You will probably want to read the Introduction before you start.
Prologue
Prologue
“And Doctor? Your vote?”
The Doctor zoned in again. He’d become so lost in the decision that he’d visualised a maze, and found himself lost in it. As he neared the centre, he found himself getting closer and closer to a pit. He stepped carefully around the edges, but the pit expanded. He tried to cling onto the wall, but his hands slid helplessly. Before he could cry out and fall-
“Your vote?”
Paranoid daydreaming. “Just a minute,” the Doctor answered, and Staligon moved to the next box.
“We can’t do this,” he whispered to Valerie, fiddling with his biro. “We just can’t. It’s wrong. Maybe it’s better just to stand back and do nothing.”
“Doing nothing means doing something,” insisted Valerie. “Doctor… that planet, it’s only going to be the first. The Plant will spread. It will get out to other worlds, and it’s our duty to stop that from happening.”
“The inhabitants of the planet are human,” said the Doctor, adding: “more or less.” He passed the biro to Valerie. “You’re human.” He felt the lie sting as he said it. “If you’re that confident, make the decision. But this isn’t what I do. I don’t blow up planets, and I never will.” He pointed to the voting sheet with his index finger. “This has to be your decision.”
“Your vote?” Staligon sprung up on them both again, adjusting his monocle. Valerie quickly ticked the box on the left and handed it over as the Doctor sighed, burying his head in his hands. Another one for the village.
***
“It was my fault, I’m sorry.” The Doctor felt the wind in his face, understanding fully its wrongness. The village was claustrophobic, but only to him. To anyone else, it was as open and at one with nature as you could get. To him, it was in the depths of an ancient ship, and further from all things right and normal than he was usually willing to travel. “I made you into this.” He shook his head, ashamed by his work. It always ended the same way, or worse. “But now I can make you better again.”
“But…” Valerie tried to understand, hoping it was some sort of joke, or a misunderstanding. Maybe the wise old man of the universe had just gone a little bit mad. “You can’t do this. It wasn’t – no, please. I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” The Doctor figured that Valerie would never understand just how sincere that apology was.
“No!”
The Doctor took one last look at Valerie and raised his sonic screwdriver, preparing for the reset. It was not just a reset of Valerie, this time, but of his own principles. The village had failed. As a final act of kindness, he’d let it tick over, but would never, ever try again. It would stand as a reward for all those who’d helped him over the years, and as his own punishment, reminding him of how he’d tried to create life on his own terms.
“Goodbye.”
“And Doctor? Your vote?”
The Doctor zoned in again. He’d become so lost in the decision that he’d visualised a maze, and found himself lost in it. As he neared the centre, he found himself getting closer and closer to a pit. He stepped carefully around the edges, but the pit expanded. He tried to cling onto the wall, but his hands slid helplessly. Before he could cry out and fall-
“Your vote?”
Paranoid daydreaming. “Just a minute,” the Doctor answered, and Staligon moved to the next box.
“We can’t do this,” he whispered to Valerie, fiddling with his biro. “We just can’t. It’s wrong. Maybe it’s better just to stand back and do nothing.”
“Doing nothing means doing something,” insisted Valerie. “Doctor… that planet, it’s only going to be the first. The Plant will spread. It will get out to other worlds, and it’s our duty to stop that from happening.”
“The inhabitants of the planet are human,” said the Doctor, adding: “more or less.” He passed the biro to Valerie. “You’re human.” He felt the lie sting as he said it. “If you’re that confident, make the decision. But this isn’t what I do. I don’t blow up planets, and I never will.” He pointed to the voting sheet with his index finger. “This has to be your decision.”
“Your vote?” Staligon sprung up on them both again, adjusting his monocle. Valerie quickly ticked the box on the left and handed it over as the Doctor sighed, burying his head in his hands. Another one for the village.
***
“It was my fault, I’m sorry.” The Doctor felt the wind in his face, understanding fully its wrongness. The village was claustrophobic, but only to him. To anyone else, it was as open and at one with nature as you could get. To him, it was in the depths of an ancient ship, and further from all things right and normal than he was usually willing to travel. “I made you into this.” He shook his head, ashamed by his work. It always ended the same way, or worse. “But now I can make you better again.”
“But…” Valerie tried to understand, hoping it was some sort of joke, or a misunderstanding. Maybe the wise old man of the universe had just gone a little bit mad. “You can’t do this. It wasn’t – no, please. I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” The Doctor figured that Valerie would never understand just how sincere that apology was.
“No!”
The Doctor took one last look at Valerie and raised his sonic screwdriver, preparing for the reset. It was not just a reset of Valerie, this time, but of his own principles. The village had failed. As a final act of kindness, he’d let it tick over, but would never, ever try again. It would stand as a reward for all those who’d helped him over the years, and as his own punishment, reminding him of how he’d tried to create life on his own terms.
“Goodbye.”
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 1 - Episode 13
Extermination of the Daleks
Written by The Genie
Dalek Prison Camp
The Doctor stepped out into the light as the latch of his cabin opened. A new day – a clear, red, sky; the first in a while, and the heat must have only been about thirty-five degrees – phenomenal for a summer’s day, and his overalls were dry of sweat. He looked up. Smoke billowed out of the chimneys and prisoners were already moving backwards and forwards, in and out of their cabins and in long, uniformed lines, staring gloomily at the electric fences and the desolation beyond. It was not that the desolation mattered, but it was an escape. And besides - no one dared look a Dalek in the eye.
Only the woman looked on. The Doctor knew her only as ‘the woman’, since the strict regime banned all communication. Any relationship they had was built on distance and presumption. He would invent stories about her in his mind; attempt to deduce where she had come from and why she was here, as if he were Autumn Rivers. They communicated again, that morning, with their eyes. She was old, but the Doctor wondered what she might look like without the scar across her face, the shadows around her eyes, or the military-looking haircut. Younger, he imagined. Young, in fact.
A new batch entered the compound. The Doctor could tell by the look of despair on their faces. It was a different kind of despair; a kind still raw and meaningful, before the Daleks drained their passion and intensity of emotion. One woman, little over nineteen, tripped and fell, just evading the gaze of a Dalek who was distracted by a message from another. The Doctor, in a moment of impulse, dashed over to the woman and helped her up when no one else was trying.
The Doctor stepped out into the light as the latch of his cabin opened. A new day – a clear, red, sky; the first in a while, and the heat must have only been about thirty-five degrees – phenomenal for a summer’s day, and his overalls were dry of sweat. He looked up. Smoke billowed out of the chimneys and prisoners were already moving backwards and forwards, in and out of their cabins and in long, uniformed lines, staring gloomily at the electric fences and the desolation beyond. It was not that the desolation mattered, but it was an escape. And besides - no one dared look a Dalek in the eye.
Only the woman looked on. The Doctor knew her only as ‘the woman’, since the strict regime banned all communication. Any relationship they had was built on distance and presumption. He would invent stories about her in his mind; attempt to deduce where she had come from and why she was here, as if he were Autumn Rivers. They communicated again, that morning, with their eyes. She was old, but the Doctor wondered what she might look like without the scar across her face, the shadows around her eyes, or the military-looking haircut. Younger, he imagined. Young, in fact.
A new batch entered the compound. The Doctor could tell by the look of despair on their faces. It was a different kind of despair; a kind still raw and meaningful, before the Daleks drained their passion and intensity of emotion. One woman, little over nineteen, tripped and fell, just evading the gaze of a Dalek who was distracted by a message from another. The Doctor, in a moment of impulse, dashed over to the woman and helped her up when no one else was trying.
“Get up, keep walking,” he whispered. It was the first time he’d spoken for so long, and it pained him to hear the despondency in his voice. “It doesn’t matter how much it hurts, you’ve got to learn to fight it; it’s better than what they’ll do to you otherwise.”
The Dalek’s head spun, its eyestalk pointing at the Doctor.
“HALT!” it screeched. “YOU HAVE CONTRAVENED THE PRIMARY RULE!” It addressed the other prisoners. “STAND AWAY!”
The Doctor exhaled, preparing for the punishment. “Go on then,” he breathed. “Do it. You think after four years you can hurt me any more than you already have?”
“IT IS OUR ENDEAVOUR!” retorted the Dalek, a perverse sense of humour and authority emerging beneath the anger. Two other Daleks approached, triangulating around the Doctor, and discharged vivid blue rays from their guns. The rays hit the Doctor and gathered around him, forming a field, pushing him in and burning. He cried out, feeling as if his vocal chords were breaking as he did, and fell to the ground, every pain in every limb merging together at once, as if the time vortex itself were wreaking punishment on him.
When it was over, the Doctor collapsed, breathing through the aftershock. Even the Daleks gave him a few seconds before he stood again, working out the time it would take before it was safe for him to move. But what did move, straight away, were his lips, forming a smile. His plan had worked out in the end. The new prisoners had the learnt the harshest lesson about disobeying the rules, but not in the harshest way. That was some victory at least.
“The Stoical Cluster has been destroyed,” reported one Dalek to another. “Prisoners one-three-four to one-seven-two are no longer required for negotiation. They will be escorted to the facility.”
The Doctor grimaced. The facility was fuller than ever, as so many clusters of planets drifted through Dalek Space, instantly annihilated, and thus the prisoners of war became futile.
The Dalek Camps were built for those who had to be kept alive, for purpose of negotiation, ransom or intelligence. The Doctor was their greatest weapon; a mythic specimen of Gallifrey. Prisoners were to be kept alive, but life by the Dalek definition was apart from the quality understood by any civilised society. The exact amount of food required to keep prisoners alive was carefully calculated; the minimum hours of sleep necessary for labour to be carried out, and chemicals to fight disease were injected regularly, often against the prisoner’s will. The Daleks, ironically considering their ambitions, would not let anyone die. That was, of course, until they became invalidated; until they were no longer a military advantage, at which point they were taken to the facility, piles of shoes abandoned outside. All anyone ever saw of the facility was the outside – pits dug in the ground, in which were thrown shoes and other paraphernalia; even kitchenware from spaceships, any standard item considered non-essential – toothbrushes, pens and pencils, deodorants - or, in most cases, items of sentimental value, like necklaces, diaries, photographs.
The Dalek’s head spun, its eyestalk pointing at the Doctor.
“HALT!” it screeched. “YOU HAVE CONTRAVENED THE PRIMARY RULE!” It addressed the other prisoners. “STAND AWAY!”
The Doctor exhaled, preparing for the punishment. “Go on then,” he breathed. “Do it. You think after four years you can hurt me any more than you already have?”
“IT IS OUR ENDEAVOUR!” retorted the Dalek, a perverse sense of humour and authority emerging beneath the anger. Two other Daleks approached, triangulating around the Doctor, and discharged vivid blue rays from their guns. The rays hit the Doctor and gathered around him, forming a field, pushing him in and burning. He cried out, feeling as if his vocal chords were breaking as he did, and fell to the ground, every pain in every limb merging together at once, as if the time vortex itself were wreaking punishment on him.
When it was over, the Doctor collapsed, breathing through the aftershock. Even the Daleks gave him a few seconds before he stood again, working out the time it would take before it was safe for him to move. But what did move, straight away, were his lips, forming a smile. His plan had worked out in the end. The new prisoners had the learnt the harshest lesson about disobeying the rules, but not in the harshest way. That was some victory at least.
“The Stoical Cluster has been destroyed,” reported one Dalek to another. “Prisoners one-three-four to one-seven-two are no longer required for negotiation. They will be escorted to the facility.”
The Doctor grimaced. The facility was fuller than ever, as so many clusters of planets drifted through Dalek Space, instantly annihilated, and thus the prisoners of war became futile.
The Dalek Camps were built for those who had to be kept alive, for purpose of negotiation, ransom or intelligence. The Doctor was their greatest weapon; a mythic specimen of Gallifrey. Prisoners were to be kept alive, but life by the Dalek definition was apart from the quality understood by any civilised society. The exact amount of food required to keep prisoners alive was carefully calculated; the minimum hours of sleep necessary for labour to be carried out, and chemicals to fight disease were injected regularly, often against the prisoner’s will. The Daleks, ironically considering their ambitions, would not let anyone die. That was, of course, until they became invalidated; until they were no longer a military advantage, at which point they were taken to the facility, piles of shoes abandoned outside. All anyone ever saw of the facility was the outside – pits dug in the ground, in which were thrown shoes and other paraphernalia; even kitchenware from spaceships, any standard item considered non-essential – toothbrushes, pens and pencils, deodorants - or, in most cases, items of sentimental value, like necklaces, diaries, photographs.
There were stories told of the Dalek Camps, and all, the Doctor discovered, were true. These stories were inevitably fictitious, based off presumptions about the Daleks. The Daleks must have been easy to presume, because if there was one thing the Doctor was sure of, it was that no one ever lived to speak of the truth.
***
The TARDIS – Far Across the Universe
Autumn danced into the console room, spinning as she stepped down to the console and flicked switches. 2003 pop nonsense had a way of bringing the body to life, as the music livened up the room. It was a dark, cavernous chamber the Doctor had built for himself, but with a bar and a novelty beanbag, it was beginning to brighten up. Autumn skipped up to the bar and poured herself a drink, downing it in one, and turning up the speakers.
“I was so high I did not recognise, the fire burning in her eyes…” sung Autumn. “The chaos that controlled my mind.” She hmmed, feeling thoroughly content, and returned to the console, leisurely tapping some coordinates in. A time machine; all the time in the world.
***
Dalek Prison Camp
The Doctor laid back in his metal frame of a bed, sticking his fingers in his ears. He’d learnt now that when there was an influx of new prisoners, the screams were louder. There were so many rules to be familiarised with. So many lessons to be learnt – and some were unavoidable. Some parts of the galaxy were better-treated than others. Those from the Gathorack System had been indirectly responsible for the fall of the Emperor Dalek, and so those prisoners were regularly tortured, their tapes distributed to families and significant political figures. Not with any intent of bargaining; just so that even those out of the Daleks’ reach felt pain.
The next sound was louder than any other, and caused the Doctor to sit up in bed. The motion sensors caused no electric shock as he did; something was wrong. An explosion had sounded in the distance. If only his cabin had a window…
Right on cue, the door was blasted open, smoke wafting through the cabin. The others sat up, choking, and growing accustomed to the sounds produced by their own throats.
“GET OUT!” yelled one of the men, garbed in black leather. “NOW!”
They all did as instructed; used to following orders, and glad to hear a human voice.
Exiting the compound, the Doctor began to comprehend the scale of the incursion. The facility was alight, its boarded-up windows smashed and flaming, and the architecture slowly sinking into the pits. Lights shone above, and the sound of something – possibly a helicopter – was deafening to the night. As he looked up, using one aching arm to shield the light from his eyes, a vessel was descending, casting a shadow over the whole compound.
He ducked at the sight of a Dalek ray out of the corner of his eye. The guards were trying to keep control by stabbing wildly in the dark. Some people were hit, but most ran forwards, crying out, and scrambling to reach the slowly-descending ramp. The Doctor waited, patiently. This was a rescue mission, and rescued he would be.
“Do you think we’ll get on?” The Doctor turned around, confused. He was sure the voice knew him, but he couldn’t place it. When the light passed over her face, he realised it was the woman.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, feeling genuine hope for the first time in what felt like an eternity. “Stick with me and you’ll be fine!” She smiled, and he held out a hand. She held out hers; young and soft, but shaking. As he reached out to grip it, that death-green ray struck her, and the woman fell to the floor. Had she not been in the way, the ray would have hit the Doctor. He leant over her, trying to support her. It had skimmed her side, and she was still semi-conscious.
***
The TARDIS – Far Across the Universe
Autumn danced into the console room, spinning as she stepped down to the console and flicked switches. 2003 pop nonsense had a way of bringing the body to life, as the music livened up the room. It was a dark, cavernous chamber the Doctor had built for himself, but with a bar and a novelty beanbag, it was beginning to brighten up. Autumn skipped up to the bar and poured herself a drink, downing it in one, and turning up the speakers.
“I was so high I did not recognise, the fire burning in her eyes…” sung Autumn. “The chaos that controlled my mind.” She hmmed, feeling thoroughly content, and returned to the console, leisurely tapping some coordinates in. A time machine; all the time in the world.
***
Dalek Prison Camp
The Doctor laid back in his metal frame of a bed, sticking his fingers in his ears. He’d learnt now that when there was an influx of new prisoners, the screams were louder. There were so many rules to be familiarised with. So many lessons to be learnt – and some were unavoidable. Some parts of the galaxy were better-treated than others. Those from the Gathorack System had been indirectly responsible for the fall of the Emperor Dalek, and so those prisoners were regularly tortured, their tapes distributed to families and significant political figures. Not with any intent of bargaining; just so that even those out of the Daleks’ reach felt pain.
The next sound was louder than any other, and caused the Doctor to sit up in bed. The motion sensors caused no electric shock as he did; something was wrong. An explosion had sounded in the distance. If only his cabin had a window…
Right on cue, the door was blasted open, smoke wafting through the cabin. The others sat up, choking, and growing accustomed to the sounds produced by their own throats.
“GET OUT!” yelled one of the men, garbed in black leather. “NOW!”
They all did as instructed; used to following orders, and glad to hear a human voice.
Exiting the compound, the Doctor began to comprehend the scale of the incursion. The facility was alight, its boarded-up windows smashed and flaming, and the architecture slowly sinking into the pits. Lights shone above, and the sound of something – possibly a helicopter – was deafening to the night. As he looked up, using one aching arm to shield the light from his eyes, a vessel was descending, casting a shadow over the whole compound.
He ducked at the sight of a Dalek ray out of the corner of his eye. The guards were trying to keep control by stabbing wildly in the dark. Some people were hit, but most ran forwards, crying out, and scrambling to reach the slowly-descending ramp. The Doctor waited, patiently. This was a rescue mission, and rescued he would be.
“Do you think we’ll get on?” The Doctor turned around, confused. He was sure the voice knew him, but he couldn’t place it. When the light passed over her face, he realised it was the woman.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, feeling genuine hope for the first time in what felt like an eternity. “Stick with me and you’ll be fine!” She smiled, and he held out a hand. She held out hers; young and soft, but shaking. As he reached out to grip it, that death-green ray struck her, and the woman fell to the floor. Had she not been in the way, the ray would have hit the Doctor. He leant over her, trying to support her. It had skimmed her side, and she was still semi-conscious.
“Hey, stay with me,” he urged, as the ramp hit the floor. “We’ve got to get on that ship, eh? Come on.”
She shook her head, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“Save yourself,” she wheezed.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Just run.” She forced a smile. “Run, you clever boy… and…”
The life died in her eyes and they remained cruelly open. The Doctor shut them, bowing his head in the best act of respect he could offer, and stroked her hair softly. “Thank you,” he whispered, and the light of the ship passed over her face one last time.
“Are you getting in?” yelled one of the prisoners.
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, fulfilling the woman’s final wish. “Yes…”
***
“Did you greet everyone like this?”
The Doctor looked around the interview room. Clinical white walls, cleaner than anything he’d seen in years, with a porthole looking over Dalek Space. The ship outside of the interview room was massive – layers upon layers of overlapping balconies, the places where rebels gathered together for inspiring speeches and chants.
“You’re something special,” said the Captain, half-answering his question. The Captain was an older man - but, like the woman in the camp, that age could have been nothing more than fatigue and PTSD. He had a grey beard and was medium-sized but muscularly-built. “The Daleks have an interest in you.”
“And you need to let me go soon, or else they’ll come for me and work their way through all of you.”
“We’ll be safe once we’re out of Dalek Space.”
“If you get out of Dalek space.” The Doctor got up, walking behind the desk and over to the porthole. His face was reflected by the blackness of deep-space; the first image of his countenance he’d seen since he entered the rusty, dark grounds of the Dalek Camp, save the odd glimpse at a puddle. He was no longer the Doctor he thought he was – no longer a sophisticated Edwardian; an artistic enthusiast, as those at the Museum might have presumed; a government inspector, as those searching for Peacepoint imagined; a genius, as the humans from twenty-first century Earth cited him as; a pioneer, as he was credited by the Epicurus; a Teddy Boy, as Detective Reed had judged; a Greek God, or even, as the captain of the ship at the beginning of time had made him realise, a villain to all that was good. He was reduced to one thing; one standard image of intelligent, semi-conscious life. A short-haired, bruised man in overalls who’d given up on the world. Just another rebel.
Certainly not a Time Lord. He elegiacally acknowledged his reflection, waving off the luxuriousness of his past.
“Look at us all. All the people you’ve taken. All the same.”
“The kind of person who fights the Daleks,” suggested the Captain.
“No.” The Doctor grimaced. “All kinds of people, destroyed by the Daleks. No one ever leaves the Dalek Camps.” He spoke sotto voce. “We were no exception.”
“We didn’t just save you for your own sakes,” admitted the Captain, joining the Doctor. “We did it to show the Daleks that we could.”
“Power games,” stated the Doctor. “Or anger games, as I used to call them. You’ve made the Daleks angrier than ever.”
“The Daleks are always angry. We’ve pushed them over the edge. Now they’re vulnerable. So, Doctor.” He interrupted the Doctor’s moment of thought. “Will you join us? Fight the Daleks?”
“I don’t want to fight the Daleks. I have no interest in combat.” He squinted at a saucer in the distance. “I want to destroy them.”
The Captain turned back to his assistant with an incredulous but secretly impressed look.
“How far are we from the Dalek Parliament?” asked the Doctor, still as sharp as ever.
“We’ll pass it on our way out of Dalek Space. But if you’re thinking of bombing it, I’ve got bad news for you. They disintegrate anything in their path.”
“How much technology have you got on-board this ship?” enquired the Doctor, ignoring the boundaries before him.
“A lot of broken and unconnected things we’ve salvaged,” responded the Captain, cynically.
“Perfect.”
***
“Lord Dalta,” said Autumn, nodding to her comrade as they strolled down the corridor of his outer-space office complex. She deduced that he’d just combed his sleek, black hair, was getting used to his plastic surgery – the work that made him look about thirty – and wondered if the pen in his top pocket was really a pen after all, because of the way it weighed his jacket down.
Lord Dalta nodded back at Autumn, offering her a smile with his paper-white teeth. “News of the Doctor?”
“Well,” began Autumn, making sure her boots made the appropriate clicking sound on the marble floor. “I’ve had his ship for a whole day now, and he’s half-way across the galaxy in a Dalek Camp.”
“I thought the contract said you were to kill to him?”
“It was as good as killing him, if not worse,” insisted Autumn. “He’ll never escape. He’ll never speak of us, and he’ll never breathe another glad breath again. What does it matter?”
“Well, when you put it like that…” Lord Dalta opened the door to his office, filing some papers in a folder on the shelf above his air conditioner. “There’s one more to kill.” He removed another file, conveniently, from the same folder, and handed it to Autumn. The black-and-white image of a mid-life crisis stared back at her; a middle-aged man dressed like a youngster, a bottle of something in his hand, and a provocative look his face. “The Prince of V-3-Apple-7. A man whose power is obviously only thanks to his blood.”
“He looks like a pop icon,” remarked Autumn.
“Quite. And he’s the only remaining participant of the meeting; the others were older, and died a few years after, whilst the Doctor was the only known time traveller. After he’s been dealt with, we can put them all behind us.”
Autumn took the file, heading to the door; already calculating how and when she’d get him.
“I’d just like to say, one last time, how sorry I am for your loss,” added Lord Dalta. “What happened that day was truly wrong, and I’m glad to see them being brought to justice so efficiently.”
“Thank you, Lord Dalta,” replied Autumn. “Justice never belonged in the hands of the law, did it?”
***
The Doctor unlatched the airlock, securing his helmet. The Captain sat at the other side, looking back through the porthole to his assistant.
“You’d better hope this works, because you’re going to make them angry.”
“They’ll be a lot angrier if it works.” The Doctor hauled the bomb across the deck, ready for one gentle push. “This will latch onto them, and the cloaking device will stop them detecting it until it’s too late for them.” He held his hand over the edge, watching the Dalek Parliament, an emblem of oblivious evil. “Remember, remember, the day we escaped,” he recited, having forgotten the date. “Gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.”
And with that, he pushed the bomb over the edge and it fell down to the Dalek Parliament; gravity at work in space. As it touched down, the saucer erupted in a tantrum of angry colours, and even the rebel ship shook slightly. The Doctor watched on as structure fell apart – structure invisible to the naked eye, but palpable to the educated mind. He turned back to the airlock’s seal, then to the Captain.
“Now we need to get out of Dalek Space, and then you need to get rid of me, Captain – because you’re in more danger than you’ve ever been in your whole life.”
***
The Prince of V-3-Apple-7 closed the door behind him and punched digits into the lock’s keypad, stretching out and yawning in the comfort of his own home. As he headed for the staircase, lifting his jacket off, the figure of a woman, perfectly-formed and poised, startled him from the doorway to his kitchen.
“Step into the kitchen now,” she spoke, raising a gun to his head.
The Prince exhaled heavily, his heart racing, and did exactly as the woman said. Once inside, he carefully and, he thought, subtly made his way to the corner of the room, looking her in the eye whilst his arm explored the area behind him, searching for the knife-holder.
“My name is Autumn Rivers,” said the woman, “and you’re the Prince of V-3-Apple-7. That wasn’t a question, because I recognise you straight away. The man who looks like he could get away with anything and did, until he met me.”
“I’m sorry,” panted the Prince, “but what exactly am I supposed to have done?”
“Well, you sanctioned the destruction of my planet for starters,” recited Autumn, casually. “So I looked you up. I thought I might let this one get away, but your record is… interesting.” She took her phone out of her pocket, holding and scrolling with one hand, the other fixed on the Prince. She turned the phone his way, showing him the image. “A set of laws you passed last year. You’ve been using your father for a while, haven’t you? Don’t deny it. He’s ten years beyond the average life expectancy of your species, and it’s no time for him to be making decisions. Did you give him the script to learn, or was he reading from a teleprompter? Not that it terribly matters. Here are some of the laws you passed… a ban on inter-species marriage, punishable by death.”
The Prince swallowed.
Autumn raised her eyebrows as she scrolled down. “The culling of half your wildlife, all of which were produced to be intelligent and cooperative by the Epicurus – something good that useless vessel did manage,” she added, muttering. “Oh, and here’s my favourite bit, which the writer of the article just decided to add for good measure – a reminder of the numerous charges to your name during your younger years. Needless to say, you liked the women a lot more than they liked you, which was evidently a fact you failed to grasp. When I looked into those allegations, I was confronted with the baffling fact that they each withdrew their claims when later interviewed. I wonder why they’d do that. Do you know?”
The Prince felt his hand hit the wooden block behind him as Autumn looked down, and he seized the opportunity to scan for the knives, but the surface was flat.
“Are you looking for this?” asked Autumn coolly, not even bothering to look up from her phone, then pocketed it and pulled a knife out of her satchel.
The Prince edged away, hitting the cabinet, and tried to reach for the window. Autumn calmly walked closer, holding the knife to the Prince’s abdomen. “I would mention the animal abuse charges, but they’re a given for a man with a power complex like you.”
“Please,” begged the Prince, “please, no!”
“The power complex is fair enough, though,” argued Autumn. “Look at your planet. Sleeping, only you to look out for it in these dark, dark hours.” She used repetition for emphasis. “The Night Watchman… tell me, Prince, do you know who watches the watchmen?”
“Who?” asked the Prince.
“Me.” Autumn’s eyes lit up, and she plunged the knife into his stomach. She thanked herself for changing into the cat burglar’s outfit. The blood would have ruined her new dress.
***
“Captain,” advised the Doctor, watching out of his office porthole, “I’d suggest that you give me a teleport device so that I can leave right now before I put you lot in any more danger.”
“We have plenty,” said the Captain, “but no. We’re a rebel ship. Everyone on this ship hates the Daleks, and more importantly, none of us are scared of them. We’re not sending you away.”
“I’m volunteering!”
“We’re not losing a scrap of dignity to those creatures. Besides, we’re about to leave Dalek Space.”
“You think that will stop them? Captain,” urged the Doctor, “I’m a Time Lord. They will chase me to the neighbours of Kasteborous if they have to. We’ve just destroyed their parliament. They’ll already be angry, but you’ll be safe if you let me go!”
“When I see the Daleks on our trail, weapons aimed and primed, then maybe then, Doctor. For now…” He opened the door and pointed along the corridor. “First on the left. Find yourself some clothes, if you’re not going to be staying with us. I’m sure there’s something Edwardian.”
“Just leather will do me,” mumbled the Doctor, leaving.
***
The Doctor entered the office again, not bothering to knock and now sporting a blue leather jacket, jeans and boots. A satchel hung over his shoulder with some essentials.
“Different?” asked the Doctor, trying to be optimistic. The Captain sighed wearily, staring out of the porthole.
“You were right, Doctor,” observed the Captain. “The Daleks are on our trail. They’ve followed us out of Dalek Space.”
“Then let me go. I want to go,” volunteered the Doctor, in desperation. “For the sake of the entire rebel force, at least tell me where your teleport is.”
The Captain obliged, reluctantly. “Five floors up. The upper deck of the ship. We use it to broadcast messages across the speakers, but we also keep a working vortex manipulator up there.”
“Thank you, Captain,” said the Doctor, offering a half-salute and dashing out of the office. The Captain pressed his wristwatch and spoke into it.
“We have a Level 4 emergency. All crew to battle-stations imminently.” He gritted his teeth. “Dalek attack incoming.”
***
She shook her head, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“Save yourself,” she wheezed.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Just run.” She forced a smile. “Run, you clever boy… and…”
The life died in her eyes and they remained cruelly open. The Doctor shut them, bowing his head in the best act of respect he could offer, and stroked her hair softly. “Thank you,” he whispered, and the light of the ship passed over her face one last time.
“Are you getting in?” yelled one of the prisoners.
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, fulfilling the woman’s final wish. “Yes…”
***
“Did you greet everyone like this?”
The Doctor looked around the interview room. Clinical white walls, cleaner than anything he’d seen in years, with a porthole looking over Dalek Space. The ship outside of the interview room was massive – layers upon layers of overlapping balconies, the places where rebels gathered together for inspiring speeches and chants.
“You’re something special,” said the Captain, half-answering his question. The Captain was an older man - but, like the woman in the camp, that age could have been nothing more than fatigue and PTSD. He had a grey beard and was medium-sized but muscularly-built. “The Daleks have an interest in you.”
“And you need to let me go soon, or else they’ll come for me and work their way through all of you.”
“We’ll be safe once we’re out of Dalek Space.”
“If you get out of Dalek space.” The Doctor got up, walking behind the desk and over to the porthole. His face was reflected by the blackness of deep-space; the first image of his countenance he’d seen since he entered the rusty, dark grounds of the Dalek Camp, save the odd glimpse at a puddle. He was no longer the Doctor he thought he was – no longer a sophisticated Edwardian; an artistic enthusiast, as those at the Museum might have presumed; a government inspector, as those searching for Peacepoint imagined; a genius, as the humans from twenty-first century Earth cited him as; a pioneer, as he was credited by the Epicurus; a Teddy Boy, as Detective Reed had judged; a Greek God, or even, as the captain of the ship at the beginning of time had made him realise, a villain to all that was good. He was reduced to one thing; one standard image of intelligent, semi-conscious life. A short-haired, bruised man in overalls who’d given up on the world. Just another rebel.
Certainly not a Time Lord. He elegiacally acknowledged his reflection, waving off the luxuriousness of his past.
“Look at us all. All the people you’ve taken. All the same.”
“The kind of person who fights the Daleks,” suggested the Captain.
“No.” The Doctor grimaced. “All kinds of people, destroyed by the Daleks. No one ever leaves the Dalek Camps.” He spoke sotto voce. “We were no exception.”
“We didn’t just save you for your own sakes,” admitted the Captain, joining the Doctor. “We did it to show the Daleks that we could.”
“Power games,” stated the Doctor. “Or anger games, as I used to call them. You’ve made the Daleks angrier than ever.”
“The Daleks are always angry. We’ve pushed them over the edge. Now they’re vulnerable. So, Doctor.” He interrupted the Doctor’s moment of thought. “Will you join us? Fight the Daleks?”
“I don’t want to fight the Daleks. I have no interest in combat.” He squinted at a saucer in the distance. “I want to destroy them.”
The Captain turned back to his assistant with an incredulous but secretly impressed look.
“How far are we from the Dalek Parliament?” asked the Doctor, still as sharp as ever.
“We’ll pass it on our way out of Dalek Space. But if you’re thinking of bombing it, I’ve got bad news for you. They disintegrate anything in their path.”
“How much technology have you got on-board this ship?” enquired the Doctor, ignoring the boundaries before him.
“A lot of broken and unconnected things we’ve salvaged,” responded the Captain, cynically.
“Perfect.”
***
“Lord Dalta,” said Autumn, nodding to her comrade as they strolled down the corridor of his outer-space office complex. She deduced that he’d just combed his sleek, black hair, was getting used to his plastic surgery – the work that made him look about thirty – and wondered if the pen in his top pocket was really a pen after all, because of the way it weighed his jacket down.
Lord Dalta nodded back at Autumn, offering her a smile with his paper-white teeth. “News of the Doctor?”
“Well,” began Autumn, making sure her boots made the appropriate clicking sound on the marble floor. “I’ve had his ship for a whole day now, and he’s half-way across the galaxy in a Dalek Camp.”
“I thought the contract said you were to kill to him?”
“It was as good as killing him, if not worse,” insisted Autumn. “He’ll never escape. He’ll never speak of us, and he’ll never breathe another glad breath again. What does it matter?”
“Well, when you put it like that…” Lord Dalta opened the door to his office, filing some papers in a folder on the shelf above his air conditioner. “There’s one more to kill.” He removed another file, conveniently, from the same folder, and handed it to Autumn. The black-and-white image of a mid-life crisis stared back at her; a middle-aged man dressed like a youngster, a bottle of something in his hand, and a provocative look his face. “The Prince of V-3-Apple-7. A man whose power is obviously only thanks to his blood.”
“He looks like a pop icon,” remarked Autumn.
“Quite. And he’s the only remaining participant of the meeting; the others were older, and died a few years after, whilst the Doctor was the only known time traveller. After he’s been dealt with, we can put them all behind us.”
Autumn took the file, heading to the door; already calculating how and when she’d get him.
“I’d just like to say, one last time, how sorry I am for your loss,” added Lord Dalta. “What happened that day was truly wrong, and I’m glad to see them being brought to justice so efficiently.”
“Thank you, Lord Dalta,” replied Autumn. “Justice never belonged in the hands of the law, did it?”
***
The Doctor unlatched the airlock, securing his helmet. The Captain sat at the other side, looking back through the porthole to his assistant.
“You’d better hope this works, because you’re going to make them angry.”
“They’ll be a lot angrier if it works.” The Doctor hauled the bomb across the deck, ready for one gentle push. “This will latch onto them, and the cloaking device will stop them detecting it until it’s too late for them.” He held his hand over the edge, watching the Dalek Parliament, an emblem of oblivious evil. “Remember, remember, the day we escaped,” he recited, having forgotten the date. “Gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.”
And with that, he pushed the bomb over the edge and it fell down to the Dalek Parliament; gravity at work in space. As it touched down, the saucer erupted in a tantrum of angry colours, and even the rebel ship shook slightly. The Doctor watched on as structure fell apart – structure invisible to the naked eye, but palpable to the educated mind. He turned back to the airlock’s seal, then to the Captain.
“Now we need to get out of Dalek Space, and then you need to get rid of me, Captain – because you’re in more danger than you’ve ever been in your whole life.”
***
The Prince of V-3-Apple-7 closed the door behind him and punched digits into the lock’s keypad, stretching out and yawning in the comfort of his own home. As he headed for the staircase, lifting his jacket off, the figure of a woman, perfectly-formed and poised, startled him from the doorway to his kitchen.
“Step into the kitchen now,” she spoke, raising a gun to his head.
The Prince exhaled heavily, his heart racing, and did exactly as the woman said. Once inside, he carefully and, he thought, subtly made his way to the corner of the room, looking her in the eye whilst his arm explored the area behind him, searching for the knife-holder.
“My name is Autumn Rivers,” said the woman, “and you’re the Prince of V-3-Apple-7. That wasn’t a question, because I recognise you straight away. The man who looks like he could get away with anything and did, until he met me.”
“I’m sorry,” panted the Prince, “but what exactly am I supposed to have done?”
“Well, you sanctioned the destruction of my planet for starters,” recited Autumn, casually. “So I looked you up. I thought I might let this one get away, but your record is… interesting.” She took her phone out of her pocket, holding and scrolling with one hand, the other fixed on the Prince. She turned the phone his way, showing him the image. “A set of laws you passed last year. You’ve been using your father for a while, haven’t you? Don’t deny it. He’s ten years beyond the average life expectancy of your species, and it’s no time for him to be making decisions. Did you give him the script to learn, or was he reading from a teleprompter? Not that it terribly matters. Here are some of the laws you passed… a ban on inter-species marriage, punishable by death.”
The Prince swallowed.
Autumn raised her eyebrows as she scrolled down. “The culling of half your wildlife, all of which were produced to be intelligent and cooperative by the Epicurus – something good that useless vessel did manage,” she added, muttering. “Oh, and here’s my favourite bit, which the writer of the article just decided to add for good measure – a reminder of the numerous charges to your name during your younger years. Needless to say, you liked the women a lot more than they liked you, which was evidently a fact you failed to grasp. When I looked into those allegations, I was confronted with the baffling fact that they each withdrew their claims when later interviewed. I wonder why they’d do that. Do you know?”
The Prince felt his hand hit the wooden block behind him as Autumn looked down, and he seized the opportunity to scan for the knives, but the surface was flat.
“Are you looking for this?” asked Autumn coolly, not even bothering to look up from her phone, then pocketed it and pulled a knife out of her satchel.
The Prince edged away, hitting the cabinet, and tried to reach for the window. Autumn calmly walked closer, holding the knife to the Prince’s abdomen. “I would mention the animal abuse charges, but they’re a given for a man with a power complex like you.”
“Please,” begged the Prince, “please, no!”
“The power complex is fair enough, though,” argued Autumn. “Look at your planet. Sleeping, only you to look out for it in these dark, dark hours.” She used repetition for emphasis. “The Night Watchman… tell me, Prince, do you know who watches the watchmen?”
“Who?” asked the Prince.
“Me.” Autumn’s eyes lit up, and she plunged the knife into his stomach. She thanked herself for changing into the cat burglar’s outfit. The blood would have ruined her new dress.
***
“Captain,” advised the Doctor, watching out of his office porthole, “I’d suggest that you give me a teleport device so that I can leave right now before I put you lot in any more danger.”
“We have plenty,” said the Captain, “but no. We’re a rebel ship. Everyone on this ship hates the Daleks, and more importantly, none of us are scared of them. We’re not sending you away.”
“I’m volunteering!”
“We’re not losing a scrap of dignity to those creatures. Besides, we’re about to leave Dalek Space.”
“You think that will stop them? Captain,” urged the Doctor, “I’m a Time Lord. They will chase me to the neighbours of Kasteborous if they have to. We’ve just destroyed their parliament. They’ll already be angry, but you’ll be safe if you let me go!”
“When I see the Daleks on our trail, weapons aimed and primed, then maybe then, Doctor. For now…” He opened the door and pointed along the corridor. “First on the left. Find yourself some clothes, if you’re not going to be staying with us. I’m sure there’s something Edwardian.”
“Just leather will do me,” mumbled the Doctor, leaving.
***
The Doctor entered the office again, not bothering to knock and now sporting a blue leather jacket, jeans and boots. A satchel hung over his shoulder with some essentials.
“Different?” asked the Doctor, trying to be optimistic. The Captain sighed wearily, staring out of the porthole.
“You were right, Doctor,” observed the Captain. “The Daleks are on our trail. They’ve followed us out of Dalek Space.”
“Then let me go. I want to go,” volunteered the Doctor, in desperation. “For the sake of the entire rebel force, at least tell me where your teleport is.”
The Captain obliged, reluctantly. “Five floors up. The upper deck of the ship. We use it to broadcast messages across the speakers, but we also keep a working vortex manipulator up there.”
“Thank you, Captain,” said the Doctor, offering a half-salute and dashing out of the office. The Captain pressed his wristwatch and spoke into it.
“We have a Level 4 emergency. All crew to battle-stations imminently.” He gritted his teeth. “Dalek attack incoming.”
***
The Daleks had already entered the ship, and every rebel had made their way up to the fourth floor, priming their blasters at the entrance to the lift, the Captain stood in front, as strong and resolute as ever, but secretly petrified.
“You know the rules,” he said quietly, heard clearly in the silence. “You will not bargain or attempt to bargain with the Daleks. You will not give in to the Daleks’ demands. And you will not surrender.” He looked back at his terrified crew. “By which I mean you will not surrender yourselves or others. Do I make myself clear?”
An army of nods, but not even a murmur in response.
The Captain looked back at the screen above the lift. Numbers were flashing; the lift was in use.
ONE
The Captain breathed deeply, thinking of his son as he held his finger over the trigger. He’d do anything to create a different world, one without fear or oppression. His children hid behind the sofa every time the news came on.
TWO
“Oh my God,” he murmured. He’d doubted that the Daleks would ever actually come aboard the rebel ship, but they had. The worrying thing was that the Daleks were clever. They never pursued a losing battle.
THREE
“Prepare all weapons!” bellowed the Captain.
The lift doors parted sideways, and between the clinical walls were three awful, ominous treasures; man-sized bulks of bronze, capped with an outstretched eye, glowing crystal-blue. Opulent, indomitable embodiments of persecution and fear.
“Daleks,” uttered the Captain.
“YOU WILL SURRENDER THE DOCTOR TO US!” ordered the first Dalek.
“No,” spat the Captain in response. “I won’t.”
“IF YOU REFUSE TO HAND OVER THE DOCTOR, WE WILL RETRIEVE HIM OURSELVES.”
“Meaning?”
“YOU WILL ALL BE EXTERMINATED!”
“Exterminate,” repeated the Captain, mimicking. “Interesting word choice. You could say ‘killed’. And you could kill us. I think you will kill us, and I always have. But you could never have said ‘destroyed’. Do you know why?”
The Dalek didn’t answer.
“Because you will never destroy us. If we die, we die fighting, with honour and dignity. We will never surrender each other.”
The Dalek thought about that, then delivered a reply that chilled the hearts of everyone on the ship, even if they didn’t understand, yet, what exactly it meant.
“NEGATIVE.”
The Dalek brought up a projection in front of the Captain, making itself invisible, apart from the glowing blue eye. The projection showed a ship – a Dalek saucer, spinning slowly alongside the rebel ship. And out of every speaker on the ship, one word was played continuously, darker and more unnatural each time:
“Daddy?”
“Daddy?”
“Daddy?”
The Captain quivered. “What have you done to him?”
“YOUR FAMILIES HAVE ALL BEEN TAKEN HOSTAGE ON A PRISON SHIP.” It let the revelation sink in, then delivered the next with even more precision and aloofness. “THE SHIP WILL BE DESTROYED.”
“No!” thundered the Captain, desperately, fear building in his eyes as his face turned white. “No, please, you can’t, please!” He turned back to his men in the hope of a solution, then back to the Dalek. “Okay!” he began. “I’ll give you the Doctor. We’ll, we’ll, hand him over.”
The Dalek moved forward, not in the least intimidated by the few inches the Captain had on him. “Where is your dignity now?” it asked, scathingly. The ship in the projection imploded on itself, crunching up like a ball of paper, and the tremble felt across the ship confirmed the Captain’s worst fears.
“YOU HAVE BEEN DESTROYED!” declared the Dalek, using the Captain’s words against him. “NOW YOU WILL BE KILLED!”
“No!” cried the Captain, half in anger, and half in fear, raising his blaster and shooting the Dalek in the eye. The blast shattered its eyestalk and it stopped dead. “Wasn’t much of a fight, was it?” he teased.
But his heart sank further as the echoes of frantic, frightened yelling from the other side of the ship caught his attention, followed by a loud, merciless “EXTERMINATE!” The sound of Dalek rays bouncing around the ship, and the screams of his crew reverberated around each level.
***
“You know the rules,” he said quietly, heard clearly in the silence. “You will not bargain or attempt to bargain with the Daleks. You will not give in to the Daleks’ demands. And you will not surrender.” He looked back at his terrified crew. “By which I mean you will not surrender yourselves or others. Do I make myself clear?”
An army of nods, but not even a murmur in response.
The Captain looked back at the screen above the lift. Numbers were flashing; the lift was in use.
ONE
The Captain breathed deeply, thinking of his son as he held his finger over the trigger. He’d do anything to create a different world, one without fear or oppression. His children hid behind the sofa every time the news came on.
TWO
“Oh my God,” he murmured. He’d doubted that the Daleks would ever actually come aboard the rebel ship, but they had. The worrying thing was that the Daleks were clever. They never pursued a losing battle.
THREE
“Prepare all weapons!” bellowed the Captain.
The lift doors parted sideways, and between the clinical walls were three awful, ominous treasures; man-sized bulks of bronze, capped with an outstretched eye, glowing crystal-blue. Opulent, indomitable embodiments of persecution and fear.
“Daleks,” uttered the Captain.
“YOU WILL SURRENDER THE DOCTOR TO US!” ordered the first Dalek.
“No,” spat the Captain in response. “I won’t.”
“IF YOU REFUSE TO HAND OVER THE DOCTOR, WE WILL RETRIEVE HIM OURSELVES.”
“Meaning?”
“YOU WILL ALL BE EXTERMINATED!”
“Exterminate,” repeated the Captain, mimicking. “Interesting word choice. You could say ‘killed’. And you could kill us. I think you will kill us, and I always have. But you could never have said ‘destroyed’. Do you know why?”
The Dalek didn’t answer.
“Because you will never destroy us. If we die, we die fighting, with honour and dignity. We will never surrender each other.”
The Dalek thought about that, then delivered a reply that chilled the hearts of everyone on the ship, even if they didn’t understand, yet, what exactly it meant.
“NEGATIVE.”
The Dalek brought up a projection in front of the Captain, making itself invisible, apart from the glowing blue eye. The projection showed a ship – a Dalek saucer, spinning slowly alongside the rebel ship. And out of every speaker on the ship, one word was played continuously, darker and more unnatural each time:
“Daddy?”
“Daddy?”
“Daddy?”
The Captain quivered. “What have you done to him?”
“YOUR FAMILIES HAVE ALL BEEN TAKEN HOSTAGE ON A PRISON SHIP.” It let the revelation sink in, then delivered the next with even more precision and aloofness. “THE SHIP WILL BE DESTROYED.”
“No!” thundered the Captain, desperately, fear building in his eyes as his face turned white. “No, please, you can’t, please!” He turned back to his men in the hope of a solution, then back to the Dalek. “Okay!” he began. “I’ll give you the Doctor. We’ll, we’ll, hand him over.”
The Dalek moved forward, not in the least intimidated by the few inches the Captain had on him. “Where is your dignity now?” it asked, scathingly. The ship in the projection imploded on itself, crunching up like a ball of paper, and the tremble felt across the ship confirmed the Captain’s worst fears.
“YOU HAVE BEEN DESTROYED!” declared the Dalek, using the Captain’s words against him. “NOW YOU WILL BE KILLED!”
“No!” cried the Captain, half in anger, and half in fear, raising his blaster and shooting the Dalek in the eye. The blast shattered its eyestalk and it stopped dead. “Wasn’t much of a fight, was it?” he teased.
But his heart sank further as the echoes of frantic, frightened yelling from the other side of the ship caught his attention, followed by a loud, merciless “EXTERMINATE!” The sound of Dalek rays bouncing around the ship, and the screams of his crew reverberated around each level.
***
The Doctor frenziedly worked at the controls, but kicked the wall. The Path Web was impossible to hack. It was, as he had sadly suspected, impenetrable. He turned on the speakers, expecting to hear talking, but was greeted by an all-too-familiar sound of devastation – screams, gunfire, and one word, repeated over and over again: exterminate, exterminate, exterminate.
In that moment, the last four years came together in his mind. Every sentiment which the Dalek rule of silence had supressed; every story he’d wanted to write, every statement he’d wanted to make, or comment he’d wanted to share. And they came together, in his shell-shocked, turbulent mind, as he looked to the control of the ship’s speakers, knowing which button did what, and which, more importantly, he’d need to press.
He understood that wiping out the Daleks wasn’t possible, neither for a man, nor a whole fleet of rebels. But he did understand, in that long-inhibited epiphany, what the word ‘Exterminate’ truly meant, and would mean for the rest of time, to both humanity and the Daleks.
And he switched on the microphone. The speakers across the ship kicked into the action, and he set the volume to full, realising, with deep regret, that he’d have to be heard over the screams of dying mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, and even children.
“I believe you were looking for me!” he announced, almost sounding happy, despite the anger and hurt he really felt. A hurt which was recent – emotions were returning. “You’ve made your worst mistake, Daleks. You’re wiped out whole families, today. This ordinary day that will now go down in history because of you. I don’t think you understand what that means…” He switched off his own speakers, blocking out the sound of extermination. “What it means is that for years to come, on this day, decent people across the universe will lower their weapons and look to the sky in memory of those who died here. And however wonderful that is, I know it’s irrelevant to you. So let me tell you something else.” He cleared his throat, finally used to the sound of his own voice again.
“On every other day apart from that one, they’ll be angrier and more determined. You might be able to get them to turn against each other, but that is not the point. Because you will never get them on your side. This is the truth, Daleks. And I bet you never thought you’d hear me say this, because I’m going to sound like you, but such is the cruelty of the universe…” He turned the speaker back on and closed his eyes, grimacing. The ship was silent. He finished his declaration, sensing the Daleks waiting, in anticipation, for what he had to say.
“You will never stop them hating you,” uttered the Doctor, sounding, as he expected, like a Dalek. “And the more you try, the more they’ll hate you. I know,” he continued, taking on a mocking tone and strapping the vortex manipulator around his wrist, “that you’re scared of me, underneath, but I don’t think you know why. It’s not because I can kill, you, or blow up your parliament. You’re scared of me because I understand you. Or, to put it better… I understand why you always lose. So every time you fight them, Daleks, every time you slaughter them!-“ he left them hanging on the crescendo, then quietened for effect. “I want you to remember me, and christen me. I want you to remember that speech, and I want you to remember what I mean to you and who I really am: the Oncoming Storm.”
He lifted the vortex manipulator, and programmed the only coordinates he could remember in, then left, and the ship fell silent. The Daleks may have spoken, but even then, no being of any moral value was alive and present to hear them.
***
Autumn looked over the balcony of the console room, now understanding where it led: just another part of the ship. It was a trick, the Doctor had explained; a gimmick. The deep, suffocating black was, in fact, a doorway to another place. She was beginning to understand the ship; a place of manipulation.
“Autumn.”
Autumn jumped, turning to confront the voice. It must have been a dream…
“Doctor,” she murmured. “How…”
“I’m a projection.” He approached Autumn, and she studied him closely. Occasionally, she noticed, a pixel would shift.
“Y-you look different,” she said, stuttering as she tried to deduce who this new man was. She wondered at first if he was even the Doctor, or a mere reconstruction; the shadow of a dead man. She concluded that he was not a reconstruction but may still have been, in fact, the shadow of a dead man.
“I can’t harm you,” he assured her, as if she needed assuring. “I can’t pilot this ship. I can’t even get to it, and the likelihood is you’ll never even see me again.” He looked sadly to the floor, then back up to Autumn, directly at her this time. “So take this with the humility I’m sending it, Autumn. This is a warning.”
“A threat?” she asked, challengingly.
“No.” He shook his head. His composure annoyed her; always so calm. “Your life is at risk. The TARDIS is bonded to me across space and now we’re at equal on time-zones. I can feel how much she’s hurting. Think of it as an elastic band.” He drew up a model with his hand, pinching his index finger and thumb together to indicate stretching. “I’m at one end, the TARDIS at the other. You’ve drawn us apart.” He pretended to stretch the band, wobbling his hands to show elastic force. “We’re both resisting, but you’ve got the power to pull us apart. When you do…” he let his hands drift away. “The band will snap. Our connection will break, and it will snap onto you. I can’t guarantee the consequences, Autumn, but it will not be good.”
“Don’t give me that,” Autumn replied, unconvinced. “People have surrendered their TARDISes to others before.”
“Yes!” agreed the Doctor. “But you altered the telepathic circuit, remember? You isolated yourself from it. In any other case, she’d have bonded to you, causing ours to fade, but she doesn’t even recognise you! You’re just putting buttons. She’s a living thing, and you’ve got no connection with her because you’ve chosen to refuse her. More than that, you’ve made yourself invisible to her. I know you hate me, but you’ve got to listen to me, please-“
“Then what exactly do you want me to do?” questioned Autumn, feeling irate. “Take the ship back to you, is that what you’re saying?”
“That would be the ideal, but I know you won’t. I don’t care if I don’t see her again. I need to know you’re safe. You’ve still got your vortex manipulator?” He took Autumn’s lack of response as a yes. “Park the TARDIS. Pick a time, any time, any place. Land her, then leave. Don’t look back. The TARDIS can stay on the corner of a street somewhere, gathering dust, locked. If the psychic connection snaps, no one gets hurt.” He reached out, holding his hand out to her face. Autumn felt the edge of his touch and stepped away, perturbed. The Doctor understood and stood back courteously. “Please.”
The hologram faded and Autumn considered, running her hand up the ship’s walls. There was no way she ever wanted to leave the TARDIS, but the Doctor might have been telling the truth. She could tell when he was telling the truth, or when he was being an idiot, usually both at the same time. He was, in more cases than most, an honest idiot. That was something she’d respected, until he lied about the thing that mattered the most.
“Okay,” she decided, stroking the rim of the console unit. “I’ll land you and do some reading on telepathy. Then we’ll come to a decision, eh?” She tried to set the zig-zag plotter, but it gave her an electric shock. “What are you doing that for?” she asked, going for another switch, which similarly threw her off. The TARDIS groaned.
“Oh, no.” Autumn stepped back, trembling. “Don’t you do this to me. Don’t you dare do this to me.” The TARDIS shook, and Autumn cursed the Doctor for warning her too late. “Okay, please.” She tried to address the TARDIS directly, wondering if it could hear. “Just drop me off somewhere. Please!” She ran to the doors and tried to force them open, but they were jammed. Another judder threw her to the floor, and sparks flew off the console.
“Oh my God,” breathed Autumn, propping herself up against the door as her stomach jumped with the falling ship. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
The TARDIS wheezed again.
The Homeworld of Autumn Rivers – Several Years Earlier
I was running down a side-street, gun in hand. Dad had taught me how to shoot a gun when I was fourteen, in case anyone came around with malicious intent. That was when I began to grow suspicious of his work. But now I was older, yet I felt so much younger. I thought I was dressed up in adult clothes, pretending to a grown-up, and someone would find me out. I did my best to disguise those feelings.
NKJ hit the wall, collapsing to the floor.
“I knew you’d find me…” He hit his bald head against the wall. “How did you do it?”
“It’s about the smaller details, N. You didn’t clean up your bin. I had a little look through, found a skyrail ticket. You’d obviously decided it wasn’t safe, realising we were onto you. What does one do when one’s direction is discovered?” I let the question hang in the air. “One turns the other way, N. I knew you’d try the ocean; that was your first mistake. Your second was purchasing essentials on the other side. You used fingerprint recognition to pay, and thought that wiping the records clean would stop us tracing you. I kept all the records open, and watched them as they were wiped. That took me here.”
NKJ reached for something in his pocket.
“Looking for this?” I held up his blaster. “I like it. Think I might keep it.”
***
I sat opposite NKJ, communicating through the glass. It was too dangerous to be alone with him in a room, apparently, but I needed to speak to him.
“After you killed the girls, you sent a tape to the police.” I looked into his eyes. Most people avoided my gaze when I wanted it to be intense, but he reciprocated it. “You told them that you would never reform, that you would always be a villain. Why?” He didn’t answer. I put it another way. “What makes you wake up in the morning and decide that you’re going to do something incomprehensibly bad?”
I continued trying, pushing a photograph across the desk of the interrogation room. “That was your wife. You had an argument twelve years ago and pushed her down the stairs. Then you became a criminal. What changed you? What was it about that moment?”
“You think it was just a switch that turned me evil? Something long in the making, and she was just the first to die?” NKJ laughed, as if repulsed by the presumption. “I killed my wife by accident. The woman I loved most in all the world, and that left me with something you wouldn’t understand. Guilt.” I shivered, and he smiled sadistically, sensing it. “Now there are two things you can do with guilt. You can become a hero, and let it eat away at you and dictate everything you do. Or you can become a villain, and surrender guilt altogether. Don’t contemplate it. Don’t even let it have a look in. That’s the choice. Be a hero and live in guilt, or be a villain and forget it.”
NKJ terrified me back then. I thought the scariest villains were those like the Daleks; those so inhuman, so irredeemable, that we could never reason with them or understand them. I was wrong.
We are the scariest villains. The people like us, so like us that they could be us; us, after taking a different turn. The scariest villains are those we can understand. Not relate to, because we’re stronger than that, but understand. The villains who could be us. Daleks, and other inhuman horror, make us realise how human we are. Men and women like NKJ make us realise how close to villainy we really are.
***
Primrose Hill, London
Robin opened the door and froze, not sure which emotion should be hitting her first.
“It’s midnight,” she said. “But you never did pick the best times.” She smiled, trying to see past how much he’d changed. “Doctor. What can I do for you?”
“Robin.” The Doctor returned her smile. “Robin Moon. Never judging. Sorry for the surprise. I look different, but it’s still me.”
“You still look the same to me.”
“Thank you. I, er…” He looked past Robin into the hallway, trying to work out what had changed. “I need your help. Yours specifically, because you’re the only person in the universe who knows.”
“Knows what?”
He sighed heavily. “Who knows what it’s like to hate me.”
***
The Doctor took a sip of the coffee, which both helped to wake him and made him realise how tired he was. He’d been running on adrenalin ever since he heard that crash in the night, and still half-expected to wake up in the cabin back at the Dalek Camp.
“I dreamed about you sometimes,” he said, as the topic crossed his mind. “The Daleks used dream inhibitors but they were old and glitchy. It was the only time I ever saw any of you for four years – when I dreamed about you. And Autumn. I saw her a lot…” He stared out of the window. “I’ve got to find her.”
“You don’t owe her anything.”
“I owe her everything.” He hit the table, then immediately retracted his fist. “My guilt is all I have left. I won’t be happy until I’ve saved her.”
“And what if she kills you?” asked Robin, getting up and putting her empty mug in the dishwasher. The Doctor noticed an unusual amount of plates stacked up; two dinner plates, two breakfast bowls, and two sets of cutlery, but chose to ignore it.
“She might kill me. She won’t kill you, because she’s not like that, and you were in her place once. So it doesn’t matter if I die.”
“Don’t say that!”
“I would rather die in the knowledge that she’s safe than live on in the knowledge that she isn’t.” The Doctor passed Robin his mug. “I don’t know where she is, or how I’m even going to begin to find her. That’s why I came to you. I’m searching in the dark, fumbling around for a source of light. I need someone to pass me a torch.” He watched Robin as she cleaned the work-surface. Her kitchen was immaculate, and, he noticed, free of alcohol. “She could be dead. I considered that too. The connection’s snapped – I felt it go. But I think she’s out there. I think she’s lost on some world, so far away. And I’m worried what that means, for her and for everyone else…”
The TARDIS
Autumn woke up coughing, and changed her posture to breathe properly. She exhaled dust. The console room was dark; all lights off, and only the translucent time rotor provided a reflection that gave her some sense of location. No hum. The TARDIS was dead, and Autumn Rivers was alive.
She stood up and tried the door again. It opened. She pushed it carefully, worried that if the TARDIS had died, there would be no oxygen bubble, but instantly fresh, bitter air hit her. They’d landed somewhere habitable.
Opening the door fully, she stepped out, her feet sinking into the textured ground. Snow. A lamplight lit her way, and spruce-trees, decked inexplicably with fairy-lights. This truly was an alien place. In the distance, a boy was running towards her; short, red-haired and dressed in knitted, dark rich-coloured fabrics.
“It’s the TARDIS!” he cried. “It’s the Doctor’s ship, the one he told us about!”
“What?” Autumn frowned. “Where am I?”
“Christmas!” answered the boy as he reached Autumn, beaming.
“I said where, not when.” She rolled her eyes.
“You know, Christmas, the town. You’re on Trenzalore.”
TO BE CONTINUED
COMING June 2015
Shattered Time
The Doctor believes he's discovered a trail that will lead him to Autumn Rivers, and journeys through different times, parts of the life he's lived and the life he's about to, in a final attempt to rescue her from villainy.
The Doctor believes he's discovered a trail that will lead him to Autumn Rivers, and journeys through different times, parts of the life he's lived and the life he's about to, in a final attempt to rescue her from villainy.