning. ‘It doesn’t make sense. We
should be dead.’
Christine glanced at the unicorn. ‘I think we were dead, Doctor, but we have
both been brought back to this life...’
‘Impossible!’ the Doctor snapped angrily. ‘Their weaponry malfunctioned, and
Vaslark must have realized he had nothing to gain from killing us...’

Christine glared down at him. ‘Do not lie to me,’ she scolded him. ‘Thou legs
were crushed to jelly. If this were some deceit, why not leave thou injured to
make it more convincing? If it were a trick, why injure thou at all?’
The Doctor got to his feet, glowering at her. ‘Mind games aren’t obvious,
Chris,’ he grumbled, ‘otherwise they wouldn’t be mind games, would they?’ He
glanced around the clearing, spotting the TARDIS nearby. ‘No sign of the Martians
or there ship. Almost as though none of it ever happened.’
‘It did!’
‘Nonsense, Chris, it was probably just some kind of shared nightmare.’
‘Doctor, I am no fool so do not treat me like one!’ Christine demanded.
‘If you’re not a fool, don’t act like one!’ the Time Lord retorted, and then
noticed the animal approaching them. Its wickedly sharp horn could stab him
between his hearts if the animal turned aggressive, but fortunately it seemed
peaceable – for the moment. It was also between them and the TARDIS.
Christine moved to touch the glossy gray fur of the creature.
‘Stay away from that thing,’ the Doctor warned. ‘It could be as dangerous as
you find it beautiful. It is obviously unrelated to any Earth animal...’
Chris looked at him, confused. ‘It is a unicorn!’ she protested.
‘Unicorns do not exist,’ the Doctor grumbled. ‘Of all life forms in the universe,
unicorns are completely fictional. A fantasy.’
‘If it cannot exist then how can it be here?’ Christine demanded angrily. ‘There
are many tales of unicorns bringing people back to this life.’
‘Nursery rhymes,’ the Doctor sniffed, making his companion even angrier.
‘We have been brought back to life, and here is a unicorn,’ she announced,
struggling to control her temper. ‘There cannot be any other reason for it!’
The Doctor scratched his moustache. ‘The Ice Warriors executed us aboard
their warship,’ he reminded her. ‘And we wake up, unharmed on a strange planet.
Two realities, mutually exclusive. Something must have happened between them
– something outside your experiences, Christine, but not outside logical reasoning
so stop assuming magic had any part in it!’
It had a long time since Christine had seen this Doctor anything other than
mildly annoyed with her. He never really seemed passionate about anything, at
least in the way he talked – his actions told a different story. But now he seemed
on breaking point, as if this impossible miracle was too much for him to live with.
The angry Time Lord stepped towards his companion, when suddenly the
large animal interposed its body between them. Clearly the unicorn had sensed
the aggression and did not want either of them hurting each other and undoing
its work. ‘You keep out of this,’ the Doctor snapped at the animal.
The ears of horse-like beast flattened and it shook its head, but it did not flee.
Instead it simply sniffed the air and shifted its weight from side to side. Christine
stroked its clean, warm hide, running her fingers through the silk-smooth hair.
The unicorn gave a small grunt and gazed directly at her with liquid black eyes.
‘Remarkably tame for a wild animal,’ the Doctor muttered dismissively.
‘Ultimately, it doesn’t matter how we got here. Standing around in some alien
forest won’t do either of us any good, especially when the Ship is waiting...’

‘Thou wish to flee when thou might be proved wrong!’
The Doctor ignored her.
‘Thou art wrong now, Doctor!’ Christine snapped. ‘You art always wrong!’
‘Don’t be a fool, Christine,’ he growled, unlocking the doors. ‘I’m growing tired
of your continual superstitious primitivism, combined with your steadfast refusal
to accept blatant facts...’
‘What is wrong with you?’ the peasant girl shouted, her voice was thickening
in rage. ‘You always say I am wrong, even though I am not. I was right about the
TARDIS being alive, about not pretending to be a god... each time thou apologize,
but thou always forgets soon enough! You think me a savage, but you are the one
that tries to keep me ignorant. I know that TV is not magic, despite what you said!
And I am not the one who always makes mistakes! You are!’
The Doctor’s eyes were as deep, black and unreadable as the unicorns. ‘I have
had enough of this!’ he roared at her.
‘And I have had enough of your nearly getting us killed!’ she shouted back
with equal passion and volume. ‘It is only sheer luck we are still alive! You nearly
let my soul be lost forever, the TARDIS fall into the sun, the Cybermen attack
without warning – it was chance it was our other selves that died not us, or that
the Time Lords saved us from being shot dead by those guards. And now you let
the same thing happen!’
‘That is not true!’ the Doctor insisted.
‘Then what did happen?’ Christine challenged. ‘We defeated the Ice Warriors,
and we could have left in the TARDIS. But you wanted to stay, to gloat, to show
off to their leader of your own wit and skill. What did you think was going to
happen? That they would take it as a jest and let us go?’
The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but Christine didn't give him a chance.
‘You said you had fought them before, that they could be cruel and deadly, but
you didn’t think they might want revenge for what we did? You blunder into
disasters, and you have no way out! If this unicorn had not saved us, we would
both be dead for no reason other than your foolishness!’
‘I am not a fool!’
‘What else do you call someone who does what you do? You saw a world in
trouble, but you did not help it – you went to operas instead! And when the Time
Lords tried to overrule you, you decided to destroy your own world and people
because you lack the imagination or humility to do anything else! Thou art
reckless and stupid, Doctor, and your actions will kill us for real one day!’
‘And who are you to judge me?’ the Doctor demanded, his control over his
voice waved, growing shrill and sharp. ‘An ignorant peasant from a backward
society! You have no conception of the scale of events around us!’
‘I am not the one who keeps putting us into danger! And thou art would have
died if it were not for my help!’
‘Is that so?’ the Time Lord jeered. ‘I can take care of myself!’
‘Yes, you do such a good job of it too!’
The Doctor began to advance on her, expression dark and furious. ‘You seem
to be forgetting something, Christine – I do not need you. I have never needed

you. You, on the other hand, have always needed all the help you can get. It’s why
you stayed at Drakmoore, why you followed me into the TARDIS and why you’ve
hung around my neck like a stone ever since! Before I met you, I survived longer
than your civilization marked time! I can survive anything!’
Christine did not back away, but walked towards him. ‘Is that why you keep
trying to get us killed? To prove your own arrogance is right?’
Suddenly the unicorn was between them again. Its head was lowered, the
horn aimed in an unmistakable threat. The Doctor calmly took a few steps
backward, a look of contempt on his face. Christine tried to keep her temper.
‘Doctor, thou made a mistake that nearly cost us our lives. Does that not mean
anything to you?’
The Doctor shrugged. ‘What do want from me, Chris? An apology for acts of
barbarity carried out by others? My life has been at risk as well, remember.’
‘Your stupidity is something to be proud of!’ Christine snapped. ‘How many
more people will die before you admit you are wrong? You have always been
wrong, from start to finish!’
For a moment, she thought the Doctor was going to strike her there and then
no matter what the unicorn threatened. Then, he smiled an insincere smile.
‘You’re tired, Christine,’ he said reasonably. ‘You need sleep. Rest and recover.’
Was that it? Christine couldn’t believe it. Once again, she was suddenly the
stupid little girl who knew nothing and understood less. All her anger, her
arguments, all were nothing but some overtired infant who didn’t mean anything
that she had said. A temper tantrum of no relevance.
Looking up at the Time Lord with disgust, Christine shook her head and
crossed to the TARDIS. The unicorn let her enter it, and did not react as she flung
the wooden doors shut behind her.
For a moment, the Doctor and the unicorn regarded each other.
Then, the unicorn turned and began to delicately trot from the clearing. The
Doctor watched the beast recede and ultimately vanish into the undergrowth.
Normally he would have found a world like this a haven of beauty to
contemplate, a change to do absolutely nothing but appreciate nature, free from
the distant and unimportant pressure of civilization. The Time Lord was sick of
having to conform and live up to the expectations of others. When had it done
him a particle of good?
He had forsaken friends and companions for good reason, even though he
found traveling alone an unpleasant experience. Those reasons hadn’t changed.
Perhaps it was time for Christine and himself to part company once and for all...
The sanctuary of the TARDIS did nothing to improve Christine’s temper.
She had never liked the “far sleeker and more elegant affair” the Doctor had
insisted on when he rebuilt the ship after his regeneration. Now all the walls of
the ship were bronze, the floors polished wood and poorly-lit provided by the
murky green glow from the roundels. The oval console room boasted extra
illumination in the form of four church candelabra, whose flickering light barely
allowed you to see the complex holographic controls, let alone the high vaulted

ceiling above. The redecoration was stupid and pointless, and just made the
magical time ship feel more like one of the draughty old castles she’d been forced
to grow up in, and had been desperate to escape.
Once again, Christine wondered just who the Doctor was desperate to impress
with all this. After all, it wasn’t as though he let anyone else into the TARDIS, or
entertained guests, was it? Maybe then someone would ask why in heaven’s name
he’d changed the console so the central column was underneath it, making it
harder to tell when the ship was in flight since it no longer rose and fell. Or why
the Time Lord insisted on keeping a hatstand by the outer doors even though he
never hung up any coats or hats on them.
The battered wooden police box doors to the outside world rattled open as the
Doctor entered, looking calm and relaxed. He held up a hand and snapped his
fingers – and instantly the double doors swung shut and locked automatically.
Another little trick he’d built in, simply to look more impressive.
‘Let me guess what you’re going to say next,’ the Doctor offered.
‘No, I will not let you do that.’
Her eyes were flashing dangerously and her voice was unusually precise.
‘From the moment you regenerated you have not been the same man who I
met on Earth,’ she announced. ‘You think I’m foolish but I understand that you
can change your body like a caterpillar to a butterfly or a tadpole to a frog. I could
understand you having a new form, but you are a different man. You are vain and
conceited, in love with your own aspect and stuffing yourself with food. The
Doctor I knew would never stop running or trying to help people, while you prefer
to sit in comfort and tell everyone that you are so clever and better than they are.
On Kelos I heard you blinded a man because you could not be bothered to reason
with him. You made me sit still for hours on a hillside just so you could show off
your skill with paint, a skill you admit is worthless if no one understands it...’
The Doctor began to respond, but once again Christine let him.
‘When I ask questions, you mock and lie so you do not have to explain, yet it
my “superstitions” that make sense of the strange things we witness. Each time I
am right, you act amazed that a primitive like me could best your logic – and each
time you immediately forget it and treat me like an ignorant savage again. I could
list all the mistakes you have made, how many times you have been reckless and
put others in danger, or how little good has come out of your efforts. I am no
longer certain you even mean well. You either are so stupid you are dangerous or
else you actually want to die.’
The Doctor snorted, faintly amused at her outbursts. ‘You know, I suppose you
could interpret my actions that way,’ he conceded at last.
‘And how should I interpret them?’ Christine hissed.
The Doctor didn’t reply immediately. He crossed to the console and began to
check the controls, as though suspecting she might had fiddled with them before
he’d arrived. It annoyed Christine since he had reason to think that – on several
occasions she had unintentionally tampered with the systems in a childish attempt
to prove her intelligence to the Doctor, to show she understood more about the
world than he automatically assumed.

But now it was time to grow up.
Suddenly, the Doctor spoke. ‘You’re a human woman, Chris.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ said Christine sweetly. ‘I had not noticed this before.’
The Time Lord ignored her sarcasm. ‘How long have we known each other?
Months? Days? Seconds? You grow older so quickly compared to me. Even here,
in the TARDIS, where time doesn’t pass. If I were to be whatever you wanted me
to be, wise and intuitive and good, it would mean nothing. A disguise for a few
days, and no reason to continue it once you are gone. If you wish me to lie to you,
to take away what respect I have for you, then it would be as meaningless as you
believe my actions to be.’
Finally he looked up from the control panels and right into her eyes.
‘I can’t be a human, Christine, any more than you can be a Time Lord.’
Christine stared at him. ‘Is that it?’ she asked icily. ‘I ask you to justify how you
behave, and all you can say is that I am foolish to expect otherwise? That I am the
one who is wrong and mistaken and you are beyond fault?’
The Time Lord sighed wearily. ‘I’m truly sorry you think my actions unkind
and cavalier, but you don’t see things as clearly as I do...’
‘You see nothing clearly! You think of no one but yourself since you changed,
and help others solely to enjoy their gratitude – as long as you get praise, you do
not care who is hurt!’ Christine raged, realizing there were tears in her eyes. She
was thoroughly worn out and frustrated by the way he was treating her.
‘And if I had leapt into the fray the way I used to? The way that got me killed a
dozen times before?’ the Doctor demanded. ‘What could would that do? Fifteen
centuries of suffering, and I am not allowed to care for myself? Because no one
else does, Christine. Not the Time Lords, not my people, and those that claim to
be friends and confidantes are scattered across the universe’s history. I’ve been
alone for ten times longer than you have been alive, Chris. You can’t understand
that. Not because you’re stupid, not because I think you are stupid...’
‘You must think I am stupid!’ his friend shouted. ‘You now would never have
saved me from Drakmoore! Never been someone I wished to travel with! If you
really are the same man, Doctor, why did you stop caring? You say it is a waste
for people to die, but you do nothing to prevent it any more! Is that why you
behave this way? If everyone who could forgive you be dead, you act like there is
naught to forgive?’
The Doctor rolled his eyes and turned to examine the console again. ‘And they
say that the meek are supposed to inherit the Earth,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Stop hiding from the truth!’ Christine yelled at him.
‘The truth?’ the Doctor scoffed. ‘You want the truth? The truth is that what’s
done is done. There is no point ruminating on what I have done because it cannot
be changed. Where we’ve been, what we saw, who died because of us... it
happened. End of story.’
Christine stepped closer. ‘The story could have been better.’
‘No. It couldn’t.’
‘You cannot know that.’
‘Oh but I can.’

‘Your arrogance is even greater than your ignorance!’ his companion spat.
‘Is it?’ the Doctor retorted.
Christine shook her head in horrified disbelief. ‘What on Earth has happened
to you?’ she whispered fearfully.
‘Not on Earth, Christine. Not what happened to me,’ the Doctor said in a singsong
voice that belied the dangerous gleam in his eye. ‘I’d ask you if you wanted
to leave the Ship. But I know you don’t have anywhere you want to go.’
‘It seems that anywhere will be better than here!’ she spat, and stormed to the
archway at the back of the console room, where a seemingly-infinite corridor
stretched off into the rest of the TARDIS. ‘Thou art on thou own from now on,
Doctor. I will not die because of your... your idiocy!’
The Doctor arched a dark eyebrow. ‘Oh? Then what will you die for?’
Christine was already heading down the corridor and out of sight.
Leaving him alone.
The Doctor had once joked that he had cheated death so often that death refused
to play any more. Certainly, his demise did not trouble him as much as it once
would have. If the Ice Warriors had killed him once and for all, he was confident
that someone else would pick up where he had left off. Someone else would
assume his mantle and liberate slaves, confront traitors, organize rebels and
destroy the monsters. Once he had been cheered at the thought, the idea those he
had helped would be inspired to carry on the good fight.
Now it seemed more like a reinforcement of his own irrelevance.
Such a short time ago, during the cosmic disaster that had triggered his last
regeneration, the Doctor had been plunged into a chronic rift – into the endless
cascade between realities. The trip into the dimensional flux had been mercifully
brief, but not brief enough. Even after his body had renewed itself and healed its
injuries, his mind was still left numb and wretched by what he had experienced in
those few hours at the heart of every existence.
He had not been the only one in the chronic rift that terrible day, not even the
only Doctor there. There were Doctors just like him, Doctors he could have been,
Doctors he should have been and Doctors he prayed he would never be.
At that focus point, that infinite pivot around which the entire multiverse
revolved, that place where flesh-and-blood should never be, the Doctor had seen
it all – not just his universe but every universe, every reality, every possible
scenario in every possible situation ever. He saw the universe he destroyed the
Daleks at their birth, the cosmos where he had been quick enough to save Adric,
the realm where Axos had consumed the entire Earth. The possibilities and
probabilities branching away from each other in entirely different directions, but
he had witnessed each and every one in their terrifying individual complexity.
That strange unearthly journey had been horrifying, and not because of any
slithering monsters or shrieking banshees. Katarina, Sara, Adric, Peri, Roy,
Landon, them and thousands more. He saw everyone he had ever failed to save
live out their lives... and do nothing with them. They died for nothing and they
lived for nothing. Every action he had done or ever could have done changed

nothing, meant nothing! Every drop of blood, every massacre, every desecration,
every corruption – the end results were all ultimately meaningless.
It was all for nothing. All of it.
He had rescued every single universe, and his reward was the simple truth that
the trillions of billions of lives he had saved didn’t matter a jot. It had shaken him,
finding out they were as insignificant and replaceable as so many enemies had
dismissed them. After centuries of demoralizing skepticism, he finally began to
wonder if anyone was really worth his time and compassion after all.
Gaze into the void long enough and eventually the void gazes into you.
In that strange, glittering realm the Doctor had lost some tiny, nebulous link
with reality itself – a small, easily overlooked connection that was more important
that he realized. He had fixed his dying mind on finding Christine again, seeing
her face, hearing her voice, all fond and familiar.
But when he had found her, she was not known and familiar. Everything told
him he was in the exact same universe he had been born in and had lived his life
– the right place, the right time, the right everything. But it felt as strange and
unreal as the universes where the Time Lords had abolished themselves, Daleks
worshipped peace and love or shrimp never evolved.
That strange dislocation and isolation clung to him like a stubborn bloodstain,
even as he completed his transformation. He remembered agony bunching tight in
his hearts and exploding outwards through his entire body. Raw nerve ends
screaming and razor blades in his bloodstream, roaring in his ears, but nothing
blotted out that painless throb of wrongness.
He didn’t belong here.
And even in a new, healthy regenerative form what he had seen left him old
and tired. How could he make a difference now he knew he never had? Every
instinct screamed at him not to give up, yet it didn’t matter if he gave up or not.
Whether he waged a war on his most evil opponents or simply curled up and
died, it was all meaningless.
Even a nostalgic return to Canis, Dillion and the Cyber-Wars had been nothing
but salt in open wounds and he’d wanted nothing more than to get away from the
madness he had helped to create. As time passed he became increasingly
desperate to do things purely for his own interests, his own sanity.
Not a pleasant revelation.
Much as he wanted to absolve himself, Christine’s bitter reminders of his
failures and mistakes rang home. What was he thinking, trying to destroy
Gallifrey? The answer was obvious: he wasn’t thinking. A gut instinct to try and
claw some meaning back into this universe that made him feel like an unwanted
intruder. Even when things surprised him, or didn’t instantly make sense, it felt
like cruel mockery. A death-defying unicorn? He had not seen one of those in the
rift. Ergo it was impossible, and he shouted down anyone who said otherwise,
taking out his frustrations on the one friend that had remained by his side,
mocking her, ridiculing her... wanting her to abandon him the way all the others
had, even those ones he had deliberately driven away – like poor Dara.

Things were decaying steadily and the Doctor wasn’t sure if he could stop
them. He knew standing around, wallowing in morbid self-pity wouldn’t help but
he couldn’t bring himself to do anything else. His own pride and conceit were too
much a part of him to simply ignore or overrule. Even another regeneration might
not be enough to put himself back on track, make him forget what he had seen,
make him care once again about the crimes he had committed...
Had already he passed the point of no return? Was he beyond saving?
Ultimately... did it matter either way?
Christine stormed down the corridor, barely aware of where she was going or
even how far she had walked. The roundel-patterned tunnel stretched for miles in
either direction. As long as she was moving away from the control room and the
Doctor, she didn’t care where she went.
Damn him, she thought darkly. Damn him and the Ice Warriors who had killed
her and even that unicorn for bringing her back to a life she no longer wanted.
Saved from death just to have the last shred of integrity and self-respect ripped
away by the one man she’d ever been able to call a friend...
Wearied, she spotted a nearby door. Turning the handle, she pushed the panel
aside and stepped out onto a balcony overlooking a yawning chasm. It seemed
this was a gap, a hollow space between parts of the TARDIS and she could see
other roundel-covered walls in the distance. Above and below, the curving walls
stretched into darkness.
Idly, Christine wondered what would happen if she were to plunge over the
edge of the balcony. Would the sheer drop kill her? Would she keep falling
forever? It wouldn’t take much to find out...
Just a step...
The Doctor probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone...
What am I thinking? Christine thought, horrified. Her life had been harsh,
having lost her family at an early age and forced into virtual slavery throughout
the rest of her childhood. Yet while she had been miserable, she had never, ever
contemplated suicide as a solution – never. Just what had traveling in the TARDIS
done to her that she would rather die than face the man the Doctor had become?
Somehow afraid she might yet climb over the balcony, Christine scrambled
back into the safety of the corridor. She was exhausted in mind and spirit if not in
body, drained of that life-spark to the point of wanting peaceful oblivion. Perhaps
this was the unicorn’s doing, the price of its help?
Either way, she had suffered too much over her sixteen years to give up now.
As long as she still breathed, there was something more that life had to offer than
a cold uncaring step to death. She was not prepared to die pointlessly, not for the
Doctor’s mistakes, or for her own despair...
‘After all, anyone can be a self-satisfied ass,’ the Time Lord muttered as he studied
the displays on the console. ‘And I’ve had millennia of practice.’
The TARDIS data banks relayed what its external sensors had observed over
the last few hours – from its arrival on the Martian warship, to the Doctor and

Christine’s sabotage and their subsequent capture, execution and abandonment
on an unnamed planet. The holographic screen showed the unicorn reviving them
one by one, and then their heated argument.
Christine was right.
‘Once again,’ the Doctor completed out aloud.
He considered trying to find her and apologizing, but decided against it. In her
current, highly-emotional state, Christine would assume he was either lying or
patronizing her; perhaps even both. Not that he wanted to concede his mistake or
admit to his ignorance in any case.
Besides, the question remained as to what the unicorn actually was or how it
had brought them back to life. Never in his lives had he come across something
comparable to this. Nanogenes, bio-energy transfers, mortal stasis, all were things
he might have accepted could undo their deaths at Vaslark’s claws... but the
TARDIS sensors were quite adamant that none of them had been used here.
It was quite possibly the closest thing he’d ever seen to magic or miracles.
And that scared him.
Without another word, the Doctor began to set coordinates, aligning the
controls for an immediate take-off. He wanted to get away from this strange,
counter-intuitive planet of impossible beasts and magical acts as soon as possible
and he had no desire to return.
For some strange reason, as multitudes of lights ignited and then extinguished
themselves across the control console, the Doctor found himself reminded of a
verse he had heard centuries ago on a world he could barely remember.
Lie you easy and dream you light
And sleep you well away
Luckier may you find the night
Than you ever found the day.
Troubled, the Doctor initiated the dematerialization sequence.
Outside, the unicorn watched the battered police box as the light at its top began
to flash. The sound of ancient engines whirring into life could be heard across the
forest clearing as slowly, gradually, the time machine began to dematerialize –
destined for other worlds, other times, other adventures. A square of flattened
grass soon began to straighten out, until it there was no evidence that the time
travelers had ever been there.

Broken Threads
This adventure is set during The The The The Empire Empire Empire Empire of of of of the the the the Daleks Daleks Daleks Daleks
Colonel Charles Crichton awoke with a start -- but the world had still ended.
His dreams were of a world in flames, of milk bottles melting in the heat,
bodies burning, cats and dogs writhing in pain as they clawed for non-existent
safety. His sleeping thoughts were of hospitals full of corpses, the floors awash
with blood and the remains of pillowcases that had been torn up to make
bandages. Words mocked him again and again.
Life goes on... life goes on... life goes on... for some of us, anyway...
Yet somehow, impossibly, he woke in a reality worse than any nightmare.
‘Hello? This the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce, British division,’ came the
forlorn voice from outside the gloomy office. ‘Repeat, this is UNIT. Is anybody
there? Anybody?’ A note of panic entered the voice. ‘Anybody at all!’
Silence.
Crichton sat up stiffly, ignoring the sounds of Corporal Lucas weeping. The
cold of the evening, even underground was enough to leave you soporific and
reluctant to wake up. Especially now it was clear that the rest of the world were
now unable or unwilling to make radio contact any more. Had the other countries
become insular to the point they no longer wanted to communicate? Was power
now too scarce to waste on radios?
Crichton scratched his stubbly beard. Power. That was a good point.
He reached across the desk and picked up a battered, dusty answering
machine. The tape it contained held only one message, a casual dinner
confirmation from his sister-in-law. Who was now dead, of course. They were all
dead. Crichton had kept the tape as a souvenir, but there was no point wasting
energy to play the voice of dead woman speaking about a way of life that simply
no longer existed.
Taking out the battery, the Colonel rose and headed out into the main hall of
basement that was all that remained of UNIT HQ. Designed to stand up to a
nuclear blast, it had more or less survived the end of the world intact -- a long,
low-ceiling chamber made out of concrete, with light providing from harsh,
glaring light bulbs. Furniture consisted of a few tables, cots and a corner stuffed
with scavenged and hoarded supplies.
It was here, that Crichton and his men had weathered the stormy fountains of
fire that made Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like spluttering matches; protected
from winds traveling at 300 kilometers per hour that sucked cars, people and
debris up into the ashes and melted rock. The reinforced shelter stopped these
few dozen troops from joining the eighty million that perished in those first
seconds -- but whether this was a good thing or not remained to be seen.

As Crichton poured himself a cup of coffee, he tried to work out how long it
had been since the world ended. A month, maybe six weeks. That was, what,
forty-two days ago? Which gave them roughly thirty-eight days before the stored
food across the Earth finally ran out. Humanity had always been eighty days from
starvation, a fact that had never really bothered anyone until now. Britain’s food
supplies had run low in less than five days.
On the other hand, there were so few left alive to eat it, so that might help a
little. And the average human could survive another forty days or so without food,
before the madness, blindness and terminal decline set in...
It was getting hard to ignore the threat of extinction hanging in the air.
But humanity had not been engulfed by the dark just yet. The security scanner
systems in the basement were still working, a certain unpaid scientific advisor
having tinkered with them long ago so they could interface with other security
cameras and even use them remotely. Despite the widespread destruction, there
were plenty of electronic devices intact and working -- though most of them
buried under rubble and of no use to anyone else. These allowed UNIT to observe
the landscape above without having to suffer the sights with their own eyes, sights
that had reduced more than one good man to weeping inconsolably.
Right now, Corporal Lucas had abandoned the radio set and was checking the
displays. The screens showed hazy winter clouds above a blackened wasteland of
bunt-out cities. It could have been California or Tokyo or Switzerland for all it
mattered -- every distinguishing feature smashed to rubble and plunged into the
darkness of a global winter. Another window on a hopeless, doomed world.
At least it had finally stopped raining, Crichton thought wearily. Following the
catastrophe, torrents of rain had fallen with it, bringing dust from the sky and
drenching the land in mud. Some said there were flash floods in the Sahara, and
ten years of rain were falling in just a few hours. But that, of course, was before
they lost contact with the outside world.
The old soldier found himself neither surprised or interested in that particular
development. The only person they knew was out there and knew could be
contacted would not concern himself with mundane radio frequencies -- only the
signal from the featureless blue, cash-register shaped object in Crichton’s office
could summon him back to Earth.
No one was entirely sure how the space-time telegraphy set worked, only that
it beeped when switched on and usually got results within a few days. The recall
signal would be detected by the TARDIS and the Doctor would be able to home
directly in on that signal, in theory the moment it was sent, in practice a few
hours or miles away.
The device had been signaling ever since the devastation began.
And there was still no sign of time machine or its owner.
On the 23rd of October, the Year of Our Lord 1996, the world ended.
Across the globe, in day and night, sirens screamed out the imminent
holocaust and the human race panicked. Every television station broadcast
warnings and public information bulletins. In some parts of the world, the

government response was faster than average, but no one was quick enough to
actually prevent the apocalypse.
With the force an 80 megaton nuclear bomb, the first asteroid struck the
Earth. The others followed in seconds, ending up with a ratio for three and a half
tones of high explosive for every human being on the planet.
On each impact, whole cities were flattened down to powder. Mountains
shattered to rubble. Entire forests were incinerated to ash. Tidal waves rose and
swallowed up the fires spread from the atmospheric friction, and some islands
were drowned forever.
The bombardment lasted for two minutes and twenty-five seconds. The old
way of things were over, and the end began: a new age of starvation, disease and
death, washing over the Earth like an unrelenting, venomous flood of bile.
From Japan to Timbuktu, there seemed to be nothing but uniform devastation.
The Earth was now engulfed in huge clouds of displaced dust, blocking out any
heat and light the sun could provide. The world was left in a permanent freezing
midnight, survivors often dying of exposure huddling in the least intact buildings
-- those had only lost their roofs and windows.
While the initial casualties could easily be numbered in the tens of millions,
the chaos and destruction didn’t end simply because the asteroid storm was over.
So wide-scale was the damage, no one was able to organize fire-fighting or
distribute food. Countless died instantly, their bodies found in the rubble that had
once been their homes and workplaces. Others asphyxiated as the flames
consumed the oxygen. Many more died in the days that followed, either from
their injuries or from attempting to use a ruined health service. But then, how
could hospitals function without power, water or medicine -- not to mention so
few doctors surviving the disaster themselves? Burn victims perished before they
could be seen to, while others died on the operating table, screaming for
anesthetic that was no longer available. Thousands were simply never seen again,
either alive or dead.
Worse was still to come.
The streets were full of charred bodies, left out in the open since no one had
the time or energy to dig pits. Cremating the corpses would have been a waste of
precious fuel. The millions of unburied bodies gave rise to epidemics amongst the
ever-dwindling survivors. Cholera and typhoid stalked the remaining members of
humanity, rendering whole countries lifeless as though the Horsemen of the
Apocalypse were taking it in turns to purge the Earth of its population.
Perhaps, if it had stopped there, humanity could have gotten back onto its feet.
But it didn’t.
The physical, structure damage had been bad enough, but civilization itself did
not survive. Society eroded quickly after the bombardment. The symptoms had
been there in the last days. Across the United Kingdom there had been riots,
outbreaks of violence, hundreds of people fleeing the large populations in the
belief the countryside would be safer, ignoring official advise. Most citizens began
to build improvised fall-out shelters, preparing provisions for two weeks in case of
a crisis, which had of course lead to shortages in tinned food across Europe.

That had been when there were still police and government were around to
organize things, a royal family for the populace to look up to. Now the closest
thing to authority were a few untrained emergency officers unsure of their duties,
most of them trapped and helpless in bunkers underground. Who was it who said
civilization could be undone by depriving people of their food for a day? Well, the
people had been hungry for far longer than a day.
Looting became rife, and life became cheap. After all, when all your friends
and your entire family have been atomized, why should the lives of strangers
matter any more? And if this thrust humanity all the closer to extinction, who
cared? Was this dead world worth being inherited by future generations anyway?
The surviving military forces defended food depots with lethal force. Detention
camps were set up, but one by one, each country realized the numbers of looters
were growing too fast to be contained. Those arrested were shot if they resisted,
and even if they didn’t they were killed not long after; stripped naked since
clothes were too precious to waste on the dead. At first, the condemned were
given the last rites, at least until the last of the priests died -- ironically, being
executed for looting.
Some of the authorities justified their actions: a strong example had to be set if
order was ever going to be reintroduced to mankind. But it soon became obvious
that those in power were too shocked and traumatized by events to care about the
morality of capital punishment. In many cases, the new governments perished
within two weeks, suffocating in their bunkers or smoking themselves to death
with the last tobacco cigarettes ever made. These strict orders had yet to be
overturned, and probably never would be.
By now, most of the cities and towns were all-but deserted as those who could
fled in search for more food than the authorities were willing to provide them.
Only able-bodied men, women and children were given food in exchange for
helping with the futile attempts at reconstruction, while all the others were left to
starve. After all, every death meant more food left for the useful, productive
citizens. Why waste food on those about to die anyway? And those trying to live
outside the system would die soon anyway, trying to live off the corpses of sheep
and cattle found dead, some even turning to cannibalism to survive...
Not that the reconstruction of the cities would ever be completed. Even on
survival rations with a tenth of the populace still alive, there simply wasn’t
enough food to go around. China had immediately set to work, harvesting what
crops had survived both the asteroid strikes and the following, unprecedented
winter. Farming in pitch darkness was difficult enough, but this was easy -- the
next harvest, should there be one, would have to be performed without luxuries
like fertilizers, not to mention tractors and combine harvesters now there was no
fuel left to power them. If the sky ever did clear, the ozone layer would be
stripped away and the ultraviolet life would, it was predicted, soon kill off those
with thinner protective layers of flesh. The young and old would disappear,
leaving a sole generation of traumatized, broken people.
The very concept of friendship was dying fast. No one had anything to talk
about except what they had lost, and the people, scared, hurt and frightened, kept

in slavery with the threat of death hanging over their heads, lost any kindness and
generosity they once had. There was no risk of a rebellion, since no new regime
could improve the way things were.
If compassion was dying, hope was long dead. Law and order could be
restored if broken down, but not if man stopped caring for his fellow man -- which
seemed to be what was happening more and more...
Crichton tried to imagine what the Earth would look like in a few years time.
By then, the world would be crude and primitive, suffering a new dark age as the
harsh unfiltered sunlight choked the life out of people one by one. The walking
wounded, tilling barren earth beneath a blinding and cancerous ultraviolet sky.
There might be some electricity or steam power, enough to distinguish the world
of the 21st century from the Dark Ages. How would the next generation cope with
this dangerous, inhospitable world? How would children be schooled? With their
parents sullen, uncommunicative and insular, would they even learn to speak or
just work in dogged silence?
Always assuming, of course, humanity hadn’t died out before then.
Crichton sighed.
Two minutes and twenty-five seconds.
Just long enough to send mankind hurtling backwards hundreds of years.
Hodges was coughing again. If he’d been a smoking man, it might have been easy
to overlook, to pretend he was purging himself of nicotine. But he hadn’t smoked
in his life, and with no antibiotics left, if he had some kind of lung infection, he
was already beyond help. Another problem to add to the already-immense list.
When was the last time anything that could honestly be construed as ‘‘good’’
had happened to them?
Even when they finally broke free of the bunker, UNIT had suffered bad luck.
They’d soon abandoned their attempts to get fresh supplies for civilian use when
they’d found a cache of black boxes sheltered in a cellar, to be protected from a
nuclear blast. The men had eagerly cracked them open, seeking food, clothing, or
medical supplies. Instead they found a pile of tape reels from the BBC -- a supply
of television programs, intended to be played to maintain morale for survivors. As
though watching repeats of sitcoms, costume dramas and religious programs
would take everyone’s mind off the third world war.
Major Patel, upon discovering six separate copies of The Sound of Music, had
angrily had the boxes to be used as fuel for fires. Crichton thought it was
destroying what little culture and history remained, but there was no equipment
to play the tapes, or electricity to waste on them. Let the von Trapp family burn.
Crichton sighed and wiped some tears from his eyes.
It would be so tempting to just give up.
It was hard to imagine, at any given point, that things could get any worse.
Until Major Patel voiced his little theory, decidedly quelling any lingering hope
that Crichton might have been desperately clinging to.
‘What if he’s not coming?’

Crichton was calm. ‘We need to get a technical expert in and check this
telegraph thing is still working,’ he said. ‘There’s always a chance the dust in the
atmosphere is somehow blocking the signal some way or another...’
‘No,’ Patel sighed. ‘What if the signal’s actually gotten through, but he’s just
refusing to answer it?’
‘Why would the Doctor turn his back on us?’ the Colonel scoffed.
‘The Doctor’s always made it clear he refuses to alter historical events,’ Patel
noted. ‘He’d never go back in time and assassinate Hitler to stop the Second
World War, would he? It’s a fact, the war happened, millions died. If the Doctor
ever did arrive in the 40s, he wouldn’t help the Allies or the Nazis, he’d let things
happen the way they did...’
‘What are you saying, Major?’ Crichton asked, his expression dark.
‘What if the bombardment was supposed to happen? What if, for the Doctor,
it’s like the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs? Something that he can’t -- that
he won’t --- change? This is the way everything ends and he knows we want his
help to stop it.’
Crichton didn’t speak for a long time.
‘And what about some of his companions?’ he said at last, mouth dry. ‘Like
Commander Triyad. He was from the future, the 24th Century, he said as much.
And he was human!’
‘Maybe he was,’ Patel shrugged. ‘Is. Will be. But maybe his future depends on
our civilization ending. England nearly being punched into the sea might be what
created the world the Commander came from. Which brings me back to the
question: what if the Doctor doesn’t come at all?’
Crichton stood up.
His service revolver was aimed to shoot right through Patel’s heart.
‘That’s a reasonable question, Major,’ Crichton conceded. ‘But if you repeat it
to anyone else, it will be treated as an act of mutiny and punishable by execution.
The morale of the men is low enough as it is -- question the one hope we’ve got
left and I’ll kill you.’
Patel nodded calmly. ‘Sir.’
‘And as for your question, the only reason the Doctor wouldn’t come is if this
glorified Morse Code gizmo is broken. The Doctor made a vow to UNIT to return
whenever he was summoned, a vow he has never before broken. He might whine
and complain about wasting his precious time, but he will come if he gets our call.
Even if he can do nothing, if this Armageddon around us is meant to be, the
Doctor would never abandon us. Is that understood, Major?’
Patel nodded.
‘Get out, and speak of this to no one.’
The Major did so.
Crichton slumped back into his chair, alone in silence.
Had the Doctor really turned his back on their cry for help?
To the Time Lord, human history was like an ongoing series of films or books
that he could experience in any order as often as he liked. And just as Crichton

might skip a particularly poor or depressing tome for something he enjoyed,
maybe the Doctor refused to visit the world of post-1996?
And why shouldn’t he? Who would willingly want to visit a time lacking
structure of any kind, culture, social relationships, family, food, homes, clothes? A
time where the Earth had become the most hostile environment imaginable, and
the only thing to survive from better days were memories? No one would travel to
a nightmare world where living envy the dead and your children are doomed.
Especially if they knew they couldn’t change it...
The next day, Colonel Charles Crichton prepared to kill himself.
He would normally have considered suicide a coward’s way out, and if he
thought for a moment his own survival could benefit the men, he’d do his
absolute best to stay alive. Yet what did they need a commanding officer for,
except to emphasize how hopeless and pointless their lives were? He wasn’t their
leader, just a mockery of what was lost. Besides, his rations could be spread
amongst the others, increasing their chances of survival if they wished to live on
after doomsday.
Just what was he staying alive for? To skip across the barren, frozen
countryside? Watch the survivors of mankind starve as the diseased livestock died
on useless irradiated farmlands with any and all experts on farming, fishing and
animal husbandry long gone?
Even heading to the surface for some fresh air was unbearable now. He could
have coped with the stench and dust, but not the stillness. The silence of a dead
world, bar the bleak whistle of the wind through the flattened ruins. Once there
had at least been the sounds of orphans crying out for their missing mothers, or
mothers weeping over their dead children, but not any more.
There were no tears left to cry.
Why was he lying to himself?
He’d seen the buildings explode, seen the bodies incinerate, seen the end of
the world as he understood the term. Things were not going to get better -- not
ever. In human society, everything connected with everything around it, each
person’s needs were fed by the skills of so many others. Empires had risen and
fallen, wars had been waged, but the fabric of society had been more-or-less
unchanged for over five thousand years. But no more -- now the connections that
made that society strong had been torn apart, and the threads that united
humanity were finally broken. The species was rapidly reverting back to the levels
of animals and nothing could stop that process now.
There was no one coming to their rescue.
There was no enemy to unite against.
Nothing to make them put aside their differences and work together. Just raw,
stupid survival. Struggling to live just a few more days in this hideous world,
whether that meant killing your fellow man in cold blood or living off the flesh of
skinned rats for good. No one else was worried about the rest of the world, with
their own safety their prime concern above any kind of moral boundaries. Life on
Earth was now so extreme, you could hardly blame them...

And Crichton was sick of it. Sick of watching everything he knew and care
about slowly disintegrate before his eyes. Sick of seeing dead children, burnt
animals, melted roads, vaporized schools, the buzzing of flies, rubble, filth, decay,
disease, insane ex-traffic-wardens shooting starving looters with a machine gun at
point-blank range, lifelong friends willing to slit your throat for a packet of cheese
and onion crisps...
No hope.
No future.
No love.
Only one way out.
Crichton took out his service revolver, emptied all but one of the bullets and
neatly stacked them on his desk. Once the gun was ready, he paused for a minute,
weighing the pros and cons of putting the gun in his mouth or to his temple. He’d
heard stories of people who had survived the former, and while he wanted to die
he had no desire to suffer -- or make more of a mess than he had to.
To be on the safe side he put a second bullet into the gun. Two shots would be
enough to kill him, surely? Then again...
Crichton had just finished loading every chamber of his revolver with bullets
when he heard the shouts from Briggs in the hall outside. The Colonel calmly got
to his feet and went to answer. He was literally in no hurry to kill himself, and
could easily afford a few minutes before sweet oblivion took hold.
‘What is it Briggs?’ he asked cheerfully as he joined him by the scanner bank.
‘There’s something moving out there, sir,’ Briggs said, struggling to improve
the reception. ‘Up in the sky, I think it might be some sort of plane...’
Crichton snorted good-naturedly. ‘There aren’t planes any more,’ he reminded
Briggs gently. ‘Probably just your eyes playing tricks.’
The Colonel turned to leave the room, and get back to the serious business of
ending his life. He paused on the threshold, thinking of a film he’d once seen --
The Shape of Things To Come, based on that prophetic HG Wells story. A world
war had destroyed civilization, but a band of scientists had created their own little
utopia and began to spread technology and peace across the globe in their new
jumbo jets. Within a century, humanity had not only recovered from its collapse,
but improved beyond all expectations.
HG Wells. Putting the ‘‘fiction’’ into science fiction.
Reflecting that the film and book now only existed as memories in the minds
of those about to die, Crichton stepped through the door to his office. But before
he could close the door, he heard Patel shouting anxiously as he joined Briggs and
Hodges at the bank of monitors.
Patiently, Crichton wandered over to see what the fuss was about.
On the flickering monitor screen, an immense, gleaming metal shape was
drifting low over the ruined buildings like a plane coming into land. A classic
silver-coloured flying saucer skimming over the decaying corpse of London and
landing in the ruins of a nearby square. A few ragged survivors were cautiously
approaching it, others instinctively retreating.

As Crichton watched, a ramp silently emerged from the body of the ship,
linking the main hatch to the uneven ground below. The hatch opened and a
burnished, armored creature emerged, glinting dully as a weapon in its front
swiveled in its socket. A camera atop the creature stared out unblinkingly and
then fired its weapon at the nearest scavenger. The screen flared to white and
when it cleared, the survivor lay unmoving in the rubble.
The screen flashed again and again as the creature struck down the other
humans nearby, while more tank-like monsters emerged from the saucer.
The beginning of an alien invasion.
Something that could be fought against.
At last.
‘What are we going to do, sir?’ Patel croaked fearfully, unable to take his eyes
from the display. ‘What are we going to do?!’
The Colonel smiled grimly.
‘Get the men together. Prepare to engage the enemy!’

The Decision is Final
This adventure takes place after THUNDERBALL
THUNDERBALL
THUNDERBALL
THUNDERBALL
Day Day 1
1
Well, this UNIT lark seems a cushy little job. Apparently the British division of the
taskforce hasn’t been requested for combat for nearly two years now – the CO spends
so much of his time at Geneva Command he might as well have a desk job. The
psychological well being of the troops is above standard, but that’s to be expected
when every soldier needs to be resistant to hypnotism and open-minded enough to
fight non-terrestrial threats.
Quite a few of them get anxious when I mention I’m working for my doctorate,
at least until I specify being a psychiatrist. It’s ridiculous to think that many men in
the British army could flinch so much at words “I’m the doctor...”
Will have to work out a new way to break the ice with the men. Normally people
are uncomfortable around psychiatrists and much prefer medical experts. I tried
discussing it with Major Beresford, but he just told me as long as I didn’t wear a
long scarf and hang around phone boxes, I wouldn’t have any problem.
Note to self: check for any medical history of insanity in the Beresford family.
Day Day 3
3
Well, the whole mystery thing is finally resolved. It appears that the Chief Scientific
Advisor to this division liked to be called “Doctor” – presumably making up for
some academic failings or general feelings of inadequacy – and seemed to be a
walking trouble magnet. There doesn’t seem to be a single campaign UNIT has been
involved with that this Doctor wasn’t directly part of. No wonder the troops are
worried he might come back. But this isn’t a mild superstition, as several corporals
have clear signs of a nervous disorder having been developed.
The big question is why on Earth would these men think that I am the Doctor? I
don’t look a bit like him. Asked around and it seems no two troopers can agree on a
description. He’s tall, short, medium-sized, young, old, blond, brunette, whitehaired,
dressed in a fine old fashioned suit, a scruffy student or beggar-like rags. Did
his task involve some kind of disguises? Further evidence this Doctor had some
kind of clear self-esteem issues if he kept changing his styles and looks, most likely
trying to keep up with the latest fashions. The number of young girls he worked
with also suggested clear commitment problems.
All in all, part of me wishes I could meet him. He sounds a mundane neurotic
with a strong lack of self confidence, but the mixture of awe and fear he inspires
across the troops is fascinating. Was it some kind of Sergeant Major type act to force
the troopers to respect a civilian? If so, it’s worked. They all seem terrified of his
return, but few are willing to hear a word against him, even Beresford who made it
clear the Doctor treated him like dirt.

The old quack’s probably lost the battle with a midlife crisis and shacked up
with some supermodel...
Day Day 25
25
Well, I’ve finally met the Doctor, and in my professional opinion after years of
studying psychiatric therapy and analysis... the man is a total nutter.
Unsurprisingly he doesn’t match up with any descriptions, having changed his
look, short hair, leather jacket. He can’t hide the fact he’s getting older, but he’s fit
for his age, even though he seems to suffer a combined superiority complex and
attention deficit disorder.
Unsurprisingly he has a “companion” in the form of a nubile young woman
called Kathy Williams, but he also is accompanied by one Kyle Wanger. From the
sound of it, I would have said he was keeping Kyle around so as to act as alpha male;
someone to show off to, intimidate and generally look cooler than. Yet, oddly
enough, he treats Kathy in almost the exact same way. He appears to have no
physical interest for either of them – yet is clearly determined to keep them around.
A possible inability to grasp with sexual desires? It’s common in many sociopaths...
Day Day 26
26
The Doctor has lived up to his reputation as a trouble magnet.
The Daleks are invading.
Have a record list of appointments for counseling. The men are booking now to
save time, but I worry none of them will escape extermination long enough to
actually turn up for a session. The Daleks are unstoppable armored-plated killing
machines – how on Earth can a madman like the Doctor help? His hypocrisy and
conflicted homilies suggest he’s recently converted to Buddhism, abhorring violence
but seemingly unable to come up with any other answers.
Day Day 28
28
The Daleks are demanding an unconditional surrender. The Doctor refused on the
behalf of mankind, and no one was brave enough to argue with him.
We are all going to die.
Day Day Day 330
3
We are DEFINITELY all going to die.
Day Day 32
32
The Daleks have been destroyed and the world has been saved. Only a handful of
front-line troops perished, and seeing what the Daleks are capable of, that’s
miraculously few. I have no idea how the Doctor managed it, and he is loathe to
explain beyond making it clear to everyone that he is very, very clever and we aren’t.
The man’s clearly desperate for attention and possibly affection (does he come from
a broken home?). Was not remotely surprised he wanted to leave as soon as possible
and wanted no part in helping UNIT with the clean-up.

Don’t get me wrong. I am hugely grateful for the salvation of mankind and the
defeat of the alien menace. But the Doctor is clearly one messed-up individual. He
needs therapy to resolve his ongoing issues – just imagine how effective he could be
if he was halfway normal and sane? Have vowed to catch up with him and get him to
confront the issue before he and his little pals vanish into the wild blue yonder.
Day Day 33
33
This is not happening. This is all wrong. Police boxes are not bigger on the inside.
They do not travel in time. Aliens do not moonlight as UN scientists for the
military. This is not happening.
I think I need to book an appointment... with MYSELF!
Day Day 34
34
Retaining healthy skepticism. It appears that the Doctor is not some seriously
maladjusted human but a rather eccentric alien (at least eccentric by human
standards). Got nothing but flippant jokes and knowing winks from the Doctor,
Kyle and Kathy about the apparent nature of his lifestyle. Why is his time machine
disguised like a police box? Oh, well, it’s apparently broken. Very convincing. Why
is an alien Time Lord” look identical to a human male? Oh, wait, they didn’t have
an answer for that, did they?
Strongly convinced this is all some kind of trick. The Doctor deliberately invited
me aboard his “tarr diz” to ‘prove it was all an illusion’, another display of him
showing off and humiliating others to make him feel good. He’s clearly either
exaggerating or all-out lying. I might concede his alien nature, or a time machine, or
a police box bigger on the inside, but all of them?
Kyle and Kathy are far from helpful. Possibly in a relationship? Makes more
sense of the Doctor’s lack of interest in her than him being some kind of aloof and
chaste alien...
Day Day 35
35
Well, it looks like the “time/space” machine part was true enough. We were on an
alien planet that apparently evolved almost identically to that of Earth - one
problem, everything seems 500 times larger than it would on Earth. Kyle pointed
out it could have been Earth and we were just shrunk, but when that is the
reasonable, skeptical explanation, all bets are off.
The Doctor spent the whole trip humming the theme tune to Land of the
Giants. Can’t get it out of my head, dammit. And Kathy clearly not interested in me.
Kyle plain annoying. I might want to travel through time and space, but not with
this lot. First chance I get, the next time the TARDIS lands back home, I’m off.
Day Day 36
36
Killer androids. Androids of death. Killer androids of death trying to kill me.
Others found it exhilarating. They are looneys. Kyle biggest looney of them all,
since he wants to stay on this sick jungle planet and help the androids overcome

their killer death habit and become useful members of society. Kathy not fussed;
guess they weren’t in a relationship after all. Doesn’t she find ANY man attractive?!
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 42
42
Underwater fish people fighting giant robots in water you can breathe in.
Strongly suspect the universe is taking the mickey.
As the only human male still on the ship, still amazed my charms are not
working on Kathy.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 45
45
Thank the lord! We’re back on Earth! The right year, right month, everything! I
actually cried and wanted to dance when the scanner opened. Took a long, and
deeply satisfying time to rant at what an irresponsible, immature and gormless
plonker the Doctor is and how frankly I’m way out of Kathy’s league and she’d just
have to get over it.
Went straight home and slept! Finally waking up in a world that makes sense,
with people I can understand and relate to, where the laws of physics to what they’re
told for once. The question is... do I stay with UNIT? I might as well paint a
bullseye on my face. The Doctor’s bound to turn up again, bringing the alien
apocalypse with him. I must make a note to check up with some of the men and
compliment on how well they handle Time-Lord-related-stress-disorder. I could
write a book, but it probably contradicts the Official Secret Act.
I returned to UNIT HQ and was deeply relieved not to be court-martialed for
being AWOL. Thankfully, there seems to be a get out clause when it comes to
TARDIS travel. Colonel McTeague was very understanding, but he explained I’d
have to convince the Brigadier that I was determined to resign. Of course, the
Brigadier is with the Doctor, busy dealing with some other problem.
Good luck to the pair of them. I’m staying out of this.
Day Day 50
50
Today was a very, very strange day.
I was finishing composing my letter of resignation when I saw the Doctor
outside the apartment. I was terrified he needed my help to save the world or
something – isn’t that what Kathy’s for? Was for. I’m getting ahead of myself.
The Doctor was a bit worried, and so I let him in for a cup of tea. It turned out
that someone called Drax had kidnapped Kathy and was hiding out in the
warehouse at the end of the street, and was inviting the Doctor over for some kind of
deal. A blind man with no eyes could tell it was a trap, but the Doctor was adamant.
He finished his tea and walked straight into the warehouse.
Which, five minutes later, exploded.
The Doctor stumbled out, burnt, covered in blood and collapsed on my front
door. I managed to get him onto the sofa whereupon he seemed to expire after
muttering about his responsibilities. And then he seemed to glow. And now...

He’s changed his face! Face, what am I talking about? Everything’s changed!
Face, height, shape, eye colour, voice, hair... He’s a big, curly-haired man with a big
nose and without doubt the most annoying life form in the universe. Not only did
he have a sadly-not-fatal case of verbal diarrhea, he wandered around grinning like a
nun with concussion. After about ten minutes of him going on and on about how he
was the same man with a different face, he remembered he’d left Kathy to burn to
death in the warehouse.
The new Doctor seemed as bothered about her dying as much as I would over
buying a bag of sugar.
Part of me rationalizes that having every single cell in your body transformed
probably causes a mild impairment of judgment and eventually the Doctor might
realize he got her killed and react with appropriate grief... but that doesn’t change
the fact Kathy Williams, that beautiful girl I singularly failed to get anywhere with,
is DEAD. He got her KILLED.
Maybe Kyle was right to get the hell out of this...
Yet, I couldn’t just let the Doctor stumble around the place like a madman.
Somehow I felt obligated to look after him now that the others were gone, but he
rapidly pushed my patience to the limit. This Doctor’s desire for attention makes his
old self look like a hermit. He’ll pull any kind of infantile trick to make sure
everyone’s focused on him, being deliberately stupid, constantly changing his mind
and he has developed a love for repeating things over and over again. I swear if I
ever hear the expression “I’m the Doctor or will be if this regeneration works out”
again, blood will be spilt.
He was so annoying I couldn’t think straight. I actually followed him into the
TARDIS, telling him off about his stupid dress up games when Kathy’s not been
dead an hour, then suddenly we were off. Thankfully we didn’t go far, just some
Texas place in the middle of nowhere where everyone was either dropping dead or
getting possessed by pure evil. Apparently I fell under the influence too at some
point, but I might be lying to excuse my repeated attempts to kill that annoying son
of a bitch the Doctor has turned into.
Finally we got back to UNIT HQ and this time I wasn’t going to stay with him.
I’m not falling for it again. No siree. The Doctor thus decided to try and go back
through his diary until he could find someone willing to put up with his irritating
quirks – Sarah something or other. May God have mercy on her soul.
Can’t write any more. Can’t stop crying.
SHE DIDN’T DESERVE TO DIE!
Day Day 73
73
Convinced the Brigadier to let me retire from the army. He’s doing the same,
apparently eager to get into teaching. UNIT can take care of itself, at least until the
Doctor next come back. Full recovered from Kathy’s death. Clearly just a backlog of
emotion and she was final key. After all, I’d only known her a week or so. I can
barely remember what she looks like. Except she was beautiful.
No sign of the Doctor, and I don’t intend to push my luck.

Day Day 100
100
Got a new job at the Health Centre as a psychotherapist. Finally achieved doctorate
in medicine too. Have enough medical skills to help out with the other specialists
when the crowds are heavy.
Definitely not thinking about the Doctor and the TARDIS.
Day Day 120
120
Life is good. I do not want the Doctor to come back. I do not want to travel with
him. It is too dangerous, unpredictable and the Doctor’s a git. It is definitely not
fun. I am glad I left.
Day Day 130
130
Another alien invasion foiled. I wonder if he was involved?
Day Day 205
205
He came back! He actually came back! Specifically to see me! It’s so pathetic I could
laugh! He was pretending to be all cool and casual when he dropped by my office,
all-but-begging for me to go fishing with him. I wonder if he got that Sarah woman
to travel with him with a spiel like that?
Alas, those puppy-dog eyes of his got the better of me and I agreed to one fishing
trip. This, quite obviously, was a phenomenal mistake. In particular three points
leapt to mind as why this was a monumentally bad move.
1) 1) 1) 1) Apart from anything else, the Doctor had a replacement companion anyway, a
rather snooty brat called “Tasha”. Who is apparently an alien princess from
another planet. And traumatized from having her father murdered by some evil
Time Lord called the Master who I’ve apparently met before. It turns out the
Doctor just wants psychiatric freebies!
2) 2) 2) 2) The Doctor’s idea of a restful evening fishing involves landing at the mansion
of a psychopath who hunts people for sport. It’s like that black and white movie I
can’t stand. Thankfully Tasha and I spent the night in the mansion while the
Doctor was chased through the bushes by someone with a bow and arrow. This
counts as a HOLIDAY to that alien madman!
3) 3) 3) 3) He has built a robot dog. A. Robot. Dog. The man has no shame.
Intend to return to Earth and quit the TARDIS right away.
Day Day 207
207
Well, that plan didn’t work.
TARDIS arrived instead at some redneck town in the middle of nowhere where
everyone was terrified of some kind of ghost living on “Haunted Mountain”. What
an imaginative name. The Doctor insisted on proving the truth about the creature
despite Tasha and I being bored rigid. It might have been a ghost, an alien or the old
guy who ran the amusement park. Don’t know, don’t care.
Cannot wait to get out of here.

Day Day 211
211
Managed to return to the present – at least once I got the Doctor to get me out of the
maze he’d found in the depths of the TARDIS corridors. Note to self: must pop back
inside and find Tasha before she starves to death. Anyway, we’re back in London,
1978 and what happens? Alien space weeds germinate and start to cause chaos.
As per bleeding usual.
UNIT blew it up with missiles after the plants ate enough people. The Doctor
said it was a Krynoid, a galactic floral parasite that travel in pairs. I pointed out that
this meant there’s another Krynoid out there, but he just changed the subject. Oh
well, let someone else sort it out. We’ll hop ahead a few weeks and if humanity has
survived we can assume it all turned out right in the end.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 212
212
Found Tasha. My, the language that girl knows! I dread to think what the rest of the
aristocracy are like on her planet when they get abandoned in a maze for a few days.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 215
215
Visited 24th Century. Fought a race of giant bugs called the Zylons who had some
giant weapon to blow up humanity. Luckily some Federation ships were there to
help out, despite the Doctor’s bumbling and getting in the way. Met a nice bloke
called Mark Triyad, who wasn’t prepared to put up with any nonsense from the
Time Lord. Wish he’d come along to keep the prat in line. Or at least chuck the
Time Lord out of the nearest airlock. Tasha fancies him. Won’t talk about anything
else. The Doctor thinks I’m getting jaded at traveling through eternity. Now HE is
trying to psychoanalyze ME!
I just cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 220
220
Got back to Earth, but a few years too late. Oh well.
Turns out some Russian Nazi lunatic called the Red Skull was holding London
to hostage with a laser canon he stole from the Kaiser Company. The Doctor says
that Company is probably the greatest threat to mankind with its advanced weapons
technology combined with security that wouldn’t keep out a determined if asthmatic
sloth. Why he doesn’t just get UNIT to blow the Company up, I dunno...
I was more disturbed to hear that Tom Anderson threw himself into traffic and
got killed. Who’s Tom Anderson? Good question, apparently he was one of my
replacements aboard the TARDIS. He was an American engineer working for the
Kaiser Company before he met the Doctor. After that he was a nervous wreck – this
Doctor couldn’t defeat the Daleks as well as his predecessor and Tom’s girlfriend
Sara got exterminated. And she was a TARDIS traveler too. Now Tom was so
depressed he killed himself.

How many other companions have died? What’s to stop me or Tasha being next?
Why won’t the Doctor take this seriously? Doesn’t he care?
Honest to god, I cannot wait to get out of here!
Day Day 23 230 23
Tasha’s gotten all moody and locked herself in her bedroom again. It seems even the
magical powers of the TARDIS can’t take the edge off puberty. And I thought that
she was exasperating before...
The Doctor tried to lighten the mood by getting us both to impersonate some
long-lost relatives of a dead millionaire so we could get a slice of his will. Apparently
he was a friend of the Doctor and we were undercover to the reading of the will to
work out who had killed him, but it turned out that EVERY other person at “Terror
Mansion” (what a stupid name...) was also a fake heir trying to get all the money.
Not quite sure if we solved the crime, but it was lots of fun.
Almost makes me forget how criminally negligent the Doctor is and how many
companions he’s got killed.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 234
234
Another day, another backward Hicksville town being threatened by extradimensional
aliens.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 244
244
I don’t believe it!
Kathy Williams IS ALIVE!
Well, that’s what that psychotic Drax fellow said, and he was the last one to see
her before that warehouse fire that caused the Doctor to regenerate. Apparently she’s
alive and well. Pity we don’t know where she is, and had to deal with a horde of
bigfoot trying to take over the town. I was over the moon, but the Doctor couldn’t
have been less interested.
I guess it doesn’t change the fact he didn’t try to save her. Or that he hasn’t
mentioned her since.
It was a pretty close run thing. Tasha and I nearly got killed by those overgrown
sabre-toothed baboons. And if we had, would the Doctor bother to mention us? If
we miraculously escaped, would he even notice? Beginning to think Tasha should
come with me when I get out of here.
This is far too dangerous for a teenage girl. Let alone ME!
Day Day 256
256
Yet ANOTHER backwards American town. This time it was a plague of alien
spiders full of venom that were trying to take over the world. Things got very
worrying when the whole town ended up covered in cobwebs. I swear, if I was
arachnophobic, this little escapade would have driven me insane.
Cannot wait to get out of here.

Day Day 263
263
That does it. If this TARDIS arrives at ONE more run-down village under threat by
aliens, I’m walking – and that’s mainly because Tasha’s sick to death of them too. I
reckon if you were to put all the survivors of the villagers together, there wouldn’t be
enough to fill up ONE of those villagers. This is just death gone mad. And what
does the Doctor do? Just make stupid jokes about football scores...
Day Day 269
269
OH GOD!!! ANOTHER bloody Wild West town in the middle of nowhere! Tasha
and I would definitely have left if it hadn’t been for the werewolves!
Next time, DEFINITELY!!
Day Day 277
277
Tasha was hiding in the TARDIS. We would have definitely have got out of here
this time. The invading aliens were non-corporeal fascists this time, but they weren’t
as dangerous as werewolves. It doesn’t matter how much an alien rants on about its
racial superiority, if it can’t pick up a gun to hurt you it’s not much of a threat, is it?
Day Day 2280
2 80
Tasha’s gone.
Not dead, thank goodness, but now she’s been crowned Queen of... actually,
never did find out the name of her planet. That Master character was back, trying to
take over the royal family of the planet for some reason. Doesn’t he have anything
better to do? If it weren’t for that bearded serial killer, I would still be on Earth, safe
and sound and not doing a whistle-stop tour of run-down USA outposts likely to get
lost under staples in map directories!
Now it’s just me and the Doctor again. Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 295
295
Had a strange dream we bumped into my sister.
Who looked just like Kathy Williams.
Will not try the Doctor’s Venusian macaroni and cheese before bedtime.
Day Day 300
300
Finally got a replacement traveling companion for Tasha. It’s a Time Lord called
Marcusdupreblinket who I call Marcus to save time. There are now two of them to
bore and patronize me. Frankly I’m sick of Time Lords. We met another one called
Morbius who was, get this, trying to conquer the universe.
What a pleasant and surprising change of routine.
I cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 318 318
318
Arrived on a space station a kind of tin jerks were filling full of explosives so they
could blow up an asteroid made of solid gold. Because gold causes Cybermen to

choke to death, apparently. Got captured by Cybermen, nearly blown up, escaped in
the nick of time. Even the Doctor thought it was a tedious and predictable way to
pass the afternoon.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 319
319
Considered jumping ship when we arrived in New York. Reconsidered when this
big red blob hatched from a crashed meteorite and started to swallow anything in its
path. Marcus suggested we go to the future and find out how it was defeated rather
than just hang around struggling to come up with a solution.
Unfortunately it turned out the blob historically devastates half of New York
before choking to death on some past-their-prime frankfurters.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 321
321
Another damned village threatened by aliens. I refuse to get involved this time. Let
the others work out by the villagers die whenever they try and leave the town. I DO
NOT CARE! I JUST WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE!!!
Day Day 321
321
Marcus told me the Doctor vanished in front of him today and was probably
snatched from his conterminous time steam by Time Lords in the far future
attempting to restore a paradox that threatens to engulf two thirds of the universe
when it detonates.
Honestly, he’ll try anything to freak me out.
Day Day 325
325
Morbius came back, showing his amazing Time Lord brain is as damaged as every
other Gallifreyan I’ve met. If you have a gigantic army waging a war across the
galaxy and get defeated by a nutter in a stupid scarf, do you really think tackling said
nutter AGAIN, this time all on your own will somehow work?
There might be life on other planets but none of its seems intelligent.
Oh, and Marcus left. Just me and the Doctor again.
If he tells me that gag about suspension bridges one more time...
Day Day 332
332
Bunch of aliens made contact with Earth, saying they believe in cooperation and
understanding. Amazingly enough, their belief in “serving man” was a cooking
suggestion. Heard it all before somewhere. Got so bored it was only after we left in
the TARDIS I realized I’d forgotten to leave.
I hate my life.
Da Day Da y 356 356
A whole year. And what am I doing with my life? Following an incompetent alien
car thief after he accidentally killed George Washington... or was it Abraham

Lincoln?... and thus triggered the complete extinction of mankind, changing the
entire history of the universe. I strongly suspect the only reason the Doctor fixed
things back the way they were was because he didn’t want the Time Lords to go
medieval on his Gallifreyan arse.
I mean, seriously, most people – when they’ve nearly destroyed the whole of
creation by ACCIDENT might take a moment to reconsider their approach to life,
maybe wonder if their bull-in-an-electro-particle-accelerator attitude causes more
problems than good, realize the sheer number of “best friends” who tend to die
horribly around him and get the hell out of the TARDIS as possible.
But oh no, not the Doctor.
Once he joked that the TARDIS ran on imagination (at least before it became
jammed and could only visit tiny American towns being attacked by alien
monsters.) It more likely depends on his denial of what a menace he is.
Even if I get back home, what’s to stop the Doctor accidentally destroying the
whole world?
Day Day 370
370
Got kidnapped in an alien zoo. Escaped. Not much to say.
Have a new companion – a meek little guy called Roy Kitteridge. He’s not a
particularly attractive young woman, sadly, but on the plus side he’s human and
wants to be taken back to 20th Century Earth. The perfect excuse to slip away
without having to put up with the Doctor’s infantile temper tantrums.
Looking forward to getting out of here very soon.
Day Day 372
372
ANOTHER town in the backend of nowhere! I’m going insane! I can’t take it any
more! I CANNT TAKE TAKE TAKE TAKE CAN’T DEATH INSANE SANE IN
SANE SNAE INANES RUMKUL RUMKUL RUMKUL RUMKUL PUKKAJIL PUKKAJIL PUKKAJIL PUKKAJIL FATOOMB FATOOMB FATOOMB FATOOMB MUCH! MUCH! MUCH! MUCH!
...turns out I was temporarily possessed by an alien energy being that drive
people to suicidal craziness. Either that or I just snapped after this upteenth nopewe-don’t-get-any-strangers-here
town.
Day Day 380 380
380
Roy’s gone. And by “gone” I mean “dead”.
He killed himself, taking a crippled spaceship on a suicide dive into hyperspace.
The Doctor looked a bit miserable, but refused to do a single thing to stop him –
apparently the exploding spaceship was a huge part of history, like the Hindenberg
Hindenberg
Hindenberg
Hindenberg
or the Titanic Titanic. Titanic Titanic Apparently this is the SECOND time something like this has
happened. I’m beginning to wonder if the Doctor’s become completely desensitized
to loss and misery. Or if he’s just a complete jerk.
I have GOT to get out of here.
Day Day 390
390
What the...?

I was in the bath for five minutes and the Doctor landed the TARDIS on Earth,
popped out, got involved with the death of a little boy (I don’t want to know) and
then come back with a supermodel with no working vocal chords and taken off.
Susie Jo Parker is her name. She’s got a sweet body, but I’m not likely to get
much conversation out of her. Is that a good or a bad thing...?
Day Day 391
391
First date with Susie Jo didn’t really work out. Got brainwashed by Zylons. Always a
passion killer.
Remain confident.
Day Day 400
400
Second date with Susie Jo didn’t work out either. Arrived on Earth after Roy got
blasted to smithereens and now mankind needed to build a hyperspace ship that
actually WORKED to fight off some alien invaders living in radioactive comets.
Trying to remain confident.
Day Day 405
405
Third date gone awful. Arrived on a planet with three suns. During an eclipse.
When all these ferocious bats flew up out of caves and tried to eat everyone. Susie
Jo’s gone right off me. Can’t blame her.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 409
409
This is, without doubt, the worst day of my entire life.
We arrived on Earth, right country, right month, right everything. UNIT had
called us up – the Brigadier’s been replaced by Colonel Crichton and his aide,
Sergeant Coburn. Tch. Gone downhill since our time. What’s more, UNIT in the
1980s is now more worried about some daft terrorist group called Spectre rather
than Daleks or Cybermen. The Doctor and Susie Jo loved getting mixed up in this
sub-James-Bond garbage, even though we are all now top of Spectre’s hit lists.
If I want to leave the TARDIS alive, it’s not going to be on Earth any time soon.
Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn DAMN!
Day Day 413
413
Considered bailing ship on a planet caught in a feudal war between princes.
Thought twice, decided it was a bloody stupid idea.
Day Day 427
427
Another backward village. Couldn’t even find it in myself to care. Mildly interested
when a magic portal in a cave turned out to be a tachyon drive machine built by
some mad scientist called Loki. Might have been a Time Lord (certainly dumb
enough to pass for one), might not have been. Played with dinosaurs.
Beginning to wonder if I’m going a bit loopy.

Day Day 430
430
Definitely not going loopy. If I were loopy I wouldn’t be so terrified when we arrived
back on Earth. It seems I’m the only sane person, since neither the Doctor or Susie
Jo realized that we were public enemies number one two and three for Spectre and
their sinister evil android duplication plot thingy. Of course, we managed to stop
them with UNIT’s help, but the Doctor isn’t fussed about every hit man on the
planet being out to get us, since we’re leaving anyway, right?
I tried to bash their heads together and would have managed it if K9 hadn’t
zapped me...
Day Day 431
431
Seems being zapped by K9 gives you nightmares. Woke up and the Doctor said we
were all being attacked by this alien thing that feeds off bad dreams – yeah, well, he
WOULD. Anything except to admit how awful his macaroni cheese is. You’d think
a 1000-year-old alien would bother to read a recipe once in a while...
Have a new fellow traveler – another Time Lord called Landon. Just like Marcus
only duller. When he’s excited, he turns beige. Still, he seems to have two brain cells
to rub together. He might be able to get me off this crate.
Day Day 439
439
Our newly-enlarged merry band visited the creation of the Federation.
Utterly boring.
Thank goodness Loki turned up with some insane plan to change history,
otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to stay awake.
Cannot wait to get out of here.
Day Day 441
441
There were times I despised being stuck in the TARDIS with just the Doctor and
K9 for company. But now it’s getting incredibly crowded, as we now have
ANOTHER new traveler – some guy called Terry Dillion or something, an
annoying smug git who thinks he’s a lot funnier than he is (ie, funny AT ALL). He
and Landon are already fighting with handbags at dawn. Susie Jo still cold and
unresponsive. Decide to grow a beard to try and impress her.
Dealt with more android duplicates, but they were down to Cybermen this time
instead of Spectre.
I hope this isn’t going to replace “mysterious isolated villages” as things we have
to deal with every damned day from now on...
Day Day 456
456
Arrived in Egypt 1986, so there’s a vague chance Spectre won’t put bullets through
our heads the moment we stick them out the TARDIS doors. Went to a restaurant –
Landon had an argument with the waiter, Susie Jo got completely pissed, Dillion got
food poisoning and the Doctor kept forgetting the punchline to his suspension
bridge joke. Maybe death would be a blessed relief.

Finally we got thrown out of the restaurant and wandered down to the nearest
pyramid where UNIT was dealing with grave robbers or some such massive threat to
mankind. That squid lunch was making a mess of all of our digestive tracts and we
took turns throwing up in doorways on the way there. The Doctor apologized to
passers by, explaining it actually down to some evil psychic force. It being caused by
some dodgy prawns were clearly just ridiculous.
Some unstoppable aliens beat nine shades of crap out of all of us and then went
back into the pyramid. Turns out they were a bunch of aliens supposed to sleep for
30 thousand years until mankind was evolved enough to communicate with them
(even though we are streets ahead of them in the “reliable alarm clock” stage of
civilization). For a moment it looked like they blew up Susie Jo and for an even
worse moment it looked like they blew up ME!
Another reminder of how horribly dangerous TARDIS life is – the moment the
smoke of battle cleared, I was the first running for the TARDIS. In retrospect I
probably should have asked Crichton if the price on our heads had been lifted.
Really must write that on the back of my hand.
I can’t keep forgetting this.
Can’t wait to get out of here.
Day Day 463
463
Arrived back on Kwangi again. This time it was the Master instead of Loki causing
mischief. Took a while before any of us noticed any difference.
Can’t wait to get out of here.
Day Day 466
466
Back on Earth again, back fighting Spectre... and this time we finished them off for
good and I am free. Not just of Spectre, but of the Doctor too. I don’t have to go back
in the TARDIS this time (assuming I can fit through the doors considering how
crowded it’s gotten). But after all these months, I’m almost worried it might be a
trick. Or a nightmare. Will I be able to adapt to life without an arrogant, overbearing
incompetent with a scarf fetish?
And can I make sure the Doctor doesn’t trick me back on board?
Day Day Day 467
467
The TARDIS is gone and I am not aboard. The Doctor’s off exploring the cosmos
with his mute page 3 girl, caustic Time Lord butler and odious comic relief. And a
robot dog. They can look after themselves and, judging from his track record, they’ll
HAVE to look after themselves because the Doctor is hardly doing that much of a
bang-up job. I’m free, and I never want to clap eyes on that police box or talk to the
Doctor ever again.
That said, I do hope they’re all right...

Survival of the Daleks
EPISODE FOUR: THE DAY BEFORE ETERNITY
This adventure takes place after Might Might Might Might of of of of the the the the Starry Starry Starry Starry Sea Sea Sea Sea
PREVIOUSLY REVIOUSLY REVIOUSLY..
REVIOUSLY..
... ..
(NOTE: Murray Gold’s ‘‘Hanging on the Tablaphone’’ plays throughout the recap.)
The The The The Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor and and and and Robbie Robbie Robbie Robbie emerge emerge emerge emerge from from from from the the the the TARDIS. TARDIS. TARDIS. TARDIS.
DOCTOR DOCTOR I’ve always felt at home at museums...
JACEN JACEN I am Jacen Verlaine of the Neophryne Archives.
DO DOCTOR DO
CTOR Carrying on the work of your illustrious ancestors?
JACEN JACEN JACEN If anyone will get the prisoner talking, the Doctor will.
The The The The Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor enters enters enters enters a a a a cell cell cell cell and and and and sees sees sees sees the the the the tortured tortured tortured tortured prisoner. prisoner. prisoner. prisoner.
DALEK DALEK Doctor? The Doctor?
DOCTOR DOCTOR You people are playing with fire, keeping a Dalek alive like that! I hope
whatever you need is worth so many lives...
JACEN JACEN JACEN It is to me, Doctor. Meet Lenia Verlaine. My wife.
Jacen Jacen Jacen Jacen strokes strokes strokes strokes the the the the coffin coffin coffin coffin containing containing containing containing his his his his mutating mutating mutating mutating wife. wife. wife. wife.
JACEN JACEN JACEN We believe the Dalek knows what is wrong with her.
DOCTOR DOCTOR Why did she let the Dalek get close enough to infect her in the first place?
DALEK DALEK You wished to understand the Daleks?
The The The The Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek grows grows grows grows a a a a tentacle tentacle tentacle tentacle and and and and bites bites bites bites O’Neal’s O’Neal’s O’Neal’s O’Neal’s neck. neck. neck. neck.
DALEK DALEK Now you will become a Dalek!
O’Neal O’Neal O’Neal O’Neal kills kills kills kills a a a a guard guard guard guard with with with with the the the the Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek gun----sti gun gun gun stick. sti stick.
ck. ck.
DOCTOR DOCTOR The Dalek is trying to gain allies by infecting so-called inferior life forms.
Robbie Robbie Robbie Robbie and and and and Gelver Gelver Gelver Gelver enter enter enter enter the the the the cell. cell. cell. cell.
GELVER GELVER You don’t know what a Dalek is?
ROBBIE ROBBIE What does it matter what a Dalek is?’
DOCTOR DOCTOR If you don’t destroy the Dalek, then the Dalek will destroy you!
DALEK DALEK DALEK You wish to save my life, Robbie Peterson?
ROBBIE ROBBIE If I can...
Robbie Robbie Robbie Robbie places places places places her her her her hand hand hand hand in in in in the the the the Dalek, Dalek, Dalek, Dalek, rejuvenating rejuvenating rejuvenating rejuvenating it. it. it. it.
DOCTOR DOCTOR Robbie!
The The The The Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek detaches detaches detaches detaches one one one one of of of of its its its its spheres.
spheres. spheres. spheres.

DALEK DALEK Activate Orbitus.
The The The The Dalek Dalek Dalek Dalek shoots shoots shoots shoots down down down down guards guards guards guards as as as as it it it it chases chases chases chases Robbie. Robbie. Robbie. Robbie.
DOCTOR DOCTOR If there is any part of you that is still truly Lenia Verlaine, then help us!
The The The The Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor pushes pushes pushes pushes Gelver Gelver Gelver Gelver out out out out of of of of danger danger danger danger as as as as the the the the mutated mutated mutated mutated Lenia Lenia Lenia Lenia rears rears rears rears up. up. up. up.
LENIA LENIA LENIA I am a Dalek!
Lenia’s Lenia’s Lenia’s Lenia’s tendril tendril tendril tendril arm arm arm arm bites bites bites bites the the the the Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor in in in in the the the the neck, nec nec neck,
k, k, and and and and he he he he collapses collapses collapses collapses to to to to the the the the ground... ground... ground... ground...
AND ND NOW NOW, NOW ON
ON
DOCTOR OCTOR WHO HO
HO... ...
Robbie and the guards had seeming been running forever. Room after room,
gallery after gallery, like some endless maze that they’d never be able to escape
from -- and they were rapidly losing the brief lead they’d acquired while the Dalek
had struggled to tear its way out of the lift shaft. Now the survivors were
searching for the stairs that could get them out of the vault. Robbie’s spirits had
sunk to learn they’d barely managed to ascend two levels before the Dalek
destroyed the only direct route to the surface.
The trio, now so exhausted they were staggering rather than running,
stumbled into the main corridor. It was a long, wide passage without any shelter
or cover ending in a stairwell. Robbie could hear the worn-out mechanical whine
of the Dalek’s engines as it drew closer. Once it reached this corridor it could pick
them off like flies.
‘We’ll never make it!’ Robbie gasped, but kept moving nonetheless.
They were barely halfway down the passage when the Dalek glided around the
corner. It regarded the fleeing humanoids for a brief moment, and its gun-stick
moved into position to aim at their backs...
...and then the Dalek froze.
The one, working lamp on the side of its dome began to flash, but no voice
emerged from the Dalek. Its eye-stalk swung up through ninety degrees until it
was pointing up at the ceiling. It was as though the Dalek’s attention had been
caught by something far above, something that only the Dalek could perceive.
Something that rendered exterminating its prey unimportant.
Unaware of their miraculous escape, Robbie and the guards continued down
towards the stairs as fast as they could...
The vicious wound in the Doctor’s neck was burning as though it was on fire,
sending paroxysms of agony shooting through his perspiring body. He could
almost feel the alien substance in his body growing stronger, trying to take him
over. But the genetic makeup of a Time Lord was far more complicated than any
other humanoid, with a triple helix of DNA for the Dalek to try and corrupt --

especially one so diluted and weak. No, it wouldn’t be able to turn him into a
fully-fledged Kaled mutant... but then, it didn’t have to.
A psychotic shambling, tentacled monstrosity would be enough; something
else attacking the natives and providing a distraction until such time as the Dalek
saw fit to exterminate him as well...
Someone was looming over him. The Doctor blearily opened his eyes,
expecting to see the Lenia mutant moving in for the kill, but instead it was Gelver,
his face pinched with worry. The Time Lord shifted, flailing his hand out, trying to
keep the boy at bay as he reached out to help. ‘Don’t touch me,’ the Doctor
rasped, his mouth almost too dry to speak. ‘Do not come... anywhere... near me...’
Gelver looked down at him, distressed. ‘Doctor, what have you done?’
The Doctor screwed up his eyes as the ache in his head grew worse. ‘In answer
to your question,’ he hissed, ‘I’m been infected by the Dalek. Just like your mother
was. But I can still make this sacrifice mean something worthwhile...’ The Time
Lord shuddered with nausea, his skin crawling over shaking limbs.
‘How?’ he heard Gelver call.
‘This is the only way,’ the Doctor croaked, ‘the only way that I can find out
exactly where the Dalek is...’
His throat was a mass of flame now, and there was a strange pulsing in his
own ears, like the sound of some alien ocean pounding at the shores of his
consciousness. Soon his mind would be destroyed, his body just the host of an evil
parasite. The ultimate Dalek victory...
They survive. They always survive while I lose everything...
Have you ever heard of the Daleks? They are the most evil, ruthless,
destructive creatures in the cosmos, beings without scruples, without conscience
and without mercy, motivated only by the lust for conquest and the desire for
power! The Daleks have devastated whole solar systems, subjugated thousands of
sentient species, spread fear and terror across the galaxy in a relentless quest for
supremacy. The worst things you’ve seen? They fear the Daleks, tell stories about
them to frighten their children. The Daleks will take pleasure in killing everyone
in sight, and their greatest pleasure will be in killing me. At the end of the day
that’s all you really are. A gun. Without that you’re nothing...
What does hate look like? It looks like a Dalek. Why should you be spared the
horrors you’ve inflicted on others?
The Daleks never asked to be created, after all. Just following the program
that was shaped by their DNA. They were victims too. A Dalek is honest. It does
what it was born to do for the survival of its species. I'm sure they’ll welcome me
with open arms. I mean, they would welcome me with open arms if they had
arms. Please, please, no offence meant at all...
The Doctor could feel himself starting to slide down a long tunnel of blackness
and despair as his grip on his thoughts slackened further and further. It hurt too
much to think, and simple obliteration would be a relief. Yet he held on, fighting
back with one last memory, the very first time he had encountered the Daleks on
Skaro, as they outlined their genocidal plans to irradiate the world once more.
‘That’s sheer murder,’ he had protested.

‘NO,’ the Daleks had replied. ‘EXTERMINATION.’
‘But why do you have to destroy? Can’t you use your brains for right? This
senseless, evil killing... Stop it, please!’
‘NOTHING CAN STOP THE DALEKS...’
Far below, in the vault, the Dalek had not moved. Its sensors were tuned to the
biological battle occurring inside the Doctor’s body. The initial resistance was
severe, but the Time Lord physiology was clearly beginning to succumb. The
Daleks could subjugate others even on a cellular level.
The Dalek waited excitedly for the inevitable conclusion.
Soon the Doctor would belong to the Daleks.
Soon the Doctor would be a Dalek.
And the Daleks would reign supreme.
THE DALEKS ARE ALWAYS SUPREME... BARRIERS TO OUR FREEDOM
ARE TEMPORARY... NO IMPRISONMENT CAN DENY US OUR DESTINY...
The Doctor tried to focus on the source of the noise, only to realize it was
inside his own head. The mutation had finally reached his brain, connecting him
with the primary DNA nexus.
The thoughts of a Dalek.
The mind of a killing machine.
Something no one should ever have had to witness.
His vision expanded vividly. Humanoid slave workers being blasted down,
their bodies glowing like torches. A prisoner on a table tortured with electric
shocks until they screamed. Screaming plague victims dying of Dalek-created
biological weapons. Worlds of black clouds, burning oil, dusty rocks, flames and
extermination and death and killing and aggression. More deaths than could be
counted, to the point where the Daleks own excesses rendered their murderous
nature irrelevant. Sour, psychotic thoughts that ultimately had no meaning. The
Daleks would never be satisfied, never at peace. No amount of death or
destruction would ever be enough.
The sights and sounds continued piercing his soul like rusty blades.
How much more of this sickening, toxic experience could he endure? How
long before he empathized with this monster, started to think like these same
thoughts? A diseased mind was a contagious one, after all. The Doctor felt
contaminated in more ways than one, as if his very spirit was being violated.
Strange, angry desires made him want to rage and scream and smash his fists
against the walls. The Time Lord could sense his very personality starting to break
down under the Dalek’s onslaught, as though his mind was being attacked by a
plague of ferocious termites.
DOCTOR? CAN YOU FEEL ME GROWING INSIDE YOU?
I won’t become a Dalek. I won’t let you win.
YOU MUST. I NEED YOUR HELP.
My help?
I HAVE LOST ALL CONTACT WITH THE REST OF MY RACE.

Are you missing all your friends? Oh, but I forgot, you don’t actually have any
friends! They’re not strategically useful, are they?
I AM A SOLDIER. I WAS BRED TO RECEIVE ORDERS.
What? What are you talking about?
I HAVE WAITED FOR SO LONG... I NEED ORDERS. GIVE ME ORDERS!
You want me to be the one to give you orders? To be your Dalek Commander?
YOU HAVE INTELLIGENCE.
That’s very true, but it’s hardly a reason.
YOU KNOW THE DALEKS. YOU UNDERSTAND THE DALEKS. ORDERS
FROM YOU WOULD BE... ACCEPTABLE.
And what shall we do together? Conquer the universe?
...I WILL FOLLOW YOUR ORDERS...
Or maybe light charity work? Help the older folk like me?
IF THOSE ARE YOUR ORDERS...
The Doctor found himself laughing, an agonized gasping that hurt his own
ears. He found nervous uncertainty in the Dalek’s voice hilarious for some reason.
It was like a shy and obsequious child, trying not to offend someone it was trying
to be friends with. After all those visions of extermination and hatred, he found
himself almost howling with laughter. The Dalek’s voice in his thoughts got
angrier and angrier, annoyed at his ridicule.
I REQUIRE ORDERS!
I have an order for you.
The Doctor focused his mind, speaking the words out aloud.
‘Destroy yourself.’
DALEK SURVIVAL IS PARAMOUNT!
I gave you an order!
THE DALEKS MUST SURVIVE!
Destroy yourself now or I will do it for you! We’re linked together now,
remember? I can trigger your self-destruct mechanisms!
Silence.
YOU... YOU WOULD DIE WITH ME!
It would be worth it to stop you!
The Doctor concentrated, imagining the Dalek casing crammed full of
machinery and mutant. He could see the sensors, computer, the power-source for
the giant ball-bearing like object that allowed the Dalek’s movement. The Time
Lord concentrated on the wires and circuits, the angry slugs of crackling energy
circulating like life-blood...
Shut down all energy dispersers! Activate all converters to maximum!
NO!
Deactivate auto-repair systems! Set dynamic generators to overload!
HAVE PITY!
Why should I? You never showed any pity, not to anyone!
PLEASE!
Initiate auto-destruct sequence!
The Doctor could see the Dalek jerk and twitch, life support systems,
locomotive power, computers, all struggling to fend off his influence -- but a Time
Lord mind was more powerful than the Dalek’s ethereal defenses. The creature’s

artificial nervous system was glowing white hot, the mechanisms stretching
beyond their limits...
GET OUT OF MY MIND!
The words were screamed with such force they battered the inside of the
Doctor’s skull, threatening to splinter it apart under the pressure. A wave of utter,
xenophobic hatred and prejudice that could only come from a creature with a
lifelong inferiority complex, knowing it was puny, weak and trapped in a metal
shell for survival. Psychotic anger and fury and intensity that, for a moment, the
Doctor was lost in it.
For the briefest of seconds, the Doctor and the Dalek were one.
And the mutating Time Lord opened his mouth to scream.
‘Exterminate!’
Gelver had stayed as close to the Doctor as he dared. Over the years he had heard
and read many stories of the Time Lord’s adventures, some from first-hand
evidence, others from ancient and mistranslated legends. It was said that he had
traveled beyond the outskirts of known history to see the final fate of life-kind,
had defeated the mighty and possibly fictional Apshai, and single-handedly bound
together the walls of the multiverse when a chrono-temporal rift had torn through
reality itself. And now he was dying in an administration wing corridor as a
mutative poision turned his neck and shoulder into slimy green goo...
...like what had happened to his mother...
Gelver bit down on his lip, forcing his thought away from that when suddenly
the Doctor’s feverish, delirious mutterings turned into a horrible cry that could
have come from the Dalek itself. Then, the Time Lord slumped back to the floor,
gasping for air, his eyes wide and staring. Even as Gelver watched, the infection
on the Doctor’s throat was changing colour, turning to an unhealthy brown shade.
The puffy wound seemed to shrivel up as though all moisture had vanished from
it, until it was nothing but a dry, crispy scab against the Doctor’s pale skin.
Casually, the old man reached up with one hand and peeled the scab free,
revealing healthy (if slightly too-pink) flesh beneath.
‘The Dalek severed its link completely,’ said the Doctor groggily, throwing the
dead skin to the floor and trying to rearrange his ruined shirt and jacket. ‘Even on
a molecular level.’
‘You rejected the mutation?’ asked Gelver, struggling to keep up.
‘Yes,’ the Doctor said weakly, struggling to his feet. ‘But that was appallingly
dangerous. Just a few seconds later and the infection would have been
irreversible anyway...’
Gelver took the Doctor’s hand to steady him on his feet. ‘Thank you,’ he said
gently. ‘For saving me, I mean.’
The Doctor glowered at him. ‘I don’t need thanking, young man. But perhaps
in future when someone tells you to stay away from a psychotic and incredibly
contagious mutant, perhaps you’ll do as you’re told next time! Where did it go,
anyway?’ he asked, glancing around.

‘Ran off to the lower levels,’ said Gelver numbly, trying not to think about who
the mutant really was.
‘It’s meeting up with the Dalek,’ the Doctor deduced. ‘I know where it is... or at
least was a few seconds ago. It’s still in the vault, Corridor J-19. And more
importantly, Robbie is still alive.’
‘Well, she won’t be for much longer,’ Gelver replied bleakly. ‘Even if she gets to
the entrance of the Vaults, she’s sealed in with a Dalek behind her and... and that
mutant waiting on the other side.’
‘Not if we have anything to do with it,’ the Doctor vowed and, fighting the
stumble in his weakened limbs, hurried over towards Jacen’s office. There was no
sign of the medic, and Jacen was staring blankly at the map display on the wallscreen
as though nothing else in the universe existed to distract him. ‘The Dalek is
in corridor J-19,’ the Doctor reported, gingerly stepping over Plaxton’s corpse.
‘Excellent,’ said Jacen emotionlessly, pressing a keypad on his desk. The screen
focused on the uppermost level of the Vaults, below the narrow subsection joining
them to the Archives above. ‘The Dalek is still contained.’
‘It won’t be for long,’ the Doctor warned.
Gelver crossed around the desk, standing between Jacen and the screen,
forcing him to acknowledge his presence. ‘Why did you lie to me?’ he demanded
furiously. ‘Mum was here all along! She was sick! And I could have helped, but
you just fobbed me off with lies! Don’t you trust me?’
Jacen stared sadly up at his son. ‘Gelver, please,’ he croaked. ‘I was worried...’
‘You don’t trust me!’ Gelver accused angrily. ‘You never have!’
‘No,’ Jacen sighed miserably. ‘You’re right. I never trusted you.’
The Doctor rapped his knuckles on the desk. ‘Your disgraceful treatment of
your son is a matter for another time,’ the Time Lord shouted impatiently. ‘Even if
your shield can withstand the Dalek it will not surrender, no matter how many
security teams you line up outside. One Phrynian or a thousand, a Dalek’s first
instinct, it’s single impulse, will to be to kill every last one of them.’
Gelver grimaced at the thought. ‘But surely,’ he pleaded, ‘when it finally
realizes that it’s outnumbered...’
‘It still won’t care,’ the Doctor retorted. ‘It’s remote, but the only chance to stop
it is to take it by surprise -- attack it first, before it has a chance to attack us.’
‘How?’ asked Jacen, sounding bored.
‘This alien collection of yours must have more to offer than a few fragments of
metal,’ the Doctor replied impatiently.
‘There’s nothing that could help,’ Gelver snapped angrily.
‘Yes, once the Dalek is free, we’re all going to die,’ Jacen agreed.
‘The Archive contains every alien artifact you’d found, not to mention your
own history! Forgive my cynicism, but surely there must be some weaponry
amongst those?’ the Doctor suggested. ‘An armory of some kind?’
‘There aren’t any weapons here,’ said Gelver, sounding far from certain.
‘No,’ said Jacen dreamily. ‘There are.’
‘Where?’ demanded the Doctor.

‘It’s in the Vaults. In the lowest level, right below the level with the Dalek cell.
Every weapon, from Terileptil hunting knives to Sontaran volatizer grenades, all
stored away from where the public could hurt themselves.’ Jacen’s eyes rolled in
his head. ‘It was the most valuable part of Lenia’s collection...’
‘And you held the Dalek right next to it?’ the Doctor exclaimed. ‘It’s amazing
your wife lived this long considering the sheer suicidal insanity she possessed.
How do we get down there?’
‘We can’t,’ said Gelver darkly. ‘There’s only one lift down there and it’s been
destroyed. All the other ways risk tangling with either the Dalek or... that thing.’
The Doctor began to pace up and down. ‘There must be something!’ he fumed.
‘A secondary access shaft, a private lift, a priest hole leading to a secret passage...
something!’ He pointed at Jacen. ‘And you must know about it.’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything,’ Jacen sneered.
‘I order you,’ Gelver barked.
His father peered up at him, bewildered. ‘What?’ he asked sleepily.
‘You said all this was mine to inherit!’ his son roared. ‘So I’m taking it! Now!
Tell us the truth!’
Jacen seemed to deflate, as though the last of his arrogance and self-respect
had drained away. ‘Lenia has a private teleportation system woven throughout the
Archive. It could take her anywhere, whenever she wanted. She used it as a short
cut to visit the Dalek in the cell...’
The Doctor wrenched open the drawers of Jacen’s desk, sifting through the
contents until he found what he wanted: a handheld control panel with two handgrips
at either end. Chuckling, the Time Lord’s nimble fingers began to punch in a
new set of coordinates into the navigation systems.
Jacen watched on, unimpressed. ‘You’ll never get it to work,’ he predicted.
‘The teleport is DNA-locked. Only Lenia can... could... use it.’
The Doctor didn’t look up from the control panel. ‘Or her son.’
Gelver swallowed. ‘Me?’
‘You did say you were in charge here,’ the Doctor reminded him. ‘Or was that
just typical teenage bravado?’
There was a long silence in the office.
Gelver took a deep breath and slammed his hand down onto the transmat
terminal. The Time Lord instantly wrapped his bony arms around the younger
man. ‘Let us just pray that this too, too solid flesh will melt,’ the Doctor muttered
to himself as the mechanism smoothly whirred into life.
The office was suddenly filled with the warbler of transmit disassemblers. A
cone of light formed around the Doctor and Gelver, spinning like a whirlpool
faster and faster until it spun itself into nothingness. The whirling vortex
disappeared completely, and the duo had vanished with it.
The Dalek had seemingly abandoned chasing them, but Robbie and her friends
were not prepared to risk it. Muscles screaming, lungs burning, they hauled
themselves up the stairwell and into the metal passageway heading upwards.
This, Alexis had gasped on the stairs, was a decoy level, disguised as the

lowermost part of the Archives. Any unauthorized visitor who might have
wandered down here would set off the automatic shields that were fitted into the
ceiling every few metres. Even if the intruder was sprinting for the stairwell that
lead down to the Vaults, at least one of the barricades would slam down before
they could reach it.
As the trio staggered breathlessly through the first archway, Rebna threw
herself at the small override control that was barely visible against the metallic
wall. Punching in the special three-digit code she had memorized, Rebna
activated the emergency mechanism. Immediately there was the loud clanking of
hydraulics and a heavy metal shutter descended down, covering the entrance to
the stairwell. With a final hollow clang, the hatch sealed off the Vaults.
‘Hatch is sealed,’ Rebna gasped.
Alexis nodded, brushing the perspiration from her brow. ‘Good. We’ve
probably lost it anyway...’
‘You think so?’ Robbie croaked.
The three women exchanged a thoughtful look.
And then they hurried up the corridor as fast as their legs could carry them.
Gelver felt the familiar tugging, snatching sensation of teleport transfer -- a sense
of being drawn away followed by a moment of utter disorientation. The warble of
tele-verification assemblers which ended with a jolt. He opened his eyes and saw
his father’s office had been replaced by a large square room with a low ceiling.
There was barely any light to see, and what light there was reflected off the array
of glass cases on the shelf that encircled the armory.
As Gelver blinked to try and clear his vision, he felt the Doctor unlock his arms
from around him and step back. Despite the old man’s spectacles, he could clearly
see quite well in the gloom.
Gelver took a lungful of stale, stuffy air as he regarded the weapons on display
-- the sonic rifles of the Martian Ice Warriors, the microwave blasters of the Cyber
Army, Ovidian Cell-Destroyers, Pearson Clip-Guns of the Fourth Epoc... weapons
that could be used on humanoids or used by humanoids. If it caused death, it
seemed to be here.
‘Incredible,’ Gelver mused.
‘Insane,’ the Doctor retorted. ‘She left the Dalek directly above this little
stockpile. We should be glad the Dalek preferred its own weaponry to any of
this...’ He frowned and peered down at the nearest display. ‘Mind you, that Zylon
neutron destroyer is broken. As is that Thordon Skull-Cracker. And that... that
isn’t even a weapon!’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Unless it was used against people scared of a garden hose nozzle, no... in any
case it’s broken!’ The Doctor tugged irritably at his white beard and scanned the
rest of the room. ‘Is this it?’ he complained.
‘How should I know?’ Gelver snapped. ‘I didn’t even know this place existed
until a few minutes ago! I thought the vault contained nothing but rocks and bits
of metal, and all this was beneath my feet all the time...’ Gelver trailed off, staring

in amazement at the drugging-lasers of an Ikthyosian design. ‘That’s a Lind
weapon! A perfectly intact Lind weapon, and everyone thinks that scrap upstairs
is all that was left of their culture! This is... amazing!’
‘No,’ the Doctor corrected him bluntly, ‘it is rubbish! I’ve seen better picking
through car boot sales!’
Gelver’s wonder dwindled as he remembered why they were there and the
horrors that they were trying to stop. ‘Is there anything here which can help us?’
he asked meekly.
The Doctor looked doubtful. ‘Possibly, I suppose,’ he sighed. ‘I’d need to be
incredibly creative. Stick the power pack from that into the carbine of that,’ he
muttered, pointing at one display case and then another. ‘In fact, that garden hose
nozzle would come in useful if I were to be honest...’
‘Right, great,’ Gelver groaned. ‘How long will it take?’
‘Under laboratory conditions? Weeks.’
Gelver stared at the Time Lord. ‘We’re not under laboratory conditions,’ he
reminded him carefully.
The old man smirked. ‘Then our luck is changing.’
He thrust out his hands and shoved the nearest display case off its shelf, and it
tumbled to the floor and shattered apart with a loud tinkling crash. The Doctor
reached down and carefully began to collect the handgun from the broken glass
when suddenly he froze, and placed a gloved finger to his lips. Gelver frowned
and was about to speak when the Time Lord pointed to the far side of the armory.
The weak light came from the door which was slightly ajar. Suddenly it slid back,
allowing light from the corridor outside to seep through.
Silhouetted in the weak glow was a floating metal sphere, a dull silver colour.
It hovered in mid-air, almost as though peering into the shadows of the armory. A
barely-audible hum emerged from its metal casing.
‘What is it?’ Gelver whispered fearfully.
‘An orbitus... it’s a Dalek weapon,’ the Doctor hissed back. ‘It’s like a floating
landmine, activated by sound.’
Gelver thought longingly of their teleport, but realized the Doctor was holding
it. Besides, every second they delay meant putting Robbie in greater danger. ‘Can
we shut it down?’ he asked.
‘That’s not the difficult part,’ the Doctor whispered. ‘To shut it down, we’d
have to get close to it, and its sensors are delicate enough that just our heartbeats
would trigger the explosion.’
‘There must be something we can do,’ Gelver hissed through gritted teeth. He
took another deep breath. ‘It can only go for one of us, though, can’t it?’
‘Correct,’ the Doctor agreed darkly.
‘I guess I’ll just have to make more noise than you, then,’ said Gelver with a
weak, sick grin.
The Doctor was impressive. ‘You’re very brave, young man.’
‘No. Just guilty.’ Gelver glanced over at the floating sphere. ‘I ran out on
Robbie when the Dalek revived.’
‘Survival instincts are not something to be ashamed of.’

‘You speak from experience?’
The Doctor’s eyes glittered in the darkness. ‘Indeed. Good luck.’
The fugitives had fallen into a pattern. As they passed each archway, one of them
would dive for the control panel and punch in the code Rebna had taught them,
sealing off the section they had just come through. Robbie had lost count of how
many times they gone through the procedure, but they were at least three
quarters of the way up the corridor, with at least a dozen bulkheads separating
them from the stairwell.
Robbie was just about to suggest resuming their breakneck sprint for the
surface when there was a distant metallic crash from beyond the last barricade.
Alexis stared at the closed hatch in amazement. ‘But it can’t,’ she moaned, as
another, louder crash was heard.
‘Come on,’ Rebna groaned, and the exhausted women scrambled into the next
section. Even as they closed that hatch then another, louder crash rang out up the
length of the corridor.
Robbie was already heading for the next section, stabbing the code into the
control panel. The two guards ran through the arch, narrowly making it through
before the next heavy bulkhead slid closed. They didn’t slow down but headed for
the next section, and now it was Robbie’s turn to avoid getting trapped between
shutting hatches.
All the time, the metallic crashing sounds continued. The sounds grew louder
and the pauses between them grew shorter until it was like the sound of giant
footsteps racing towards them. By now, Robbie, Rebna and Alexis were nearly at
the end of the corridor when the hatch they had just sealed trembled. Cracks
appeared, forming a kind of arched shape in the metal.
In less than a second, the entire patch of the bulkhead seemed to crumble
inwards, leading a hole for the Dalek to glide through with terrifying speed. It
swept towards the trio even as Robbie dived into the next section and punched
the code into the wall. The last hatch slid down, and Alexis managed to duck
underneath and join her. Rebna, however, was hemmed into a corner by the
advancing Dalek, unable to move even as the hatch slammed shut.
She was trapped.
And doomed.
The Dalek swung around, aiming its gun-stick at the guard, but Rebna ducked
and threw herself to the floor as a bolt of white lightning slammed into the corner
she’d been standing in seconds before. The Dalek unhurriedly began to revolve,
preparing to fire again. It stood between Rebna and the damaged bulkhead,
preventing her from escaping the section. It was only a matter of seconds before
she joined her exterminated colleagues.
Rebna leapt for the control panel, thinking of every combination she’d been
taught. But there was only one that could be of any use as even now, behind her,
the Dalek was training its weapon at her back.
Rebna punched the final code.

Instantly a cloud of white vapor blew down from the ventilation grille in the
ceiling above. Rebna deliberately breathed in deeply, and immediately began to
cough and choke. The deadly smoke filled the entire corridor, flooding the
corridor as it was designed to -- for the ultimate crisis, when lethal measures had
to be taken. Already her eyes were streaming, her head swimming as the
coughing guard’s legs gave way beneath her. Suddenly she was lying sprawled
before the Dalek that towered over her, gun angling itself to aim at her head.
The gas was building up to lethal levels and Rebna’s eyesight blurred and
dimmed. The Dalek was just an outline in the smoke, the glow from its eyestalk
reminding the dying guard of a lighthouse shining its beam through the go. It was
staring straight down at her, unaffected by the swirling grey clouds of smoke.
It was Rebna’s last hope, that the security system’s toxic gas would be able to
destroy the Dalek through its cracked and broken casing. But even as the smoke
built up to a dense, impenetrable wall, the mutant was unharmed -- even as it felt
like her lungs were being filled with broken glass and her skin burnt. It was all for
nothing. It was all pointless.
Rebna was overwhelmed with despair.
‘Why don’t you just die?’ she shouted into the rancid fumes.
If the Dalek replied, she never heard it, as she seemed to be falling through the
billowing smoke, unable to stop the violent coughs racking her chest as she fell
down, down, down into blackness which swallowed her up...
Robbie and Alexis had hesitated as their companion was sealed behind the hatch
with the Dalek, but when they heard the muffled screech of its weaponry they
decided she was beyond help. Instead they turned and threw themselves up the
final stretch of corridor. ‘Come on, just a bit further,’ Alexis shouted, ignoring the
tears in her eyes. ‘Just around that corner and we’re out of the vault!’
Robbie reached the corner first. To her left, the ramp lead upwards...
...towards a steel bulkhead completely sealing the doorway.
There was nowhere else to go. Now they were trapped. Behind them, there
was a rumble as the final bulkhead they’d lowered gave way.
The Dalek was loose -- and right behind them.
‘There has to be another way!’ Robbie insisted, unable to keep the hysteria out
of her voice.
Alexis was staring up at the bulkhead, shaking her head slowly. ‘No,’ she
whimpered, ‘they’ve left us here to die!’
Robbie looked down the ramp to the metal corridor. A domed, studded
shadow was slowly moving up the wall towards them as the Dalek reached the
corner. They had a few seconds until it was able to open fire on them, and then
they’d just be another two charred, smoking corpses to add to the pile the Dalek
had left in its wake...
Gelver slowly crept around the armory until he was in direct line of sight to the
floating grey sphere. The Doctor was already hiding just beside the doorway, a

silver tool ready in his gloved hand. Through the gloom, Gelver saw the Time
Lord give an encouraging nod.
‘Shapes of things before my eyes,’ he said in his normal speaking voice.
The sphere twitched and jerked slightly.
‘Just teach me to despise...’
Cautiously, the sphere floated through the doorway, searching for the voice.
‘Will time will make man more wise?’
Gelver turned and hurried back down the aisle, ensuring his voice was just at
the edge of the orbitus’ threshold. It bobbed and dipped further into the armory,
crossing it diagonally towards Gelver, who did not have the luxury of levitation.
The young man saw the sphere bob slightly, seemingly unsure where to go -- and
then drift towards the Doctor’s direction. And then Gelver made his decision.
‘COME TOMORROW -- WILL I BE OLDER?’ he roared.
The sudden, shocking volume caused the sphere to spin on the spot confused.
‘COME TOMORROW -- MAYBE A SOLDIER?’
The orbitus locked on and targeted Gelver’s throat as the source of the sound.
Gelver screwed up his eyes and kept shouting.
‘COME TOMORROW -- MAY I BOLDER THAN TODAY!’
Nothing.
‘You can stop that awful noise now, young man,’ came the Doctor’s weary
voice. ‘The sooner the better.’
Gelver cracked open one eye and saw the Doctor holding the sphere in one
hand, waving his silver wand over it with the other. There was a shrill buzzing
and then the Doctor’s arm sagged, as the ball ceased its attempts to break free.
After a few moments, the Doctor tucked the tool into his pocket and idly
considered tossing the deactivated Orbitus over his shoulder, then decided to pop
it into his pocket. You never knew when something like that might come in useful,
after all...
‘How did you shut it down?’ Gelver rasped, his mouth dry.
‘The orbitus homes in on sound, but a sonic screwdriver can make more noise
than any orbitus could handle,’ the Doctor replied, examining the other display
cases. ‘In fact it was quite good news that we met this thing.’
‘Is it?’ asked Gelver disbelievingly.
‘The Dalek has no interest in using any of these weapons,’ the Doctor replied,
using the handgun to break another display case. ‘So why bother guarding it?
Unless, of course, it detected something in this armory capable of destroying it --
in which case, the orbitus was here to prevent us from finding that something. It’s
all quite logical if you think about it...’
‘As long as the Dalek wasn’t being paranoid,’ Gelver pointed out.
The Doctor glared at him. ‘Your attitude is hardly helpful,’ he grumbled.
Gelver shut up.
Robbie was pressed up against the steel hatch, as far from the Dalek as she could
manage as it finally turned the corner to confront them. With the alien came a
noxious, acrid cloud of smoke that spread through the air -- a whiff of which was

enough to make them retch and splutter. While Robbie was trying to face death
with dignity, Alexis’ resolve had finally been pushed beyond its limits. She fell
down the ramp, landing on her knees before the Dalek.
‘Please,’ she begged it. ‘Don’t hurt me! I’ll do whatever you want!’
But the Dalek only wanted them to do one thing.
It fired a pulse of deadly energy at Alexis; a fatal sting that killed her instantly.
The Dalek watched its former captor twisted for a moment in the intensity of
white light and then slumped to the ground. Then its eye-stalk lifted until it was
level with Robbie’s face.
As she waited for the beam of lethal radiation to speed towards her, Robbie
took one last good look at her killer.
Despite the damage inflicted to it, the burns and cracks and trailing wires, the
Dalek was still threatening and powerful -- if only for its sheer, imposing size. She
couldn’t think of the Dalek as anything other than a great big metal war machine,
looming over its victims. The glossy, plastic-looking substance of its moulded
casing made it look light and flimsy, the Dalek was as solid and remorseless as an
army tank. Once it might have been bright, fire-engine-red, like something that
had been pumped out of a factory but now it had rusted to a dirty yellow colour.
It had been a strange and surreal sight, watching the lumbering, ungainly
creature roll down the museum corridors. As it drew closer, Robbie could see its
neck and headpiece were completely out of proportion, perched atop a
ridiculously large and chunky body that boasted a strange Dowager hump at the
rear. It was garish and fat and clunky, an offense to her eye, a fairground ride
from some art deco nightmare...
Not something any human being could design.
And now this mad, chunky toy was going to kill her.
The gun-stick twitched, angling itself so it lined up with Robbie’s heart.
Robbie closed her eyes, trying to fill her mind with thoughts of her family --
her father, the career military man, her stay-at-home mother, her friends from
university, the few friends she had made in her difficult and unrewarding job in
UN military liaison. Robin Peterson, 25 years old, dead in a museum basement on
another planet in a year she couldn’t even guess at. They said that good intentions
paved the road to hell, and it looked like high ideals did the same...
A horrible ghastly silence.
‘ROBBIE PETERSON,’ a deep, powerful voice growled.
Robbie opened her eyes. The Dalek hadn’t moved.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Robbie found herself asking, her voice shaky.
‘THEY TORTURED ME,’ the Dalek replied flatly. ‘WOULD YOU NOT KILL
THEM TOO?’
Robbie shook her head. ‘We have to be better than them,’ she insisted.
The Dalek stared at her. For the first time Robbie realized that the eye of the
Dalek wasn’t some simple glowing camera lens, but an actual eyeball wired into
the metal frame -- all squishy, livid and bloodshot, staring unblinkingly at her with
a strange oblong pupil like that of a frog or toad.
‘WHILST I AM ARMED, I WILL KILL,’ the Dalek said at last.

‘Why?’
‘IT IS IN MY NATURE,’ the Dalek replied simply. ‘IF YOU WISH TO STOP
ME, THEN YOU MUST REMOVE THE WEAPON.’
Robbie looked at the metal gun-stick worriedly. It had killed thirty-six people
and looked to be longer than her arm. She could not imagine getting close to it
without it blasting her with the lethal radiation. ‘You’d actually let me do that?’
she asked feebly.
There was a note of cruel, sadistic amusement in the Dalek’s harsh voice. ‘I
SHALL LET YOU... TRY,’ it challenged.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Robbie suspiciously.
‘I MAY KILL YOU,’ the deep voice taunted her. ‘I MAY NOT. I DO NOT
KNOW. YOU BELIEVED ME WORTHY OF YOUR ASSISTANCE, ROBBIE
PETERSON. YOU TRUSTED ME. DO YOU STILL TRUST ME?’
Robbie said nothing.
‘SPEAK!’ the Dalek roared down at her.
‘I can’t trust you!’ Robbie screamed back. ‘You killed all those people in cold
blood, when you knew they couldn’t fight back! They might as well have been
unarmed! And I am unarmed, so what chance do I have?’
The crusty amber eye stared sightlessly at her.
When the Dalek spoke again, it’s voice was a rusty, contemptuous whisper.
‘HUMAN WEAKNESS,’ it spat in disgust.
And then its gun-stick fired.
The thing that had once been Lenia Verlaine shambled through the lowest public
levels of the Neophryne Archive, heading towards the Vaults where it was being
irresistibly drawn. The last vestiges of humanity were disappearing as the creature
mutated further, becoming weaker and more pathetic as it slowly transformed
into something unable to live without a life support system. Its body was wearing
down, losing mass until it was struggling to support the weight of its poisoned
cerebral cortex.
Its single inhuman eye caught glimpses of its reflection in thee display cases it
passed -- its shrunken bodyshape, the greenish-brown flesh. It had long ago lost
any interest in its monstrous shape, only the burning desperate desire to find its
creator, its progenitor. The thing that had elevated a simple Phrynian woman to
become the superior life form in the galaxy, a creature that could breathe mustard
gas and drink toxic chemicals with no ill-effect. The ultimate survivor.
Its quest was getting harder, as its legs withered into tentacles ending in small
claws, unsuited for transport. Its hands were not much better as it struggled
around yet another corner, and it was nearly knocked over as the entire museum
seemed to shake to its foundations. The corridor was filled with a red flash and a
thunderous roar that rapidly faded into ringing silence.
The mutant struggled upright and crawled down the corridor. Ahead, it could
see the doorway that lead to the Vaults had exploded outwards, showering the
area with blazing metal fragments that were already causing the carpet to
smolder. Smoke was billowing out from the gaping hole in the shutter, beyond

which were two dark shapes. In the silence following the explosion, their voices
were painfully loud.
‘YOU FEEL FEAR!’ a terrible metal voice intoned.
A shaken girl’s voice. ‘What did you expect?! I thought you were shooting me!
An inch to the left and I’d be dead...’
‘YOU WILL NOT DIE... YET. NOT UNTIL THE DOCTOR IS PRESENT TO
WITNESS YOUR DEATH!’
‘I don’t even know where he is!’
‘THEN FIND HIM! SEEK AND LOCATE THE DOCTOR!’
‘When I do, he’ll destroy you...’
‘YOU ARE AFRAID. I AM NOT. DALEKS FEAR NOTHING AND NO ONE.
NOT EVEN THE DOCTOR. LEAVE NOW, ROBBIE PETERSON. THE NEXT
TIME WE MEET, I SHALL KILL YOU.’
The girl scrambled through the smoking hole, a look of stunned disbelief on
her face. She skidded to a halt as she spotted the creature crouched on the floor
nearby, a wizened monkey-like creature with tentacles for arms and legs and a
hideously distorted green, slimy face. The nose was a bump in the middle of the
face, between a wide toothless mouth and one distended, bloodshot eye.
The Dalek glided out of the smoke. It sounded disappointed. ‘YOU DID NOT
RUN FAST ENOUGH,’ it announced, aiming its gun-stick directly at Robbie’s
back. ‘SO NOW YOU WILL BE—’
The mutant shuffled forward. One clawed tentacle reached out towards the
Dalek. ‘Father...’ the creature rasped, drool pouring from its flap-like mouth.
‘KEEP AWAY!’ the Dalek ordered, sounding almost frightened. Its gun-stick
swung to cover the newcomer.
The creature moaned, its eye rolling in its skull. ‘Together... at last....’
‘WHAT ARE YOU?’ the metallic shape demanded.
The creature’s ravaged face twitched into something like a smile.
‘I... am... a Dalek....’
The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity until the Dalek finally
replied with a single, certain word.
‘NO.’
The creature scuttled forward, one claw reaching out as if begging for food.
‘Give... me... orders,’ it rasped pathetically.
‘YOU ARE NOT A DALEK! YOU ARE MY CAPTOR!’
‘What did you do it?’ asked Robbie, shaken.
‘WHAT WAS NECESSARY!’ the Dalek grated, refusing to take its eye from
the monster. ‘THIS PHRYNIAN CONTROLS THE ARCHIVE! CONTAMINATION
OF DALEK GENETIC MATERIAL WAS MEANT TO BRING THIS CREATURE
UNDER MY CONTROL SO SHE WOULD RELEASE ME... BUT INSTEAD IT
HAS...’ The voice trailed off, sickened. ‘IT HAS BECOME AN ABOMINATION!’
‘I need orders!’ moaned the creature. Its voice was becoming harsher, more
grating, more like the voice of a Dalek. ‘You will obey,’ the mutant shrieked
angrily, ‘so I can obey!
‘YOU CANNOT BE WHAT I AM,’ the Dalek said, voice dark with fury.

The mutant’s remaining eye narrowed in hatred. ‘Exterminate,’ it spat, and
leapt into the air, lunging straight at the rusted Dalek towering over it. Its clawed
tendrils snapped together, to wrap around the Dalek and crush the life out of it in
a lethal embrace.
But the Dalek was quicker, and fired before the mutant left the ground.
The mutant screamed in agony as the burning energy quickly spread across its
withered body, scalding first its skin and then its very metabolism. The creature,
scorched and blackened, was thrown back to the ground. It now resembled a
crinkled slug with tendrils rather than anything that could have walked or even
thought. Robbie looked at the dead thing with undisguised revulsion.
And then its single eye snapped open.
Its tentacles writhed and it struggled to move.
‘FATHER!’ it shrieked.
The Dalek fired again and again, as though terrified of the indestructible
creature it had spawned. The deadly rays tore through the octopus-like creature,
ravaging every last cell until they exploded from the inside out. The thing that
had once been Lenia Verlaine, wife of Jacen and mother of Gelver, suddenly felt
weightless, its vision blurred and then everything went black.
Finally, the glob of diseased flesh deflated like a punctured balloon, smoke
rising from the roasted corpse.
The Dalek fired one last time at the remains to ensure it was dead.
Robbie regarded the alien. There were no facial features or body language to
read. Was its stillness a sign of calm or barely-controlled rage? There seemed to
be no excitement or emotion, no sign it had just committed a hysteria-fueled act
of murder, rather than its cold and deliberate executions of old. Its eyestalk was
still trained on the dead creature that had claimed to be its offspring.
Then, without warning, the eyestalk rose and swiveled until it was looking at
Robbie. The crusted, amber eye was placid and lifeless, like that of a contended
frog. There was no way of telling what the mind behind it was thinking, and no
way of knowing what it was going to do to her now...
Jacen couldn’t remember how he’d managed to lock the internal security cameras
onto the progress of his mutating wife, or how long he’d been sitting behind his
desk watching the screen. All he was aware of was the image of the screen, the
blackened heap of dead flesh that was all that remained of his wife. The corpse
was completely unrecognizable, barely the size of a small dog.
Somehow, he couldn’t quite understand that his wife was dead, that he’d
watched her die. The way she’d endured the initial energy bolts from the Dalek
made him wonder if she was somehow still alive and going to spring up once
more. Maybe even as the woman he’d fallen in love with, back to normal, safe and
sound... but the smoldering blob never moved again.
‘Sir,’ a breathless voice gasped. ‘I’ve got it!’
Jacen didn’t move as the medic stumbled through the doorway, cautiously
avoiding Plaxton’s body. He had been sent back to the medical unit a few minutes
ago. The air was clear enough to enter and he had discovered what he was after:

the syringe containing the rest of Lenia Verlaine’s blood sample, which was still
intact -- presumably Dalek blood was only prepared to destroy itself if examined,
not removed.
His employer didn’t take his eyes from the screen. ‘The Dalek is invincible,’ he
said to himself. ‘I see that now,’ he added conversationally. ‘No wonder she loved
it so much...’
The medic glanced at the screen and finally realized what Jacen was looking
at. ‘I... I’m sorry...’
‘I still need the Dalek,’ Jacen said flatly, reaching out to collect the syringe. He
peered at the murky green sludge contained within the ampoule. ‘You, whatever
your name is... fetch the Dalek here for me.’
The medic paled. ‘You’re joking, surely!’
Jacen gave him an anguished look. ‘Please. I’m begging you.’
‘If that Dalek sees me, it will exterminate me without mercy!’ the medic said
angrily. ‘I won’t get a chance to talk to it, let alone bring it up here!’
Jacen was looking at the syringe again. ‘I’ve considered that,’ he said quietly.
‘As the Doctor showed us, there is more than one way of talking to a Dalek...’
The medic rubbed his eyes. ‘Sir, you’re talking nonsense...’
‘I am sorry about this,’ Jacen continued, as though he hadn’t spoken. ‘If there
was another way, you must know that I’d take it without hesitation... but this is
simply too important. I’m very, very sorry...’
And suddenly the needle of the hypodermic was buried deep in the medic’s
unprotected neck. The little man’s head jerked back in pain, a disbelieving look on
his face as Jacen remorselessly pressed the plunger, injecting the green goo into
the medic’s bloodstream. With a pitiful gurgle, the choking medic toppled
backwards, tripping over Plaxton’s corpse and crashing into the floor.
Jacen looked down sadly at the twitching figure, but he remained determined.
‘Summon the Dalek here,’ Jacen ordered icily.
As Robbie waited for the Dalek to kill her, the metallic creature suddenly seemed
to quiver violently on the spot for a few seconds. ‘A NEW MIND?’ it croaked
wonderingly. ‘NEW ORDERS?’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Robbie fearfully.
The Dalek’s eyestalk was pointing up at the ceiling. ‘I FEEL YOUR
THOUGHTS AS YOU FEEL MINE,’ it announced, talking to someone else that
only it could see. ‘BUT YOU ARE NOT A DALEK! SOMEONE IS ATTEMPTING
TO POLLUTE THE PURITY OF THE DALEK RACE!’
Suddenly the Dalek swung it eye to face Robbie again. ‘YOU WILL ASSIST
ME, ROBBIE PETERSON!’ it barked. ‘THIS NEW ABOMINATION MUST BE
EXTERMINATED! FOLLOW! FOLLOW!’
The Dalek spun around and accelerated up the corridor, passing the burnt
mutant corpse without a second glance. Robbie was suddenly left standing on her
own, between the barbecued bodies of Alexis and the mutant. For a moment she
considered running back for the TARDIS, but thought again.
All this was her responsibility.

It was her duty to resolve things as best she could.
Fighting the exhaustion in her limbs, Robbie hurried after the Dalek.
Back in the armory, the Doctor was constructing an anti-Dalek weapon out of
every exhibit he could find. The process was taking much longer than he’d
expected, and part of him knew that there was a good chance Robbie had been
exterminated by now. Alas, there was nothing that he could do except trust in her
ability to stay alive and concentrate all his efforts on rewiring the main circuitry of
the weapon. Gelver was little help -- although intelligent and enthusiastic, he did
not possess the skills necessary to balance mechanical engineering and gut instinct
as well as the Doctor, and worse had a tendency of pointing out the very obvious
mistakes the Time Lord had made before he could cover them up.
In the meantime, he’d quickly found a use for the orbitus mine, as the power
back for the jury-rigged device. With the sonic screwdriver working overtime, the
Doctor had managed to construct a long-barreled blaster with shoulder pad, sights
and a trigger. Now he was trying to attach the terminals of Dalek sphere to the
main targeting circuits. It was a delicate operation at the best of times, and this
was not the best of times, especially as his freshly-old hands kept trembling
uselessly at the most inconvenient of moments.
Gelver looked at the cumbersome shape, the mismatch of different designs of
different weapons. There were parts from a pump-action Utauga shotgun mingled
in with a Charrid agonizer-ray, and plenty others -- not to mention the assortment
of junk the Doctor had produced from his pockets.
‘Is that it?’ asked Gelver doubtfully.
‘Appearances are inevitable deceptive,’ the Doctor snapped, privately
admitting it did look ridiculous. ‘And anyway, what does it matter what it looks
like as long as it works?’
Gelver asked the last question the Doctor wanted to hear. ‘But will it work?’
‘Probably not,’ the Time Lord replied sweetly. ‘Now, come along, we don’t
have much time...’
Gelver raised his hand, keeping the teleport control out of reach. ‘Hey,
shouldn’t we test that thing first?’
The Doctor took a deep, calming breath. ‘Listen to me, young man. I have just
spent the last fifteen minutes mixing alien technologies that are, on a
fundamental level, totally incompatible -- yes?’
‘Yes...’
‘And the energy cell I am using to power it all is on its last legs -- yes?’
‘Yes...’
‘So we shall be very lucky if it works once, and it is best that once be when it’s
aimed at the Dalek -- yes?’
Gelver sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘So let us not push our luck, shall we?’ the Doctor suggested, taking the panel
and setting coordinates.
‘What else is luck for?’ asked Gelver glumly.

‘Well, for a start, stopping this weapon from killing us all off us when we fire
it,’ the Doctor replied, activating the last controls on the panel. Gelver took hold
of the device and the transfer process was well under way by the time he realized
what the Doctor had just said.
There was a flickering swirl of light and the armory was empty once more.
Jacen was sitting alone in his office, toying with the pistol Plaxton had once
threatened the Doctor with. Idly, he powered up the weapon, and then shut it
down, before powering it back up again. The whirr of its power-pack was the only
sound until he heard movement approaching. Jacen calmly got to his feet and
crossed to the doorway of his office and looked out across the floor. The Dalek
was gliding down the aisle towards him, followed by the Doctor’s young
companion. Jacen aimed the gun at the approaching here.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he told them with a dreamy smile.
‘Put that down,’ Robbie sighed. ‘It won’t work on the Dalek...’
Jacen beamed idiotically. ‘No, but it will work on you.’
Robbie boggled. ‘Me?’ she echoed, disbelievingly.
Jacen’s expression turned cold. ‘Step away from the Dalek,’ he ordered icily. ‘I
want to talk to my prisoner.’
Robbie glanced at the metallic creature looming beside her and then scrabbled
for cover between the various cubicles and workstations. The Dalek’s attention
seemed completely focused upon Jacen, its eyestalk and gun-stick aimed directly
at the shabby, unimpressive man with his useless handgun.
Jacen looked up at the Dalek with something that could have been adoration.
It was hard to tell, since his tear-streaked face was completely expressionless. He
lowered his gun and approached the Dalek, until he was standing directly in front
of it, barely an inch between his chest and the creature’s neutralizer weapon.
Jacen seemed completely unaware of the danger he had placed himself in, staring
wonderingly into the Dalek’s single yellow eye...
‘YOU HAVE ORDERS FOR ME?’ asked the Dalek, and there was a faint trace
of hope in its growling voice.
‘Just one question,’ the madman sighed. ‘That’s all. It’s important, you see...
you’re magnificent,’ he said with a weak giggle. ‘Lenia was right to love you. I can
see that now. At first, I was jealous, just a little. Maybe that was why I tortured
you? But I needed to know what you’d done to her. Then again, I suppose it’s all
too late for that now...’
‘ENOUGH!’ the Dalek shrieked impatiently. ‘ASK YOUR QUESTION!’
Jacen sobered at the harsh demand.
‘Did my wife love me?’ he asked quietly. ‘Did she care for me? At all?’
The Dalek stared down at Jacen. ‘I DO NOT UNDERSTAND,’ it replied.
‘All that time she spent with you,’ Jacen insisted. ‘It was because she loved
you. Did she love me too?’ He seemed to shudder slightly, a broken expression
forming on his face. ‘Did she ever love me?’
‘I CANNOT ANSWER YOUR QUESTION,’ the alien replied with contempt.
‘She must have mentioned me!’ Jacen screamed up at the Dalek.

The Dalek finally lost whatever patience it possessed. Its manipulator arm shot
out and slammed into Jacen’s stomach with enough force to fling him across the
aisle. He crashed to the carpeted floor, gasping for breath. Already the Dalek was
gliding past him, an unstoppable juggernaut heading for the exit. It didn’t so
much as glance at him as it passed.
‘I need her back!’ Jacen sobbed.
Robbie considered her options, and then decided that she was safer with the
Dalek than with Jacen. The madman was capable of anything, and the Dalek was
at least heading for the Doctor...
She turned and ran after it, trying to ignore the unhappy wails from Jacen
behind her. ‘Please! Do to me what you did to her! Make me a Dalek too, so we
can be together...’
In Jacen’s abandoned office, the air wavered and swirled as two figures coalesced,
shimmered and finally resolved into the Doctor and Gelver. The Time Lord
immediately let go of the panel and crossed to the desk and checked the wall
screen, still attuned to the final resting place of what was clearly the remains of
Lenia Verlaine. He decided not to inform Gelver of his mother’s passing, and
instead concentrated on flipping through the security channels -- the Dalek had
broken out of the Vaults and was on the loose...
‘Where is he?’ asked Gelver nervously, still clutching the makeshift weapon.
‘Mmm?’
‘My father, Jacen Verlaine, remember?’
‘Well, he isn’t here, so he’s obviously somewhere else,’ the Doctor replied
unhelpfully.
‘He’s gone,’ a deep, throaty voice announced. The Doctor and Gelver spun and
saw a figure huddled in the shadows, crouching near Plaxton’s corpse. The Time
Lord recognized the clothes as belonging to the useless medic of earlier, but in the
gloom couldn’t make out the face. There was something strange and twisted
around his huddled shape, something hunched, deformed...
‘Gone where?’ asked Gelver cautiously, aiming the gun at the medic.
‘To meet the Dalek,’ the voice rasped. ‘He summoned it here... through me...’
The Doctor turned his full attention onto the figure in the corner. ‘Where is the
Dalek now?’ he demanded.
The voice sounded deeper, rougher than before -- almost a primitive growl.
‘Look what he did to me,’ the medic croaked, lifting his head so the others could
see his face. His skin had developed a livid green pallor, like some terrible stain
spreading across his body. His eyes were pitch black, and his lips drawn back in a
savage snarl. ‘Look what Jacen Verlaine did to me!’ the ghastly mutant roared at
them savagely.
‘What?’ gasped Jacen’s son, amazed. ‘Why?’
‘Because of you,’ spat the mutating Phrynian, pointing a terrible, misshapen
claw at the Doctor. ‘He saw you commune with the Dalek, so he did the same
thing to me! It’s not fair!’ he snarled.

The mutant lurched to its distorted feet, moving with an awkward, shambling
lurches as he glared wildly at the pair. The hideous infection that had consumed
Lenia and O’Neal was overtaking this man too, but the process was not quite as
advanced. Dalek DNA consuming everything in its path, transforming the meek
and friendly worker into a ferocious, xenophobic beast -- worse, he was just as
contagious as the others.
‘The Dalek disease,’ the Doctor whispered sadly.
‘My master abandoned me,’ moaned the medic, his distorted face beginning to
sprout short, wriggling tendrils. ‘If you can’t beat the Daleks, join them!’ he
roared. ‘But the Dalek didn’t want me! It rejected me!’
The Doctor spoke to Gelver, but didn’t take his eyes from the mutant looming
up in front of them. ‘When I say ‘‘run’’...’
‘It gave me a purpose!’ screeched the mutant, sounding more like a Dalek
every moment, ‘and then it rejected me!’
‘The Dalek was in your mind,’ the Doctor reminded him desperately. ‘Do you
know where it is now?’
‘It didn’t want me!’ roared the mutant furiously, shambling closer
‘Please!’ the Time Lord shouted. ‘Think!’
The mutant thrashed, as if in the throes of a fit, while Gelver inched towards
the open doorway. ‘It is leaving the main office,’ it answered, voice sounding
harsher and more mechanical. The poison in the medic’s brain was winning, and
in minutes the mutation would progress on and on, until the medic was utterly
indistinguishable from the abomination inside the Dalek casing itself. ‘It has yet to
reach the surface...’
Gelver was about to dive for the door when the mutant went through another
fit, staggering back and forth, snarling with rage and pain, clothes growing dark
with perspiration. Hairs were falling from its distorting green head. ‘HELP ME!’
the voice of the Dalek scraped out of the mutant’s gaping mouth.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t,’ said the Doctor firmly. ‘The mutation is irreversible.’
The mutant’s pitch-black eyes stared at the Doctor blankly -- the eyes of a
madman, or maybe the eyes of a perfectly-sane Dalek. ‘I DO NOT WANT THE
MUTATION REVERSED!’ it grated . ‘I WANT IT ACCELERATED! I WISH TO
BECOME A DALEK!’
The Doctor paled. ‘What?’
The terrifying figure straightened up, calmer now. ‘I felt something... I tasted
something... when I touched the mind of the Dalek... it is so simple... so pure... I
belonged!’ The thing that had once been the nameless medic advanced towards
the Doctor, who backed away only to discover there was nowhere else to go. ‘I
want that feeling back,’ the mutant hissed. ‘Bring that feeling back to me, Doctor!
Bring it back, bring it back, bring it back!’
Before the Time Lord could reply, the monster leapt onto the Doctor and
clamped its claws around his throat. It wasn’t trying to infect the Doctor, but
merely throttle the life out of him. The Time Lord struggled frantically, but the
monster’s immovable claws were cutting off the air to his lungs and the blood
from his brain. Consciousness began to slip away, as the Doctor’s knees buckled

and sagged. With the last of his fading strength, he drew back both his arms and
then swung them together, clapping his hands against the sides of the medic’s
mutating skull.
The creature flinched and jolted back -- its head had crumpled under the
impact, as though its entire skull had softened to dough, twisting and distorting
its face beyond all recognition. The squashed-up mouth open and an eerie,
unearthly screech emerged as the Doctor toppled lifelessly to the ground.
As the monster turned to look for a fresh victim, Gelver saw his chance. He
raised the weapon in his arms, aimed the barrel at the medic’s stained and
distorted back and then squeezed the trigger. Instantly the frame of the weapon
sizzled as power rippled through it.
The mutant was engulfed in a dazzling flash of blue light and exploded into a
mass of flames that instantly devoured its distorted body. It staggered backwards,
but managed to remain upright. A second bolt sped from the barrel and slammed
into the monster’s torso. The creature twisted in pain, but did not fall. The flesh
that had been normal and uncorrupted was now burning to a frazzle, leaving
nothing but the Dalek mutant, seemingly unharmed.
‘BRING IT BACK!’ shrieked the nightmarish beast.
Gelver squeezed the trigger tight and fired a continuous blinding, sizzling
blast. The monster was hurled against the wall, pinned there by the shaft of light.
Seconds later, all that remained was a blackened husk literally welded to the side
of the corridor, hideously shriveled and barely recognizable. Smoke lazily rose up
from it, smelling like burnt flesh.
Gelver clutched the weapon tightly to his chest, trembling uncontrollably. He
wanted his mother, and the cold realization she was gone, as mad a mutant as the
one he’d been forced to kill did not help at all. His tears grew hot and moist and a
tiny moan escaped his lips.
A rough groan echoed it.
Terrified, Gelver spun around, ready to fire the weapon -- when he saw the
Doctor climbing to his feet, choking and spluttering. His cheeks were beetroot-red
and he was struggling to breathe, but he was alive. Gelver swayed, feeling faint. ‘I
thought you were dead,’ he half-sobbed.
The Doctor tugged the neck of his shirt away from his aching throat. ‘So did I,
for a moment,’ he admitted weakly. ‘I’ve had far too many close shaves today...
oh, and thank you, young man, for fighting it off in time...’ He frowned and
righted the spectacles on the end of his nose and peered around the office. ‘Er,
how exactly did you fight it off in time?’
Then, he saw the charred mess fused to the wall opposite, and glowered.
Gelver smiled weakly. ‘At least we know it worked,’ he pointed out.
‘Did I or did I not tell you that we only had enough power for a single shot?’
snapped the Time Lord.
Gelver’s fear turned quickly to anger. ‘I just saved your life, you ungrateful old
miser!’ he roared with sudden fury.
The Doctor fumed but said nothing. Gelver was right, and after all the poor
boy had been through today, the last thing he needed was being scolded for

showing some independent thought. ‘I am grateful, Gelver. Truly, I am,’ he
admitted. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that weapon was the only thing that
could stop the Dalek -- which had power for one shot only!’
‘Then how come I managed to fire it three times then?’ Gelver demanded.
The Doctor blinked in surprise. ‘Did you hold the trigger down for long?’
The question distracted Gelver. ‘Erm, not very,’ he concluded lamely.
The Time Lord brightened. ‘Then there’s still a chance we have enough power
to destroy our enemy,’ he announced. ‘Brilliant work, Gelver. You’re a genius.
Come along!’ he added, heading for the door.
Grinning stupidly at the compliment, Gelver hastily followed the Doctor out of
the body-strewn office...
The Dalek had come to a halt in a nondescript corridor at the far end of the office
level. It remained perfectly still as Robbie approached, and barked at her to
remain silent. She did so, noticing the Dalek seemed to be staring at the corporate
artworks on the walls nearby -- one showed a vivid red pattern that looked like
spattered blood, and another was a moonscape through a sunblind. ‘You like the
artwork, do you?’
‘THIS IS THE OUTER WALL OF THE NEOPHRYNE ARCHIVE,’ the Dalek
replied, continuing to stare at the two paintings -- or, rather, the narrow gap of
wall between them. ‘ONCE THIS IS BREACHED I WILL HAVE ACCESS TO THE
REST OF THIS PLANET.’
‘And then what?’
‘THIS PLANET WILL BECOME PART OF THE DALEK EMPIRE,’ intoned
the metallic alien. ‘THE NATIVE CREATURES WILL BE SUBJUGATED. ALL
THOSE WHO ARE OF NO VALUE AS SLAVE LABOR WILL BE
EXTERMINATED. THE MINERAL RESOURCES OF THIS WORLD MUST BE
EXPLOITED TO BETTER USE.’
Robbie shook her head in confusion. ‘You think you can take over an entire
planet single-handed?’
The Dalek’s eye swung to stare at her. ‘YES,’ it replied.
‘And then what will you do?’ she boggled.
‘A NEW DALEK FORCE MUST BE BUILT.’
‘What for?’ Robbie demanded.
‘TO CONQUER OTHER PLANETS. THE DALEK EMPIRE MUST EXPAND.’
‘And then what are you going to do?’ Robbie protested. ‘Invade other solar
systems? Other galaxies? This is insane!’
‘SANITY IS IRRELEVANT!’ the Dalek snapped. ‘THE DALEKS ARE THE
SUPREME BEINGS OF THE UNIVERSE. OUR RIGHTFUL PLACE IS TO RULE
THE UNIVERSE. WE WILL BE THE MASTERS OF EVERY PLANET IN
EVERY SKY AND ALL LIFE THAT WE FIND WILL BE EXTERMINATED!’
‘Why kill everything?’
‘ONLY ONE FORM OF LIFE MATTERS,’ came the flat reply.
‘You?’

‘CORRECT. IT IS THE DALEK CODE – DESTROY WITHOUT PITY,
ATTACK WITHOUT FEAR, LIVE WITHOUT CONSCIENCE, EXTERMINATE
WITHOUT PITY!’ the Dalek shrieked, its voice so loud now that Robbie was sure
was rattling her fillings. ‘KILL! KILL! KILL! KIIIIILLLL!!’
She looked at it with a whole new fear -- the Dalek wasn’t just a killing
machine... it was completely insane!
The Dalek fell silent for a long moment. When it spoke again, instead of
screaming in psychotic fury it whispered with cold, murderous contempt.
‘DOCTOR,’ it rasped, swiveling its dome until the eyestalk was aimed back down
the corridor the way they had come.
Robbie followed the Dalek’s gaze, but there was no one there.
‘DOCTOR! SENSORS INDICATE YOUR PRESENCE. I CAN HEAR YOUR
HEARTS BEATING. COME FORWARD NOW!’ the Dalek ordered.
Nothing happened.
‘I HAVE YOUR ASSOCIATE,’ the Dalek called, even as its gun-stick aiming
directly at Robbie’s stomach. ‘EMERGE FROM HIDING IMMEDIATELY – OR
SHE WILL BE EXTERMINATED!’
There was a loud sigh and the Doctor appeared around the corner, arms raised
in surrender. Robbie was surprised at how beaten up the Time Lord looked -- his
hair was a mess, his shirt, jacket and waistcoat had been shredded as though
something had torn through them to attack his neck. One of the lenses in his
glasses was cracked and his top hat was missing. Nevertheless, he was as calm as
ever as he approached them.
‘I won’t ask what happens now,’ he sniffed haughtily. ‘I expect you’re going to
exterminate me -- after all, it’s not like a Dalek is capable of anything else.’ He
glared at Robbie. ‘I’m glad you’re safe, Robbie. But I would have liked to think you
trusted me enough to do what I asked...’
‘TO OBEY WITHOUT QUESTION?’ There was a sneer in the Dalek’s voice.
The Doctor sighed. ‘Touché. Oh well... Gelver, now!’ he shouted suddenly.
Suddenly, an equally-ragged Gelver darted from under cover clutching a heap
of junk in a vague rifle-shape. With more luck than skill he fell to one knee, aimed
the barrel straight down the corridor at the Dalek’s hulking midsection and fired it
before anyone could say a word.
A thin, pale blue beam spewed from the barrel and struck the Dalek. After a
few seconds, the beam spluttered and died, the shell of the Dalek glowing faintly
for a second as its battered shell absorbed the energy completely. Its eyestalk
turned to face Gelver, completely unimpressed.
The young man tugged the trigger again and again, but nothing happened.
Gelver sighed. ‘Sorry, Doctor.’
‘So am I,’ the old man agreed.
Gelver let the useless weapon fall the floor. At least they’d tried.
‘I expect this is the bit where you exterminate me,’ the Doctor asked idly. ‘After
all, that’s what a Dalek does. Indeed, I’m not entirely certain that a Dalek can do
anything else.’
‘INCORRECT,’ the Dalek replied, sounding almost smug.

The Time Lord arched a snow-white eyebrow. ‘Am I?’
‘DOCTOR,’ the Dalek continued. ‘I OFFER YOU A CHANCE TO SAVE THIS
PLANET AND ITS INHABITANTS.’
‘Oh, all right, I admit, this is new... go on.’
The Dalek’s gun-stick swiveled to face the wall. ‘I WILL GIVE YOU A CHOICE,
DOCTOR. ALLOW ME TO BREACH THE OUTER WALL, AND I WILL ALLOW
YOU ALL TO LIVE.’
‘While you go on a killing-spree across the entire planet?’ The Doctor sucked
his teeth like a cowboy builder. ‘I’m not terribly keen on that.’
‘THE ALTERNATIVE IS SIMPLE. I WILL NOT LEAVE THE ARCHIVE. I WILL
REMAIN HERE,’ the Dalek offered, before its gun-stick spun to face a new target.
‘BUT I WILL EXTERMINATE ROBBIE PETERSON!’
Robbie knew the Dalek wasn’t bluffing. ‘Doctor,’ she began.
The Doctor silenced her with a glance. ‘Why not exterminate me? Or is Robbie
the greatest enemy of the Dalek Empire nowadays? I didn’t miss a memo, did I?’
The levity in his voice didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Why would you prioritize anyone
over me? What makes Robbie so special?’
‘SHE IS RESPONSIBLE!’ the Dalek screamed angrily.
‘Responsible for what?’ the Doctor snapped, but Robbie knew the answer.
‘FOR AIDING MY ESCAPE,’ the Dalek retorted. ‘I HAVE EXTERMINATED
EXACTLY FORTY PHRYNIANS SINCE LEAVING MY CELL TWELVE DECA-
RELLS AGO. ROBBIE PETERSON MADE THAT POSSIBLE,’ it reminded them
all cruelly. ‘A FOOLISH, NAIVE HUMAN TRUSTING EVERY LIFE FORM IT
ENCOUNTERS. A DALEK WOULD NEVER HAVE MADE SUCH AN ERROR.’
‘You mean a Dalek would never have shown pity,’ the Doctor snarled.
The Dalek refused to be distracted. ‘HER IDEALISM IS DANGEROUS. SHE IS
MORE OF A RISK TO THIS PLANET THAN I AM.’
‘She made a mistake, that’s all!’ Gelver protested.
The Dalek glided closer to Robbie, aiming its weapon under her chin. ‘WHAT
OTHER MISTAKES WILL SHE MAKE?’ it asked angrily. ‘HOW MANY MORE
LIVES WILL BE LOST?’
‘Lives weren’t lost,’ the Doctor shouted. ‘They were taken! Taken by you in
your cold, green blood! You cannot abnegate your responsibility, Dalek. You
exterminated them! It’s your fault, no one else’s!’
The Dalek’s dome swiveled until it was staring at the Doctor once more.
‘AND WHAT OF THE LIVES YOU HAVE TAKEN?’
The Doctor was silent for a moment.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, unimpressed.
‘YOU ARE THE DOCTOR. YOU HAVE SET WHOLE WORLDS AFLAME.
YOU HAVE DESTROYED THOUSANDS OF MILLIONS. YOU HAVE KILLED
MORE IN A DAY THAN I COULD EXTERMINATE IN A LIFETIME. EVEN NOW,
IN THIS ARCHIVE, YOU HAVE KILLED.’
Robbie felt like she was going to be sick. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she protested.
‘THE ABOMINATION CREATED ON THIS LEVEL TO LURE ME HERE NO
LONGER LIVES. I DID NOT EXTERMINATE IT – THEREFORE YOU DID,’ the

Dalek deduced, its manipulator arm extending out towards the Doctor like an
accusing metal finger.
‘I did, actually,’ Gelver pointed out. ‘I’m the killer here.’
‘WITH A WEAPON THAT THE DOCTOR CREATED,’ the Dalek pointed out.
‘Why are you saying all of this?’ Robbie demanded. ‘You’re not going to get me
on your side again!’
‘THE DOCTOR IS PREPARED TO EXTERMINATE ME FOR HIS BELIEFS. I
AM WILLING EXTERMINATE FOR MINE. HOW ARE WE DIFFERENT?’ the
Dalek asked them all.
Gelver stepped forward. ‘He’s trying to save lives...’
‘YET HE IS WILLING THE RISK THE LIVES OF EVERYONE OUTSIDE THE
ARCHIVE FOR THE SAKE OF ONE HUMAN,’ the Dalek reminded them all. ‘HE
WISHES TO PROTECT OTHERS BY DESTROYING ME, BUT HE WILL NOT
PROTECT OTHERS BY DESTROYING HER!’
Robbie realized with a shudder that the Dalek was right.
The hateful metallic voice seemed to draw strength from her despair.
‘THE DOCTOR DECEIVES OTHERS! A DALEK IS HONEST!’
The Doctor smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.
‘But you,’ he pointed out conversationally, ‘aren’t a Dalek.’
If the Dalek could ever have laughed, it would have now.
‘EXPLAIN,’ it mocked.
The Doctor clasped his hands behind his back, looking triumphant. ‘How
exactly did you escape?’
‘I MERELY RECHARGED BY SYSTEMS BY ABSORBING SOME OF
ROBBIE PETERSON’S GENETIC BIOMASS,’ the Dalek replied. ‘SHE WAS
THE ONLY ONE UNAWARE OF THE DALEKS. IT IS APPROPRIATE THAT
ONE OF YOUR ASSOCIATES SHOULD BE THE ONE TO REVIVE ME.’
‘An emergency transfusion, you mean?’ asked the Doctor lightly. ‘A process
meant only to be used by another Dalek. Not by some inferior life form?’
‘THERE ARE NO OTHER DALEKS PRESENT HERE!’ the metallic voice
shouted. ‘YOU HAVE SLAUGHTERED ALL CONTINGENTS OF THE EMPIRE
AFTER THE TEMPORAL COLLAPSE!’
‘So you absorbed inferior genetic material?’ the Doctor clarified.
The Dalek sounded uncertain. ‘AUTO-FILTRATION SYSTEMS ENSURE...’
The Doctor didn’t let it finish. ‘Your systems? Look at yourself? Your casing is a
wreck, half the internal systems are fried beyond repair, and you were already
damaged even before O’Neal began her torture! Do you really think a nonessential
system like that would still be working.’
‘THERE IS NO DATA,’ the Dalek conceded.
‘So you can’t say for certain that Robbie’s genetic makeup has reached your
DNA? That you aren’t mutating?’
‘What are you on about?’ asked Robbie out of the corner of her mouth.
‘THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE!’ the Dalek shouted.
‘Is it? But you’ve been trying to pass on your genetic strain to others, haven’t
you?’ the Doctor pointed out.

‘I WAS DYING!’ The Dalek sounded almost defensive. ‘SOMEHOW THE
DALEKS MUST SURVIVE...’
‘You infected Lenia, and O’Neal too from all accounts. The, er, ‘‘abominations’’
as you called them. And why were they abominations?’
‘THEY ARE HALF-BREED MUTANTS!’ the Dalek spat.
‘Only because your DNA wasn’t strong enough to complete the
transformation,’ the Doctor snapped. ‘As you said -- you were dying, weak and
abused and your genome wasn’t up to the challenge. You can turn people into
monsters, but not pure Daleks. It’s not strong enough, is it? And if it can’t attack
the genetic make-up of an average Phrynian, how is it going to defend itself from
a direct transfusion of human DNA?’
The Dalek swung its eyestalk from the Doctor to Robbie then back again.
‘NO!’ it screamed.
‘YES!’ the Doctor shouted back with a cruel grin.
The Dalek stared at Robbie. ‘YOU GAVE ME LIFE!’ it shrieked at her. ‘WHAT
ELSE DID YOU GIVE ME?’
‘I don’t know!’ shouted Robbie helplessly.
‘Ironic, isn’t it?’ the Doctor jeered. ‘You turned all those poor people into
abominations, and you let yourself be turned into an abomination yourself! You
can exterminate me, you can exterminate Robbie, you can try and conquer this
planet, but you’re not a Dalek any more. Just a freak sitting in the ruins of
something so much superior than you! You may not be dying, but you no longer
have a life any more...’
The Dalek jerked back, away from them all. It sounded panicked. ‘THERE IS
NO DATA!’ it screamed at them
‘You can’t prove me wrong, can you?’ the Doctor continued remorselessly.
‘I MUST REMAIN LOYAL TO THE DALEK RACE...’
‘The Dalek Race would disown you in an instant,’ the Doctor snarled. ‘And
they would exterminate you an instant later!’
A horrible moan emerged from the Dalek, as though whimpering in pain at the
thought. ‘HELP ME!’ it pleaded.
‘What exactly am I supposed to be helping? What are you, anyway?’ the
Doctor demanded. ‘You’re not a Dalek! You’re not even a human! Neither fish nor
fowl. There’s nothing else like you in the entire universe, is there? And you’re
quite, quite alone -- forever!’
The Dalek’s gun-stick drooped and its dome swung back and forth, as though
shaking itself in denial. The eyestalk rolled back until it was pointing directly
upwards. A sobbing scream emerged from its tortured communicator.
‘I AM... NOT... NOT NOT NOT A DALEK!’ it wailed, falling silent for a long time.
The Doctor walked up to it unafraid. ‘You can’t even destroy yourself, can
you?’ he asked quietly. ‘You deliberately burnt out the self-destruct programs so I
couldn’t activate them. Unable to live but unable to die. It’s still a better deal than
you gave any of your victims.’
The Dalek’s eyestalk stared listlessly at the floor. ‘ROBBIE,’ it croaked in a
quiet, broken voice. ‘YOU HAVE CONTAMINATED ME...’

‘Sorry,’ said Robbie, unsure if she meant it or not.
‘YOU SHOWED ME COMPASSION IN THE CELL,’ the Dalek continued
softly. ‘DO SO AGAIN.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Doctor suspiciously.
‘EXTERMINATE ME,’ the pained voice pleaded with them. ‘REMOVE THE
WEAPON AND END THIS.’
‘Don’t even try it,’ the Doctor warned her.
Robbie glanced at the gun-stick. ‘It said so itself,’ she nodded. ‘It might shoot
me. It admitted it wouldn’t be able to stop itself from killing me in cold blood.
‘PLEASE!’ the Dalek begged.
‘That would be mercy,’ the Doctor told Robbie. ‘Are you feeling particularly
merciful, Robbie?’
Robbie didn’t reply.
‘EXTERMINATE ME!’ screamed the Dalek, sounding more like its old,
murderous self. ‘YOU WILL OBEY!’
‘You can’t make me do anything,’ Robbie snarled.
‘HAVE PITY!’
Gelver stepped forward. ‘Let me,’ he said and effortlessly reached out and
wrenched the gun-stick free from its socket. He heaved it up, flipped it around so
the barrel was aiming at the Dalek’s torso. ‘You destroyed my mother. My life. It’s
only fair, when you think about it.’
The Doctor studied the young man’s face for a long time, then nodded and
stepped aside. He reached out a long arm and lead Robbie back. He had no desire
for them to be in the blast radius. They retreated to the end of the corridor and
watched as Gelver prepared to fire.
‘Are you frightened?’ he asked calmly.
‘I DO NOT FEAR DEATH IF IT WILL FURTHER THE DALEK CAUSE!’ the
Dalek retorted, suddenly cold, detached and arrogant once again. ‘THE DALEKS
ARE SUPREME! IT IS OUR DESTINY TO RULE! ALL OPPOSITION WILL BE
DESTROYED! THERE IS NO POWER THAT WE CANNOT OVERCOME! THE
DALEKS WILL ACHIEVE THE ULTIMATE VICTORY!’
‘But not today,’ Gelver concluded, thumbing the firing stud.
There was a shrill screech and a blinding pulse of intense blue-white light.
A long, sustained blast struck the Dalek casing squarely on the access plate
Robbie had been tricked into using. The conical shape was bathed in crackling
electrical fire that tore at its structure. For a moment it seemed to withstand the
lethal radiation stream, and then metallic creature began to twitch and shudder as
the glowing wave of energy washed over its armor.
The deadly jolts of power shook the Dalek, which began to warp and distort.
The eyestalk shattered; the dome it was attached to crumpled, while smoke
flooded out from the grilled neck-section beneath. The energy-discharge
continued rip through the alien as Gelver kept the firing stud pressed.
Finally, the Dalek exploded in a deafening fireball, showering them in
fragments of light plastic and organic fluids. All that was left was the lower half of
the skirt, smashed and cracked open like a metal egg. The three of them stared at

the blazing heap of metal, watching a bubbling, pale green froth boil over and
down the sides of the ruins, gathering in an ever-increasing pool on the floor.
Robbie was the first to turn from the charred, smoking ruin, and she found
herself running, wanting to be somewhere -- anywhere! -- else as fast as she
possibly could. The Doctor remained, watching as Gelver tossed the gunstick into
the ruined guts of the dead Dalek. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘All resolved
before the close of business today,’ he noted with a tired smile. ‘And just in time
to say goodbye.’
Gelver stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re not leaving already? There’s so much
to do!’ he protested.
‘Which is your business, young man,’ the Doctor reminded him, ‘not mine.’
The two of them moved down the corridor, leaving the wrecked Dalek to burn.
‘You know, I think I’ve spent enough time collecting bits of the universe,’
Gelver mused. ‘Maybe it’s time I actually went out and saw it with my own eyes?’
‘No doubt you want to ask me to take you along in the TARDIS?’ the Doctor
asked with deliberate nonchalance.
Gelver sighed and shook his head. ‘No. This place needs to be put back
together. And I need to find my dad, make sure he’s OK... and all the other stuff
you can’t be bothered to stay for.’
‘Yes, well,’ the Doctor said, clearing his throat to hide his disappointment. ‘Just
because the TARDIS may be bigger on the inside than the outside doesn’t mean
there’s room enough for three people aboard. Now, I best be off. It’s a long way
back to the TARDIS and it appears all the elevators are now out of order...’
Gelver watched the old man scurry off. ‘Bye, Doctor,’ he called.
The Doctor paused, turned, waved, and then moved out of sight.
Gelver combed the office level for several minutes before he found his father,
sitting on the floor and seemingly unaware of anything else around him. At least
he was alive. ‘Dad?’ asked Gelver hopefully, crouching down beside him,
searching for any injury.
‘She’s dead,’ said Jacen miserably.
‘Guessed as much,’ Gelver sighed. ‘But it’s all right. We’ll look after each other.’
‘Your mother was an extraordinary woman,’ Jacen sighed. ‘I tried to be an
extraordinary husband. But I was just... ordinary. You never loved me. Neither of
you... Just go away. Please.’
Gelver wrapped his arms around his sobbing father, and for a moment shared
the total despair of the Dalek he’d just killed.
Robbie was sitting on the floor beside the TARDIS, hugging her knees to her chin.
Even from this position, she could see several dead bodies lying around -- the
legacy of the freed Dalek. Nearly forty people killed because of she had stubbornly
refused to listen to anybody else. She was taunted by imaginary scenarios; where
she’d been quicker, smarter, electrocuted the Dalek before it could hurt anyone.
Killed it before it killed others.
Robbie Peterson, a murderer.

She remembered a bit of graffiti she’d once read...
Kill one man and you are a murderer.
Kill a thousand men and you are a conqueror.
Kill everyone and you are God.
She broke out of her reverie as she heard footsteps approaching. Lifting her
head, she saw the Doctor making his way towards her, navigating the corpses and
toppled exhibit cases. His shirt and jacket were shredded around his neck, and he
looked as old and as weary as she felt. Nevertheless, he managed to find his hat
somewhere along the line.
‘I can hardly unlock the TARDIS doors if you’re going to sit sulking in front of
them,’ he pointed out to her.
‘Sorry,’ said Robbie, getting to her feet. ‘I’m not used to killing people.’
The Doctor briskly shoved past her to reach the doors. ‘You didn’t kill anyone,’
he told her impatiently, unlocking the doors.
Robbie looked down at the bodies. ‘I caused all this.’
‘Now you’re being arrogant,’ the Time Lord replied.
‘Arrogant?’ Robbie snapped bitterly. ‘It only escaped because I revived it!’
The Doctor’s brown eyes softened as he realized how deeply his friend was
hurting. ‘And why did you revive it, Robbie? Because you didn’t see a Dalek. You
didn’t see any alien monster. You saw a living, sentient being in pain. A pain that
you were in a position to stop because no one else cared.’
‘It used me,’ said Robbie, disgusted with herself.
‘It used you only because it knew I was here and it needed to be revived in
order to kill me,’ the Doctor pointed out. ‘Does that means that I am the one to be
blamed for all of this?’
Robbie considered for a moment. Part of her, the exhausted and despairing
part, wanted to say yes, it was...
‘Don’t hold yourself responsible,’ the Time Lord consoled her. ‘It’s a hard thing
to do, I know. Believe me, I know. There are so many things we blame ourselves
for. And sometimes the only grain of comfort is how few of those were actually
our fault.’ He patted her on the shoulder in what he hoped would not be a
condescending manner.
‘But isn’t it? If we hadn’t come here, that Dalek...’
‘...would have caused chaos in a completely different manner, I’m sure. It
already infected Gelver’s mother. It could have spread across the planet like a
plague. We stopped that,’ he reminded her. ‘Think of it this way, Robbie. If that
Dalek was ever going to escape, isn’t it better that it was because of an act of
kindness and compassion? A demonstration of what the Daleks never will be, and
why they will never win?’
Robbie smiled weakly. ‘I suppose so. It doesn’t make me feel better.’
‘I know,’ the Doctor told her. ‘And if it had, you wouldn’t be the person you
are. The young lady that I am proud to call a friend. Anyone can make a mistake
-- but few are mature enough to admit they were wrong. Now,’ he said, guiding
her to the TARDIS doorway, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve had quite enough of
this dreary old museum...’

Robbie nodded and entered the time machine. The Doctor paused on the
threshold, taking a last look around the exhibit room with its ruined displays and
charred bodies. Carnage caused by a single soldier-grunt Dalek unit. The last few
times he’d been fortunate enough to encounter a handful of isolated, renegade
Daleks. How long before his luck ran out and he faced the Dalek Empire at the
height of its powers?
Still. Why burden himself with fear of what may or may not happen?
The Doctor followed Robbie into the TARDIS, pushing the wooden doors shut
behind him. For a moment there was silence, which was then shattered by an
odd, throbbing mechanical grinding sound. Unobserved by anyone, the blue light
above the police box began to flash once, twice, three times...
With a final roar of farewell, the shimmering TARDIS faded, receding into the
darkness -- vanishing as though it had never existed.
Clouds of boiling acid blew across the blistered, radioactive surface of the Dalek
Homeworld. The deadly winds lashed against the towering metal walls and huge,
curved spires of the ancient city of Kaalann. There were no windows through
which the interior of the complex could be seen -- it had not been designed for
aesthetic appeal, only practical, technical use. The different sections of the city, be
they factories or supply storerooms, lacked any individual or distinguishing
features to tell them apart. Like the inhabitants, they were all-but-identical.
In one of the outer regions of Kaalann City was a large terminal building, lined
with massive circular computer displays, each one relaying multitudes of tactical
information. A team formed of seven midnight-blue Dalek Strategists maintained
a constant vigil, gathering this data, recording it, analyzing it, sorting it for use in
future plans of action and attacks on alien worlds.
On one particular circular screen was displayed the planet Phryne, where a
single yellow dot began to blink and flicker, before disappearing completely.
A milky-white Dalek Supreme glided into the Visualizer terminal, accompanied
by the light crackle of static connecting with the metal floors of the complex. The
chamber was too dim for human eyes -- but there were no human eyes present.
The Supreme studied the now inert display of Phryne, spotting that there no
longer contact with the single Dalek left on that liberated world.
A nearby Dalek Strategist swiveled to face its superior.
‘THE LAST OFF-WORLD DALEK UNIT HAS BEEN DEACTIVATED,’ the
blue Dalek reported. ‘THE DRONE UNIT STATIONED AT THE NEOPHRYNE
ARCHIVES MANAGED TO TRANSMIT A FINAL MESSAGE BEFORE ITS
DESTRUCTION. THE DOCTOR WAS PRESENT AT THE ARCHIVE.’
The Dalek Supreme was silent for a moment.
‘I SHALL INFORM THE EMPEROR.’
The white Dalek spun on the spot and filed out of the chamber, heading
straight for the domain of the one Dalek superior to all others...

At the heart of Kaalann was the Supreme Council Chamber and at the heart of the
Supreme Council Chamber was entered the Sanctum of the Emperor. The Dalek
Supreme entered the Sanctum, heading for the raised podium at its centre.
Towering overhead was a gigantic spider-like shape, supported by a circular
throne composed of interlocking black metal panels. Three flanking panels, pale
blue and studded with black sensor globes, supported a central structure by three
articulated joints. Suspended beneath the massive pale blue dome complete with
emerald green lights and eyestalk, was a transparent cylindrical tank with two
silver mechanical arms mounted to the base. Floating in the tank, visible for all to
see, was a Dalek mutant, larger and more intelligent than the norm.
This fungus-ridden jellyfish suspended in swirling fluid was their supreme
strategist, the prime unit, the leader of the entire Dalek Empire.
At present, the Emperor was silent, as though pondering the awesome
prospect of complete Dalek domination throughout the universe. Thirty or forty
jet black Dalek Stealth Drones circled the edges of the sanctum acting as Imperial
Guard, while a team of orange Dalek Scientists worked in unison with green
Dalek Engineers at their monitoring stations. Two other Daleks were positioned
before the throne -- the Dalek Eternal and the Dalek Prophet. The former
resembled a wasp in its banana yellow and midnight-black coloring, while the
latter was a deep, dark shade of purple. Both swung their eyestalks around to face
the Supreme as it approached the throne.
‘YOUR MAJESTY.’
‘Supreme,’ replied the Emperor. The octopus-like monster pulsed in time
with the voice, a harsh and unpleasant gurgling sound that scraped against the air
of Kaalann’s Command Centre. ‘What news?’
‘THE DALEK INITIATIVE HAS BEEN SUCCESSFUL. ALL RENEGADE
FACTIONS HAVE NOW BEEN TOTALLY OBLITERATED,’ the Supreme
reported. ‘THE LAST UNIT WAS DESTROYED BY THE DOCTOR.’
The Emperor was unconcerned. ‘Then the Doctor has unwittingly
assisted the Dalek cause,’ it pointed out. ‘The outside universe
will now believe us beaten and defeated thanks to his
actions. The inferior races are completely unaware of our
true strength and resources.’
‘THE DOCTOR IS STILL AT LIBERTY, YOUR MAJESTY!’ the Supreme
protested furiously, ‘HE MUST BE EXTERMINATED!’
The Dalek Prophet addressed the others. ‘HE HAS ESCAPED US THIS TIME,’
it conceded calmly, ‘BUT OUR PATHS WILL CROSS AGAIN.’
‘IT IS THE BEGINNING OF A NEW AGE,’ the Dalek Eternal agreed.
‘The alliance between rival factions has run its course,’
continued the Emperor, ‘and we are stronger for it. Now the Dalek
Race has been purged of the unclean! We who are left are of
one mind and one purpose!’
The Emperor’s voice grew louder and louder, addressing not just the Supreme,
Eternal and Prophet but the dozens of Daleks in the rest of the Supreme Council

Chamber. ‘We will rebuild,’ the Emperor vowed to its followers. ‘We will
grow stronger and then we will strike! The universe will be
ours! Nothing will stand between us and the destiny of the
Daleks! Nothing!’
‘THE DOCTOR WILL NEVER DEFEAT US!’ agreed the Prophet.
‘EXTINCTION IS NOT AN OPTION,’ the Eternal announced.
All the separate, contemptuous and guttural voices of the Daleks present
combined into one single, deafening war cry...
‘WE SURVIVE!’
Throughout Kaalann, on every level and every room and every walkway
between, hundreds of millions of Daleks took up the chant. Every Drone, every
Scientist, every Strategist was shrieking in wild anger as their collective domelights
lit up whole parts of the city -- and not just that city, but thousands Dalek
complexes all over the dead planet...
‘WE WE WILL WILL ALWAYS ALWAYS SURVIVE!
SURVIVE!’
SURVIVE!

Counting Down
This adventure is set during Countdown Countdown Countdown Countdown to to to to Armageddon
Armageddon
Armageddon
Armageddon
The Watcher stood still, watching cars flash by on the motorway that lead towards
the space research institute known colloquially as the Pharos Project, waiting for
the TARDIS it knew would arrive.
The Watcher couldn’t exactly think, merely dream. It was, itself, a dream -- a
dream of a future individual; something someone had once dreamt yet
simultaneously a vision of what that someone would one day be like.
The Watcher was, to put it simply, dreaming itself.
And it was waiting to see the person it was due to replace.
With a mysterious whirring, chuffing noise, a blue shape swam into focus: a police
telephone box, its light flashing urgently. The noise ended and the doors opened a
fraction, allowing the Doctor to peer out of them at the passing traffic.
The Time Lord stepped from his TARDIS, and his companion looked around at
the crude motorway of inefficient and dangerous transport. ‘Earth,’ Mark said, for
once confident they were where they needed to be.
‘Yes,’ the Doctor agreed, looking around at the world he hadn’t been to for so
long. ‘Almost surreal, isn’t it? Everyone going about their business, oblivious as to
what might happen in the next few hours?’
‘Hmmm,’ Mark murmured, trying to keep focused on their objective.
Cars and trucks went rushing by unheeding, their occupants too caught up in
their own small, immediate destinies to even look in the direction of a mysterious
blue box and two strange men who’d appeared out of thin air.
For the last few weeks, from the moment he had passed through the CVE into E-
Space the Doctor had been wandering around time and space lacking something.
Something that had been wrenched from him as he moved from one universe to
another and back again.
He had lost what might have been called a soul or a muse. The thing that
threaded him to his past lives. The part of him that sorted out his timeline and his
memory of events when the two inevitable conflicted. Something that manifested
itself as the Watcher.
And now the Doctor was without the Watcher, he was more like a mortal. And
that was more than enough to make him aware of his own mortality.
The Watcher knew all this as it watched.
As Mark scanned the immediate area he realized that there was someone
watching them from the other side of the road. Standing behind an old wooden
fence was a pale figure dressed in white, gazing at them. No, it wasn’t dressed in

white, it was a kind of vague aura, a gauzy glow that made the figure’s humanoid
outline hard to define.
‘Doctor, look!’ Mark snapped, pointing to the far side of the road. ‘Over there!’
‘What?’ the Doctor asked, busy locking the doors to the TARDIS.
The distance made it quite impossible to distinguish any details of the face, but
Mark knew positively that the solitary, dreamlike figure was looking directly at his
companion. ‘It’s him,’ Mark hissed. ‘The Watcher!’
‘He’s followed us!’ exclaimed the Doctor. The being had been seen at the Eye
of Orion, and then again in the Citadel of Gallifrey and now here - a distant,
ghostly figure, observing and nothing more.
‘How?’ Mark demanded. Did this thing have a TARDIS of its own?
The Doctor stared at the figure.
And the mysterious observer seemed stared back at him.
No one really stared at the Watcher long enough to see the long brown hair and
the toothy grin, or smell the chocolate of candy bars, or hear the sounds of off-key
singing about exuberant days of yesteryear. But once this creature was born it
would possess these things, inhabit them like a native. At the moment it was a
mere imago, standing for all that the Doctor had was or had never been -- set
against what he was becoming.
Once the old man died. When his reach finally exceeded his grasp.
Just a fall.
‘What does he want?’ Mark was asking.
‘I think I know,’ the Doctor said with a strange, beaten tone to his voice.
‘You know... what?’ asked Mark, surprised at the sudden change of mood his
friend was feeling. It was unnerving, to say the least.
Things were going to change. Everything changes. Nothing would be the same
again after the fall.
The Watcher saw it like a roller coaster, a ride that left you hanging in midair,
screaming your head off, waiting for gravity to catch up with you.
It felt great to fall.
There was nothing to be scared of.
The Doctor’s eyes never left the watching figure on the far side of the road, and
the figure didn’t move except to keep its face on the Doctor, who was delving into
the pockets of his jacket. He handed what he found into Mark’s hands. ‘Here, take
the keys to the TARDIS, just in case,’ he said, still looking
‘What are you talking about?’ Mark demanded, his patience rapidly starting to
wear thin.
The Doctor’s face was a dispassionate mask. ‘Never mind about that, just hold
onto them,’ he ordered the soldier irritably. ‘This is my problem and I’ve always
accepted my responsibilities...’

In the Watcher’s unformed hearts, it felt what it was going to be like -- the last
hero without a gun, pure and simple, who loved well if not wisely and would
always try to take the mess life threw at him on the chin and see the funny side.
That hadn’t changed and it never would.
With one last look at the translucent, immobile figure leaning on the fence, the
Time Lord set his shoulders and tugged at his scarf. ‘Come on, to the Pharos
Project,’ the Doctor announced in a slightly more positive tone of voice. ‘We’ve
lost too much time already.’
He didn’t say another word until they reached their destination.
The figure in the scarf and the man in the open-necked uniform ran through the
grass and out of view.
The Watcher waited for the end.
It was about to be born and it was already nostalgic for the golden age being
created, right here and right now. An age of conjuring, trickery, friendship,
bravery; a string of dystopian worlds given a second chance; of accepting the past
existed, no matter how horrible it may be; of facing dragons and vampires and
lonely bored gods; dealing with Time Lords and Zylons and Daleks; of rabbits,
cloaks, and surprisingly difficult coin tricks; runaway busses, pirate radio stations,
hotdog stands, street parties; a place where philosophic truths were on
bubblegum wrappers; a time when a Dalek could be the most trustworthy of
allies, where love could survive the apocalypse, where nothing lasted forever and
was made all the sweeter because of it.
This, the Watcher reflected, was going to be... magical.

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM THE DOCTOR WHO AUDIO DRAMAS:
THE NINTH DOCTOR
Vincent Savage
Dreamscape
THE TENTH DOCTOR
David Segal
The Andromeda Syndrome
The Most Dangerous Game
The Brown Death
Mindmask
The Changing
Planet of the Dead
The Last Colony
Tomb of the Daleks
The Space Trap
Terror on Terra
The Wrath of Poseidon
The Un-Men
Gateway
Countdown to Armageddon
THE ELEVENTH DOCTOR
Jeffrey Coburn
Apollyon
The Price of Paradise
Dark Dreams
Target: Zylon
The Time Brokers
Fictional Hypothesis
The Empire of the Daleks
The Doomsday Signal
The Backbone of Night
The Augury of Death
The Warlords of Apshai
Devinaura IV
Morningstar Manor
Mesomorph
The Crimson Scarab
The Seventh Dungeon of Drakmoore
The Shadow of the Dragon
Radio 2000
The Hidden Menace
The Chronic Rift
THE TWELFTH DOCTOR
Jym de Natale
The Perfection Society
The Soul-Stealers
Past Imperfect
The Chimera’s Game
Memorium
The Webs of Time
Time’s Champions
THE THIRTEENTH DOCTOR
James K Flynn
Object Permanence
Emblems of Darkness
Terror of the Arctic
Playground of the Devil
The Napoleon of the Shadows
Iron Legion
Project: Alpha
Hortima Prime
The Christmas Conspiracy
Hippocratic Oath
Equilibrium
The Call of Pudsey
Long Winter’s Night
Alive
The Eyes of All
The Sontaran Trap
End of Innocence
Might of the Starry Sea