So, after all, there was not one kind of Strife alone, but all over the earth there are two. As for the one, a man would praise her when he came to understand her; but the other is blameworthy: and they are wholly different in nature. For one fosters evil war and battle, being cruel: her no man loves; but perforce, through the will of the deathless gods, men pay harsh Strife her honour due.
But the other is the elder daughter of Nyx, and the son of Cronus who sits above and dwells in the aether, set her in the roots of the earth: and she is far kinder to men. She stirs up even the shiftless to toil; for a man grows eager to work when he considers his neighbour, a rich man who hastens to plough and plant and put his house in good order; and neighbour vies with his neighbour as he hurries after wealth. This Strife is wholesome for men. And potter is angry with potter, and craftsman with craftsman, and beggar is jealous of beggar, and minstrel of minstrel.”
– Hesiod’s Works and Days 11-24
But the other is the elder daughter of Nyx, and the son of Cronus who sits above and dwells in the aether, set her in the roots of the earth: and she is far kinder to men. She stirs up even the shiftless to toil; for a man grows eager to work when he considers his neighbour, a rich man who hastens to plough and plant and put his house in good order; and neighbour vies with his neighbour as he hurries after wealth. This Strife is wholesome for men. And potter is angry with potter, and craftsman with craftsman, and beggar is jealous of beggar, and minstrel of minstrel.”
– Hesiod’s Works and Days 11-24
Prologue
“I have arrived, as instructed, great prophet, to receive your message.”
Odysseus looked back to the River Styx, where he had left his ship, fully-stocked with wines and cheeses, and battered from its encounter with the sea monsters Scylla and Charybdis. He always kept a watchful eye on his ship as he passed through the Underworld, as if it were a chariot passing through a wasteland: it was packed with luxuriant goods which, to the dead, were not just unattainable, but a chance to recapture memories of when they had lived: when they had indulged, when they gorged, and when they, like Odysseus, had travelled.
Now they just stayed here, sitting by rivers of fire day and night: the blind Theban prophet Tiresias was one of them. One of the lucky ones.
“Come closer,” called Tiresias, trying to hear Odysseus over the sound of spitting flames. The traveller did as instructed, sitting in a crouched position like a bird on a perch in the mud of the river-bank where Tiresias rested in an old rocking-chair. “Repeat yourself, boy.”
“I have arrived,” recalled Odysseus, “to receive the message I was sent for.”
And then the unexpected happened.
The prophet fell back in his rocking-chair, sending it swinging in the most neurotic of rhythms, as he laughed so heartily and so ferociously that Odysseus worried he might just tear himself apart.
“Great prophet,” called Odysseus, trying to bring Tiresias out of his trance. “Your message?”
“My message?” cried the prophet, and erupted into laughter again. “Odysseus, you old fool, you slept in!”
“Slept… in?” The words were unfamiliar.
“Slept in!” repeated Tiresias. “Woke up late! Took your time! Waited for Christmas!”
“Christmas?”
Tiresias was blind, but Odysseus was sure he could sense him rolling his eyes. “This isn’t the Odyssey now, old man. This is day-to-day life. You need to start behaving like it, acting like a grown-up.” The prophet reached under his chair, and lifted out a strange black contraption, small and compact but heavy-looking, with a shiny surface and an even stranger symbol emblazoned across the back. As he pressed down on the top, he sighed. “Screen’s smeared again, bugger.”
“Tiresias... I mean, great prophet… I feel obliged to point out, with no intent to cause offense, that you are blind. How is that you perceive such blemishes?”
“Laser-eye, mate.” Tiresias tossed the device in his hand, a light now shining from it, while Odysseus stood back, none the wiser. “Aha, here it is! Just finished updating. The 4G is rubbish down here. He messaged me a few weeks ago, if I can get it…” he slid his finger across the screen, and like a sorcerer over a cauldron, conjured up an entirely new image. “There you go.” He chucked the contraption over to Odysseus, who caught it, most intrigued by its weightlessness.
Suspended in bubbles on the screen were words, perfectly-formed, in a succession resembling a dialogue. At the top of the dialogue was a name: Doctor.
The first bubble, a green one, read:
Dear Doctor, dark shadows move within the Underworld. Those above speak of a cloud over the Earth, an omen lingering over civilisation, and a web spread, impossibly, across the sky. I worry our days are numbered. Hurry, Great Warrior, for now your wisdom is required, and I fear, as a weapon.
The second, a grey one, was a little less eloquent.
Don’t worry about it, Resi. All cleared up, home in time for tea. Give Persephone my love xxx
“That was from the Doctor,” clarified Tiresias, noticing Odysseus’s expression.
“The cloud over the city,” exclaimed Odysseus, “I remember it! The shape in the sky, the darkness, the screaming! That is why you summoned me! But… where, pray, did it go?”
“The gods only know, boy. I saw the Doctor briefly – he was in the company of another; one of the pantheon. He told me the invasion had only just begun. I…” he considered his words. “I am not sure it is my place to understand.”
“His company,” began Odysseus. “You mentioned one of the pantheon. Pray tell – which?”
The prophet smiled. “Which do you think? No – I ask the wrong question. I should ask which you hope it is, though I know your answer, and have prepared my response. You hope not in vain, great warrior. The Doctor returned with Athene.”
Odysseus looked back to the River Styx, where he had left his ship, fully-stocked with wines and cheeses, and battered from its encounter with the sea monsters Scylla and Charybdis. He always kept a watchful eye on his ship as he passed through the Underworld, as if it were a chariot passing through a wasteland: it was packed with luxuriant goods which, to the dead, were not just unattainable, but a chance to recapture memories of when they had lived: when they had indulged, when they gorged, and when they, like Odysseus, had travelled.
Now they just stayed here, sitting by rivers of fire day and night: the blind Theban prophet Tiresias was one of them. One of the lucky ones.
“Come closer,” called Tiresias, trying to hear Odysseus over the sound of spitting flames. The traveller did as instructed, sitting in a crouched position like a bird on a perch in the mud of the river-bank where Tiresias rested in an old rocking-chair. “Repeat yourself, boy.”
“I have arrived,” recalled Odysseus, “to receive the message I was sent for.”
And then the unexpected happened.
The prophet fell back in his rocking-chair, sending it swinging in the most neurotic of rhythms, as he laughed so heartily and so ferociously that Odysseus worried he might just tear himself apart.
“Great prophet,” called Odysseus, trying to bring Tiresias out of his trance. “Your message?”
“My message?” cried the prophet, and erupted into laughter again. “Odysseus, you old fool, you slept in!”
“Slept… in?” The words were unfamiliar.
“Slept in!” repeated Tiresias. “Woke up late! Took your time! Waited for Christmas!”
“Christmas?”
Tiresias was blind, but Odysseus was sure he could sense him rolling his eyes. “This isn’t the Odyssey now, old man. This is day-to-day life. You need to start behaving like it, acting like a grown-up.” The prophet reached under his chair, and lifted out a strange black contraption, small and compact but heavy-looking, with a shiny surface and an even stranger symbol emblazoned across the back. As he pressed down on the top, he sighed. “Screen’s smeared again, bugger.”
“Tiresias... I mean, great prophet… I feel obliged to point out, with no intent to cause offense, that you are blind. How is that you perceive such blemishes?”
“Laser-eye, mate.” Tiresias tossed the device in his hand, a light now shining from it, while Odysseus stood back, none the wiser. “Aha, here it is! Just finished updating. The 4G is rubbish down here. He messaged me a few weeks ago, if I can get it…” he slid his finger across the screen, and like a sorcerer over a cauldron, conjured up an entirely new image. “There you go.” He chucked the contraption over to Odysseus, who caught it, most intrigued by its weightlessness.
Suspended in bubbles on the screen were words, perfectly-formed, in a succession resembling a dialogue. At the top of the dialogue was a name: Doctor.
The first bubble, a green one, read:
Dear Doctor, dark shadows move within the Underworld. Those above speak of a cloud over the Earth, an omen lingering over civilisation, and a web spread, impossibly, across the sky. I worry our days are numbered. Hurry, Great Warrior, for now your wisdom is required, and I fear, as a weapon.
The second, a grey one, was a little less eloquent.
Don’t worry about it, Resi. All cleared up, home in time for tea. Give Persephone my love xxx
“That was from the Doctor,” clarified Tiresias, noticing Odysseus’s expression.
“The cloud over the city,” exclaimed Odysseus, “I remember it! The shape in the sky, the darkness, the screaming! That is why you summoned me! But… where, pray, did it go?”
“The gods only know, boy. I saw the Doctor briefly – he was in the company of another; one of the pantheon. He told me the invasion had only just begun. I…” he considered his words. “I am not sure it is my place to understand.”
“His company,” began Odysseus. “You mentioned one of the pantheon. Pray tell – which?”
The prophet smiled. “Which do you think? No – I ask the wrong question. I should ask which you hope it is, though I know your answer, and have prepared my response. You hope not in vain, great warrior. The Doctor returned with Athene.”
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 4 - Episode 1
Home Truths
Written by Janine Rivers
“Can someone tell me what’s significant about the ending of The Tempest?”
One hand shot up, while the rest of the class slumped down on their tables, wondering why they were tired (after texting each other on their phones until the early hours of the morning).
“Josh!” said Robin, unsurprised at the boy who had volunteered himself.
“Is it because of how he is when he goes home?”
“Elaborate.”
“Well… he’s about to return home, and he says he’s going to give up magic, and he says he’s going to think about dying.”
“No he doesn’t,” argued Chantelle, who only ever spoke up to correct someone else. “Where does he say that?”
Josh flicked through the book. “Here, look.” He held it up. “And thence retire me to my Millaine,” he read robotically, “where every third thought shall be my grave. Ha.” He slammed his book back on the desk. “There.”
“Good,” said Robin, before an argument erupted. “So there’s something foreboding about his return home, maybe?”
Josh nodded.
“Great. How about the epilogue? What do you think we can learn from the epilogue about…”
Robin had to stop speaking; heads were turning towards the window, and it was getting harder to hear. She walked over to the window herself and peered out. On the playing field, the trees were swaying in that unlikely way that young children did when you asked them to sway like a tree. The birds that usually loitered the fields at this time had all flocked to the school’s roof, and as the catalyst of it all, a helicopter made its thunderous landing on the grass.
Instantly, Robin knew.
The door to her classroom swung open a moment later, and the class turned back around again, still in awe, to see Miss Ramachandran sitting herself down in Robin’s chair.
“I’m covering your lesson,” she clarified, in response to Robin’s bemused expression. “You’re going in the helicopter.”
There were a few raised eyebrows.
“UNIT?” asked Robin.
Miss Ramachandran nodded. “And I’ll pick Gabriel up from crèche for you, since your husband’s going too.”
“Sasha, you are a life-saver.” Robin opened the door and stopped, poking her head back in the classroom. “Who’s acting head, then?”
“Mr Watson.”
Robin scoffed.
“I know,” said Sasha, wide-eyed. “Maybe praying really would be a good idea in RE today.”
“I’ll make sure it’s you next time!” called Robin, heading down the corridor and out of the automatic doors onto the field.
She walked across the field, the morning dew still fresh in the grass, and looked back briefly as her Year 11 class ogled her through the windows of their classroom. The man who jumped out of the helicopter, she quickly recognised as Colonel Ward.
“This had better be good!” yelled Robin, purely to be heard. “I’ve just left my Year 11 English class in the hands of an art teacher!”
“You’re an English teacher?” Ward frowned. “I thought you worked in the Stroppy Hoodie Management Department?”
“Pastoral support, you mean? Well, that’s teaching for you. We’re out of English teachers so my A Level has qualified me as a long-term substitute teacher.”
“Enjoying it?”
“God, no,” laughed Robin. “Get me in that helicopter.”
***
After Chris joined them, they took off, soaring over the skies of Shoreditch and moving into Central London. They landed just outside the Tower of London, which Chris remembered far too well from that disastrous school trip a few years ago.
He had warned his class about making bomb jokes. Oh, he had warned them…
Now, it was just the three of them. All tours had been cleared out, and the tourists would have been thankful: the skies were overcast, the heavens ready to open any moment, while something in the sky was still waiting for a chance to strike.
“There’s a ship,” explained Ward. “A giant triangle in the sky, about the size of Soho.”
“I can’t see it,” said Robin, craning her neck.
“No, but you’ll soon be able to at the speed it’s moving. And we think it’s hostile.”
“Why?”
“They usually are.”
Robin guessed that Ward’s would be a Leave vote.
***
The Tunnel of Love – Klevan, Ukraine
The railway had been disused for a number of years, and was obscured by a strangely well-arranged organic cover. The entire thing was surrounded, a little like a tunnel, with luscious, green arches, and between the gaps sunlight shone through and illuminated Tommy Lindsay’s face.
Tommy had Googled the tunnel after he learnt that he needed to go here. It was cited as a favourite place for couples to take walks, and as one of the most magical places in the world, according to a recent online blog. It featured on the same list as Primrose Hill, specifically, as the Doctor’s shrine, which overlooked the city. Tommy could not help but notice the similarities himself – both the railway and the shrine were remnants of the past; there were no trains for the railway, and now there was no dead man to be mourned next to the shrine.
The Doctor was alive. Somewhere.
Tommy went over the description again. There were no couples here today, and he was glad. Things with Natalie had become strictly platonic, and deep down he was glad of that; he always thought she deserved better. There hadn’t been any others in a long time. Not since…
Anyway.
As the cliché went, he had seen the tunnel in a dream, and only discovered afterwards that it was a real place. Robin had suggested that it was a memory left over from a past life; Tommy had smiled at that, realising how much of an impact Sasha had clearly had over her philosophy. More than the Doctor, even – which might not have been a bad thing.
So he decided to go. That was his life: he had a dream, and pursued it to Ukraine. He found himself feeling guilty that not everyone would have the luxury of being able to do that.
Robin had briefed him on everything that he had missed, from the moment the Doctor dropped him off on that cursed ship to the moment he dropped him home with everything the Doctor had ever gathered from the Earth; from the moment the fires had started and they had been reunited, to the moment Tommy had returned home and found all the Doctor’s boxes gone, presumably back in the TARDIS where he knew they always belonged.
She had told him the truth about Autumn. She had told him that she was out there, somewhere, by the name of Jasmine, and that the Doctor had not returned to explain how much Autumn there was in her. She had told him about the Master and the Empire. And she had told him about…
“God.”
He could have been anyone; any passing gentleman, any grandfather who had wandered from a party somewhere else, in that perfectly-fitted tuxedo of his, those utterly unnecessary glasses balanced on the end of his nose. But Tommy knew who he was the moment he set eyes on him, and figured that God had decided that would be the case.
“What you probably don’t know is that the tunnel is part of a private railway for a fibreboard factory,” explained God, patronising Tommy with a history lesson. “The thrice-daily delivery of logs down the track is what stops trees growing down the middle, which gives the illusion that all of this is manmade. Though perhaps it is – it depends if indirect influence counts. What do you think?”
“I think you’d better tell me something that’ll give me a reason not to walk away from here right now,” snapped Tommy. “There aren’t words for how much I hate seeing you walking around on my planet.”
“Well, well, well…” God looked away, appalled by something harmless, like a royal at a scouser’s dinner party. “I normally get a better reception.”
“You’re telling me the Doctor and Autumn gave you one?”
God considered, then shrugged. “I suppose you have a point.”
“You led me here in a dream,” said Tommy. “What do you want?”
“For once, Tommy Lindsay, I don’t want to play games. I’m here to help you – all of you.”
Tommy seemed unconvinced. God continued.
“There’s going to be an invasion.” He checked his watch. “Soon.”
“There are lots of invasions, all the time. UNIT will deal with it. They always do.”
“This one’s different,” said God, and just as he had expected, Tommy frowned, suddenly curious. “Different from all the rest. Different from the Nestene, different from the Sleepwalkers…”
“Why haven’t I been told?”
God chuckled. “Because no one knows.”
“If it’s that major, ‘God’, I would know.”
“Ah, yes, political activist Tommy Lindsay,” mocked God, “who knows and sees all. I do believe, in fact, that that is my job.”
“UNIT would have told me,” insisted Tommy.
“You really know nothing of your planet, do you?” re-joined God, raising his voice. Tommy hated being lectured by someone who had the natural power to win any argument. “You think the only secrets kept from you are the ones your leaders choose to hide. But tell me, Tommy, what secrets are hidden from them?”
Tommy shuddered. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your species spends its whole time on autopilot, reverting back to your factory settings, that I put in place. You are the sleepwalkers, wandering unconsciously through your daily lives, never looking up. There are battles above you, you know. There are invasions that never reach you. There are things the Doctor does for this planet that go unrewarded, even by you.”
“And what does that have to do with this invasion?”
God pointed up to the sky. Tommy squinted: far up, through a small gap in the leaves, he could see something. A small black dot, seeming to get bigger every second, just eclipsing a tiny part of the sun.
Tommy thought he would give God the satisfaction of explaining. “What is it?”
“It’s a ship. They are the invaders, Tommy, them. And that’s the only name you have for them, the only name they have for themselves. Them. And would you like to know something?” He beckoned Tommy closer, and spoke into his ear, a breathless whisper. “They’ve been here before.”
***
Within the Tower, there were more UNIT officers at work than there were abandoned chocolate bar wrappers in the Coal Hill canteen, and their fingers worked faster at their keyboards than the school’s best athletes could run. Ward stood behind a middle-aged woman with wavy ruby hair and thick-framed glasses, who was tapping away at a grid of London. On the grid, just a speck, Robin could see the dark, triangular shape Ward had described.
She could swear it was growing.
“Zoom,” instructed Ward, and the officer did as instructed. The image at first blurred, but then refocused. Robin could see it closer, and made out that it was metallic, with a darker triangle in the centre. “Recognise it?”
Robin shook her head.
“It looks like something from a film,” marvelled Chris. “But it’s very… simplistic.”
“Exactly,” said Ward, impressed by the observation. “And that’s just another word for sleek. That’s some advanced technology there, and it crept up on us.”
“And you’ve never seen it before?”
Ward adjusted his collar, feeling suddenly self-conscious. He felt Chris was judging the taskforce’s record-keeping skills.
“They’ve never been here before. They haven’t sent any messages ahead, they’re just descending on us – and fast. We could shoot it down, but…” he scratched his head. “We don’t know who they are, we don’t know what their defenses are like. It would be an act of war, and we don’t even know if they’re hostile. They’re more advanced than us, which means we have to…”
Chris finished Ward’s sentence, sensing that he didn’t want to say the next two words. “Give in?”
Ward nodded.
“Wouldn’t the Doctor have told me?” asked Robin “If it were something to worry about? He mentioned the Daleks soon after we met. We met the Cybermen. He gave me the odd warning, and he always rescues us. If he’s not here and hasn’t warned us, maybe they’re nothing to worry about.”
“Unless, for some reason…” Ward deliberated, “he can’t be here himself.”
“Sir,” interjected the officer. “It’s getting closer. I think I’ve got it tracked.”
Ward leant over the computer and scrutinised the object.
“It’s heading for Victoria station.”
“Another evacuation?” asked Chris.
Ward gasped as the picture skipped, and the image of ship returned, now thrice the size. “I think it might be too late for that. It’s just landed.” He stood up, wiping the sweat off his brow. The first to react was the Tower itself: it jolted, knocking drinks off desks and items off walls. Robin gripped the brickwork to keep her balance.
“We’ll evacuate the immediate area,” decided Ward. “You two, you don’t need to be with us.”
“The Doctor’s missing,” pointed out Robin. “Which makes me the second-best thing you have right now.”
“Robin,” warned Ward; unusually for him, it was more out of concern than frustration.
“He’s got a point,” added Chris. “Think of how this usually ends. And the Doctor isn’t here to protect us this time.”
“Exactly!” insisted Robin. “And who knows the Doctor better than any of you, hmm?” They were silent. “Who knows what he’ll do next? You need me, Ward, whether you like it or not. Right now, I’m not a civilian. I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a hope of getting out of this alive.”
***
One hand shot up, while the rest of the class slumped down on their tables, wondering why they were tired (after texting each other on their phones until the early hours of the morning).
“Josh!” said Robin, unsurprised at the boy who had volunteered himself.
“Is it because of how he is when he goes home?”
“Elaborate.”
“Well… he’s about to return home, and he says he’s going to give up magic, and he says he’s going to think about dying.”
“No he doesn’t,” argued Chantelle, who only ever spoke up to correct someone else. “Where does he say that?”
Josh flicked through the book. “Here, look.” He held it up. “And thence retire me to my Millaine,” he read robotically, “where every third thought shall be my grave. Ha.” He slammed his book back on the desk. “There.”
“Good,” said Robin, before an argument erupted. “So there’s something foreboding about his return home, maybe?”
Josh nodded.
“Great. How about the epilogue? What do you think we can learn from the epilogue about…”
Robin had to stop speaking; heads were turning towards the window, and it was getting harder to hear. She walked over to the window herself and peered out. On the playing field, the trees were swaying in that unlikely way that young children did when you asked them to sway like a tree. The birds that usually loitered the fields at this time had all flocked to the school’s roof, and as the catalyst of it all, a helicopter made its thunderous landing on the grass.
Instantly, Robin knew.
The door to her classroom swung open a moment later, and the class turned back around again, still in awe, to see Miss Ramachandran sitting herself down in Robin’s chair.
“I’m covering your lesson,” she clarified, in response to Robin’s bemused expression. “You’re going in the helicopter.”
There were a few raised eyebrows.
“UNIT?” asked Robin.
Miss Ramachandran nodded. “And I’ll pick Gabriel up from crèche for you, since your husband’s going too.”
“Sasha, you are a life-saver.” Robin opened the door and stopped, poking her head back in the classroom. “Who’s acting head, then?”
“Mr Watson.”
Robin scoffed.
“I know,” said Sasha, wide-eyed. “Maybe praying really would be a good idea in RE today.”
“I’ll make sure it’s you next time!” called Robin, heading down the corridor and out of the automatic doors onto the field.
She walked across the field, the morning dew still fresh in the grass, and looked back briefly as her Year 11 class ogled her through the windows of their classroom. The man who jumped out of the helicopter, she quickly recognised as Colonel Ward.
“This had better be good!” yelled Robin, purely to be heard. “I’ve just left my Year 11 English class in the hands of an art teacher!”
“You’re an English teacher?” Ward frowned. “I thought you worked in the Stroppy Hoodie Management Department?”
“Pastoral support, you mean? Well, that’s teaching for you. We’re out of English teachers so my A Level has qualified me as a long-term substitute teacher.”
“Enjoying it?”
“God, no,” laughed Robin. “Get me in that helicopter.”
***
After Chris joined them, they took off, soaring over the skies of Shoreditch and moving into Central London. They landed just outside the Tower of London, which Chris remembered far too well from that disastrous school trip a few years ago.
He had warned his class about making bomb jokes. Oh, he had warned them…
Now, it was just the three of them. All tours had been cleared out, and the tourists would have been thankful: the skies were overcast, the heavens ready to open any moment, while something in the sky was still waiting for a chance to strike.
“There’s a ship,” explained Ward. “A giant triangle in the sky, about the size of Soho.”
“I can’t see it,” said Robin, craning her neck.
“No, but you’ll soon be able to at the speed it’s moving. And we think it’s hostile.”
“Why?”
“They usually are.”
Robin guessed that Ward’s would be a Leave vote.
***
The Tunnel of Love – Klevan, Ukraine
The railway had been disused for a number of years, and was obscured by a strangely well-arranged organic cover. The entire thing was surrounded, a little like a tunnel, with luscious, green arches, and between the gaps sunlight shone through and illuminated Tommy Lindsay’s face.
Tommy had Googled the tunnel after he learnt that he needed to go here. It was cited as a favourite place for couples to take walks, and as one of the most magical places in the world, according to a recent online blog. It featured on the same list as Primrose Hill, specifically, as the Doctor’s shrine, which overlooked the city. Tommy could not help but notice the similarities himself – both the railway and the shrine were remnants of the past; there were no trains for the railway, and now there was no dead man to be mourned next to the shrine.
The Doctor was alive. Somewhere.
Tommy went over the description again. There were no couples here today, and he was glad. Things with Natalie had become strictly platonic, and deep down he was glad of that; he always thought she deserved better. There hadn’t been any others in a long time. Not since…
Anyway.
As the cliché went, he had seen the tunnel in a dream, and only discovered afterwards that it was a real place. Robin had suggested that it was a memory left over from a past life; Tommy had smiled at that, realising how much of an impact Sasha had clearly had over her philosophy. More than the Doctor, even – which might not have been a bad thing.
So he decided to go. That was his life: he had a dream, and pursued it to Ukraine. He found himself feeling guilty that not everyone would have the luxury of being able to do that.
Robin had briefed him on everything that he had missed, from the moment the Doctor dropped him off on that cursed ship to the moment he dropped him home with everything the Doctor had ever gathered from the Earth; from the moment the fires had started and they had been reunited, to the moment Tommy had returned home and found all the Doctor’s boxes gone, presumably back in the TARDIS where he knew they always belonged.
She had told him the truth about Autumn. She had told him that she was out there, somewhere, by the name of Jasmine, and that the Doctor had not returned to explain how much Autumn there was in her. She had told him about the Master and the Empire. And she had told him about…
“God.”
He could have been anyone; any passing gentleman, any grandfather who had wandered from a party somewhere else, in that perfectly-fitted tuxedo of his, those utterly unnecessary glasses balanced on the end of his nose. But Tommy knew who he was the moment he set eyes on him, and figured that God had decided that would be the case.
“What you probably don’t know is that the tunnel is part of a private railway for a fibreboard factory,” explained God, patronising Tommy with a history lesson. “The thrice-daily delivery of logs down the track is what stops trees growing down the middle, which gives the illusion that all of this is manmade. Though perhaps it is – it depends if indirect influence counts. What do you think?”
“I think you’d better tell me something that’ll give me a reason not to walk away from here right now,” snapped Tommy. “There aren’t words for how much I hate seeing you walking around on my planet.”
“Well, well, well…” God looked away, appalled by something harmless, like a royal at a scouser’s dinner party. “I normally get a better reception.”
“You’re telling me the Doctor and Autumn gave you one?”
God considered, then shrugged. “I suppose you have a point.”
“You led me here in a dream,” said Tommy. “What do you want?”
“For once, Tommy Lindsay, I don’t want to play games. I’m here to help you – all of you.”
Tommy seemed unconvinced. God continued.
“There’s going to be an invasion.” He checked his watch. “Soon.”
“There are lots of invasions, all the time. UNIT will deal with it. They always do.”
“This one’s different,” said God, and just as he had expected, Tommy frowned, suddenly curious. “Different from all the rest. Different from the Nestene, different from the Sleepwalkers…”
“Why haven’t I been told?”
God chuckled. “Because no one knows.”
“If it’s that major, ‘God’, I would know.”
“Ah, yes, political activist Tommy Lindsay,” mocked God, “who knows and sees all. I do believe, in fact, that that is my job.”
“UNIT would have told me,” insisted Tommy.
“You really know nothing of your planet, do you?” re-joined God, raising his voice. Tommy hated being lectured by someone who had the natural power to win any argument. “You think the only secrets kept from you are the ones your leaders choose to hide. But tell me, Tommy, what secrets are hidden from them?”
Tommy shuddered. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your species spends its whole time on autopilot, reverting back to your factory settings, that I put in place. You are the sleepwalkers, wandering unconsciously through your daily lives, never looking up. There are battles above you, you know. There are invasions that never reach you. There are things the Doctor does for this planet that go unrewarded, even by you.”
“And what does that have to do with this invasion?”
God pointed up to the sky. Tommy squinted: far up, through a small gap in the leaves, he could see something. A small black dot, seeming to get bigger every second, just eclipsing a tiny part of the sun.
Tommy thought he would give God the satisfaction of explaining. “What is it?”
“It’s a ship. They are the invaders, Tommy, them. And that’s the only name you have for them, the only name they have for themselves. Them. And would you like to know something?” He beckoned Tommy closer, and spoke into his ear, a breathless whisper. “They’ve been here before.”
***
Within the Tower, there were more UNIT officers at work than there were abandoned chocolate bar wrappers in the Coal Hill canteen, and their fingers worked faster at their keyboards than the school’s best athletes could run. Ward stood behind a middle-aged woman with wavy ruby hair and thick-framed glasses, who was tapping away at a grid of London. On the grid, just a speck, Robin could see the dark, triangular shape Ward had described.
She could swear it was growing.
“Zoom,” instructed Ward, and the officer did as instructed. The image at first blurred, but then refocused. Robin could see it closer, and made out that it was metallic, with a darker triangle in the centre. “Recognise it?”
Robin shook her head.
“It looks like something from a film,” marvelled Chris. “But it’s very… simplistic.”
“Exactly,” said Ward, impressed by the observation. “And that’s just another word for sleek. That’s some advanced technology there, and it crept up on us.”
“And you’ve never seen it before?”
Ward adjusted his collar, feeling suddenly self-conscious. He felt Chris was judging the taskforce’s record-keeping skills.
“They’ve never been here before. They haven’t sent any messages ahead, they’re just descending on us – and fast. We could shoot it down, but…” he scratched his head. “We don’t know who they are, we don’t know what their defenses are like. It would be an act of war, and we don’t even know if they’re hostile. They’re more advanced than us, which means we have to…”
Chris finished Ward’s sentence, sensing that he didn’t want to say the next two words. “Give in?”
Ward nodded.
“Wouldn’t the Doctor have told me?” asked Robin “If it were something to worry about? He mentioned the Daleks soon after we met. We met the Cybermen. He gave me the odd warning, and he always rescues us. If he’s not here and hasn’t warned us, maybe they’re nothing to worry about.”
“Unless, for some reason…” Ward deliberated, “he can’t be here himself.”
“Sir,” interjected the officer. “It’s getting closer. I think I’ve got it tracked.”
Ward leant over the computer and scrutinised the object.
“It’s heading for Victoria station.”
“Another evacuation?” asked Chris.
Ward gasped as the picture skipped, and the image of ship returned, now thrice the size. “I think it might be too late for that. It’s just landed.” He stood up, wiping the sweat off his brow. The first to react was the Tower itself: it jolted, knocking drinks off desks and items off walls. Robin gripped the brickwork to keep her balance.
“We’ll evacuate the immediate area,” decided Ward. “You two, you don’t need to be with us.”
“The Doctor’s missing,” pointed out Robin. “Which makes me the second-best thing you have right now.”
“Robin,” warned Ward; unusually for him, it was more out of concern than frustration.
“He’s got a point,” added Chris. “Think of how this usually ends. And the Doctor isn’t here to protect us this time.”
“Exactly!” insisted Robin. “And who knows the Doctor better than any of you, hmm?” They were silent. “Who knows what he’ll do next? You need me, Ward, whether you like it or not. Right now, I’m not a civilian. I’m the closest thing you’ve got to a hope of getting out of this alive.”
***
“Before?” queried Tommy. “When?”
“Many times. They visit your planet every century, more or less, in their regular trip around the galaxy – or, as they call the trip, the Harvest.” Tommy shivered. “That’s how they work, Tommy. The moment They step out of their ship, they begin to harvest you. They have translators in their ships, so that they understand every one of your soldier’s commands, and with that military advantage they use their weapons to freeze you, so to speak, in a moment of time. They make a profit out of the chemicals in your body, so they first assess your health. If you fail to pass the test, they kill you on the spot, as you watch on, helpless. And if you’re deemed healthy enough… well, let’s just say you don’t get off that easily.”
“What happens?” pressed Tommy.
“There’s a reason they call it the Harvest,” answered God. “They take your frozen bodies back to their homeworld. You’ll be unfrozen in about… oh, fifty years, when you’ve completed the round trip: They have long lifespans. Your chemicals will then be harvested, live, then your organs, and finally your brain. You need to stop thinking of yourselves as beings, Tommy, even as enemies. To Them, you are nothing more than resources.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” said Tommy, glad of that fact. If it did, he would have to accept everything God had just told him. “You said they come every century. Yet there’s no record of it.”
“That’s because every century, the Doctor and Jasmine Sparks deflect the ship, and it continues on its course. They haven’t been able to stop Them – not yet, at least. But the Doctor and Jasmine save Earth. They began years ago – centuries ago, in the time of Odysseus.”
Tommy recalled him: first from his study guides, and then from when they had met, in the flesh, and he realised just how faithful Homer’s Odyssey had been.
“They told specific individuals. Odysseus was notified; other kings and emperors – that was when they struggled. But they got used to fighting off the invasion, the Doctor and Jasmine; by the time of properly recorded history, they had deflected the ship before you had even seen it. Until now – until today. Something distracted them.”
“So that’s why They are here now?” asked Tommy. “The Doctor and Jasmine were drawn off-course, and now we have to face the Harvest on our own?”
“Yes,” said God, nodding. “When I go, Tommy, you need to get UNIT to bring you home, and you need to fight Them. It will take all of you – and none of you are safe. Not without the Doctor here. The only weapon you have is the memory of him.”
Tommy nodded, taking in the information. It seemed wrong to be following God’s instructions, but it was probably for the best – the man did have an uncanny habit of being right.
“Of course, Tommy, it all only raises a bigger question. Do you know what it is?”
“You know I know,” said Tommy, challengingly. “Where did the Doctor go?”
God smiled.
“No,” persisted Tommy. “I was asking you, the All-Seeing Eye.”
“Oh…” God waved the subject aside. “I couldn’t possibly say. You have free will, you have to find out for yourselves.”
“Tell me,” insisted Tommy. “Or I swear to G…” he realised who he was talking to. “Or I swear, I will let the Earth burn, and see how you like that.”
“Except you won’t,” retorted God, bitingly. “Because I can see inside your head, and you would be dead on a slab before anything happened to the people of this world, or any other world, you sentimental fool.”
“You’re right,” admitted Tommy. “But I still want to know, and you’ve told me enough already.”
“Well…”
God advanced along the railway track. Tommy was sure he could hear the train God had told him about in the distance, carrying the logs it supposedly carried, like clockwork, three times a day.
“I couldn’t say for sure,” lied God. “I’ve only heard rumours.”
“Rumours?”
“Yes.” God turned around and adjusted his spectacles. “There are always rumours, Tommy. Mutterings, whisperings, about the Doctor. They say…” he shook his head. “No, I can’t.”
“What do they say?”
“They say,” said God, sighing, “he’s gone home.”
Tommy frowned. “You mean Earth?”
“No.” God shook his head, sombrely. There was a chill in the air. God had probably planned that. “I mean home.”
Gallifrey
It was a midsummer evening, and the planet’s two suns were both setting, casting parallel sunsets, like a mirror placed in the sky. The mountains, just as any living creature out in the suns too long would, got burnt: they were redenned now, like bloodshot tunnels shooting out from the city.
The gap between the planet’s classes had never felt greater: the communities in the wilderness, now tucking into ripe and plentiful meals, had situated themselves just out of the dome’s shadow, using, in all their wisdom, a literal boundary to create a metaphorical one. The area of the wilderness still caught within the shadow was untrodden; chilren seldom dared to step outside of the citadel, still scared stiff from bedtime stories of the snarling, slithering, scheming creatures which would entrap them if they spent too long in the boondocks alone.
The people of the city were all gathered around a single, central skyscraper: a soaring structure, sharp and smooth like all the best modern designs, but outdated, even Gothic, in its finer details. Scenes from long-forgotten conflicts with long-extinct species were carved into its walls and an ornate balcony, all stone and overgrown creepers, hung over the street like a stormcloud, roughly thirty feet off the ground.
Above the city, between the suns, a storm was gathering; jigsaw-pieces of clouds slotting into place. A shower of stones was being prepared by a sky-god, and an angry one too.
A woman stepped out onto the balcony, and the crowds gasped. She wore a denim shirt and jeans, keeping her hair tied back in a pony-tail; and over her shoulder swung an electric guitar which she moved with the precision of a magician. She was half-rockstar, half-goddess: easy to remember, but impossible to understand, and in spite of all her beauty there seemed nothing out of place about the storm-cloud that hung above her, almost but not quite under her command.
The tune she played was unrecognisable, but many of the crowd found themselves involuntarily swinging to the beat of it, to the sound of these foreign rhythms and harmonies. Two philosophers, only two-hundred years old and barely competent to live alone, talked quietly at the outermost corner of the street.
“That’s the Doctor, then,” said the first, far too matter-of-factly for a philosophy student.
“I didn’t know she played the electric guitar,” said the second, as if that fact mattered.
“Oh yes,” replied the first. “If you read closely enough into Earth history, it’s said she invented it. I didn’t know she ever had a female incarnation, though…”
He didn’t seem disappointed, either.
The crowds should have dissipated; the military’s attempts at herding them should have worked, but they didn’t, and the people of the citadel watched the heavens, utterly entranced, and unalarmed by the tempest above.
The woman finished playing her song, and swung her guitar in the air, successfully prompting a cheer from the audience. Children covered their ears at the sound of amp feedback.
“ ‘Now we got problems, and I don’t think we can solve them, you made a really deep cut’… now that’s what I call a lyric!” She took off her electric guitar and balanced it against the balcony, realising it was time to take command; the people below were beginning to strain their necks looking up at her.
“I’m Jasmine Sparks,” she continued. “I’m a companion of the Doctor, who you called back, but more importantly, I’m a human being on Gallifrey. I should be locked up right now – I should be undergoing tests, being vetted and watched, but I’m not, and would you like to know why? Because if you lay a finger on me, you’ll never see the Doctor again.”
The crowds were silent, and even the sky above was less ominous than Jasmine’s words.
“You want the Doctor’s help, so from now you all do what he says. Which means you follow his first instruction – no soldiers.”
Some of the soldiers below shifted uncomfortably, and the crowds tried to ignore their presence.
“The Doctor will only come out when every soldier here is at least a mile away, and he knows about all of you,” said Jasmine, adding for emphasis: “all of you.” She flicked a switch on her amp, and a spotlight shone on one man in the street, who tried his best to escape it.
“You’re a soldier,” she remarked. “As are five others, hidden under jackets, and smiles, and families. So come on, all of you…”
Some of the soldiers began to retreat, sharing uncertain glances with each other. Jasmine eyed them critically, but seemed to be shifting uneasily at the sight of their guns, not their faces.
Jasmine clapped and the rest of the soldiers hurried away. Some members of the crowd – those not scared for their lives – also joined Jasmine, cheering and whistling awkwardly in the name of fair-weather pacifism.
“I don’t think she’s the Doctor,” observed the second philosopher, so insightfully.
“Well done, all of you!” exclaimed Jasmine. “Doctor? They’re ready now.”
No Doctor appeared behind her, and both the crowds and the skies waited expectantly for his arrival.
A comotion began in the crowds – one man pushed forwards, spoiling the neat arrangement of citizens, and continued to push. He lowered his hood and revealed his face. There he was, hair a straggled mess and a thin stubble starting to rear itself on his face: the Doctor. He looked down at a young boy in the crowd and ruffled his blonde hair, giving him a friendly wink.
Back on Earth, realised Jasmine, he would have been a media sensation. Here…
Well, I think he is here, too.
“I need a volunteer from the audience,” called the Doctor, apparently unaware that he was one of the audience himself. “Someone to take me to the President. Any volunteers?”
“We’re not allowed to see the President!” answered one man.
“You are now,” decided the Doctor. “I’ll ask again: any volunteers?”
A hundred and one hands shot up.
***
“Many times. They visit your planet every century, more or less, in their regular trip around the galaxy – or, as they call the trip, the Harvest.” Tommy shivered. “That’s how they work, Tommy. The moment They step out of their ship, they begin to harvest you. They have translators in their ships, so that they understand every one of your soldier’s commands, and with that military advantage they use their weapons to freeze you, so to speak, in a moment of time. They make a profit out of the chemicals in your body, so they first assess your health. If you fail to pass the test, they kill you on the spot, as you watch on, helpless. And if you’re deemed healthy enough… well, let’s just say you don’t get off that easily.”
“What happens?” pressed Tommy.
“There’s a reason they call it the Harvest,” answered God. “They take your frozen bodies back to their homeworld. You’ll be unfrozen in about… oh, fifty years, when you’ve completed the round trip: They have long lifespans. Your chemicals will then be harvested, live, then your organs, and finally your brain. You need to stop thinking of yourselves as beings, Tommy, even as enemies. To Them, you are nothing more than resources.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” said Tommy, glad of that fact. If it did, he would have to accept everything God had just told him. “You said they come every century. Yet there’s no record of it.”
“That’s because every century, the Doctor and Jasmine Sparks deflect the ship, and it continues on its course. They haven’t been able to stop Them – not yet, at least. But the Doctor and Jasmine save Earth. They began years ago – centuries ago, in the time of Odysseus.”
Tommy recalled him: first from his study guides, and then from when they had met, in the flesh, and he realised just how faithful Homer’s Odyssey had been.
“They told specific individuals. Odysseus was notified; other kings and emperors – that was when they struggled. But they got used to fighting off the invasion, the Doctor and Jasmine; by the time of properly recorded history, they had deflected the ship before you had even seen it. Until now – until today. Something distracted them.”
“So that’s why They are here now?” asked Tommy. “The Doctor and Jasmine were drawn off-course, and now we have to face the Harvest on our own?”
“Yes,” said God, nodding. “When I go, Tommy, you need to get UNIT to bring you home, and you need to fight Them. It will take all of you – and none of you are safe. Not without the Doctor here. The only weapon you have is the memory of him.”
Tommy nodded, taking in the information. It seemed wrong to be following God’s instructions, but it was probably for the best – the man did have an uncanny habit of being right.
“Of course, Tommy, it all only raises a bigger question. Do you know what it is?”
“You know I know,” said Tommy, challengingly. “Where did the Doctor go?”
God smiled.
“No,” persisted Tommy. “I was asking you, the All-Seeing Eye.”
“Oh…” God waved the subject aside. “I couldn’t possibly say. You have free will, you have to find out for yourselves.”
“Tell me,” insisted Tommy. “Or I swear to G…” he realised who he was talking to. “Or I swear, I will let the Earth burn, and see how you like that.”
“Except you won’t,” retorted God, bitingly. “Because I can see inside your head, and you would be dead on a slab before anything happened to the people of this world, or any other world, you sentimental fool.”
“You’re right,” admitted Tommy. “But I still want to know, and you’ve told me enough already.”
“Well…”
God advanced along the railway track. Tommy was sure he could hear the train God had told him about in the distance, carrying the logs it supposedly carried, like clockwork, three times a day.
“I couldn’t say for sure,” lied God. “I’ve only heard rumours.”
“Rumours?”
“Yes.” God turned around and adjusted his spectacles. “There are always rumours, Tommy. Mutterings, whisperings, about the Doctor. They say…” he shook his head. “No, I can’t.”
“What do they say?”
“They say,” said God, sighing, “he’s gone home.”
Tommy frowned. “You mean Earth?”
“No.” God shook his head, sombrely. There was a chill in the air. God had probably planned that. “I mean home.”
Gallifrey
It was a midsummer evening, and the planet’s two suns were both setting, casting parallel sunsets, like a mirror placed in the sky. The mountains, just as any living creature out in the suns too long would, got burnt: they were redenned now, like bloodshot tunnels shooting out from the city.
The gap between the planet’s classes had never felt greater: the communities in the wilderness, now tucking into ripe and plentiful meals, had situated themselves just out of the dome’s shadow, using, in all their wisdom, a literal boundary to create a metaphorical one. The area of the wilderness still caught within the shadow was untrodden; chilren seldom dared to step outside of the citadel, still scared stiff from bedtime stories of the snarling, slithering, scheming creatures which would entrap them if they spent too long in the boondocks alone.
The people of the city were all gathered around a single, central skyscraper: a soaring structure, sharp and smooth like all the best modern designs, but outdated, even Gothic, in its finer details. Scenes from long-forgotten conflicts with long-extinct species were carved into its walls and an ornate balcony, all stone and overgrown creepers, hung over the street like a stormcloud, roughly thirty feet off the ground.
Above the city, between the suns, a storm was gathering; jigsaw-pieces of clouds slotting into place. A shower of stones was being prepared by a sky-god, and an angry one too.
A woman stepped out onto the balcony, and the crowds gasped. She wore a denim shirt and jeans, keeping her hair tied back in a pony-tail; and over her shoulder swung an electric guitar which she moved with the precision of a magician. She was half-rockstar, half-goddess: easy to remember, but impossible to understand, and in spite of all her beauty there seemed nothing out of place about the storm-cloud that hung above her, almost but not quite under her command.
The tune she played was unrecognisable, but many of the crowd found themselves involuntarily swinging to the beat of it, to the sound of these foreign rhythms and harmonies. Two philosophers, only two-hundred years old and barely competent to live alone, talked quietly at the outermost corner of the street.
“That’s the Doctor, then,” said the first, far too matter-of-factly for a philosophy student.
“I didn’t know she played the electric guitar,” said the second, as if that fact mattered.
“Oh yes,” replied the first. “If you read closely enough into Earth history, it’s said she invented it. I didn’t know she ever had a female incarnation, though…”
He didn’t seem disappointed, either.
The crowds should have dissipated; the military’s attempts at herding them should have worked, but they didn’t, and the people of the citadel watched the heavens, utterly entranced, and unalarmed by the tempest above.
The woman finished playing her song, and swung her guitar in the air, successfully prompting a cheer from the audience. Children covered their ears at the sound of amp feedback.
“ ‘Now we got problems, and I don’t think we can solve them, you made a really deep cut’… now that’s what I call a lyric!” She took off her electric guitar and balanced it against the balcony, realising it was time to take command; the people below were beginning to strain their necks looking up at her.
“I’m Jasmine Sparks,” she continued. “I’m a companion of the Doctor, who you called back, but more importantly, I’m a human being on Gallifrey. I should be locked up right now – I should be undergoing tests, being vetted and watched, but I’m not, and would you like to know why? Because if you lay a finger on me, you’ll never see the Doctor again.”
The crowds were silent, and even the sky above was less ominous than Jasmine’s words.
“You want the Doctor’s help, so from now you all do what he says. Which means you follow his first instruction – no soldiers.”
Some of the soldiers below shifted uncomfortably, and the crowds tried to ignore their presence.
“The Doctor will only come out when every soldier here is at least a mile away, and he knows about all of you,” said Jasmine, adding for emphasis: “all of you.” She flicked a switch on her amp, and a spotlight shone on one man in the street, who tried his best to escape it.
“You’re a soldier,” she remarked. “As are five others, hidden under jackets, and smiles, and families. So come on, all of you…”
Some of the soldiers began to retreat, sharing uncertain glances with each other. Jasmine eyed them critically, but seemed to be shifting uneasily at the sight of their guns, not their faces.
Jasmine clapped and the rest of the soldiers hurried away. Some members of the crowd – those not scared for their lives – also joined Jasmine, cheering and whistling awkwardly in the name of fair-weather pacifism.
“I don’t think she’s the Doctor,” observed the second philosopher, so insightfully.
“Well done, all of you!” exclaimed Jasmine. “Doctor? They’re ready now.”
No Doctor appeared behind her, and both the crowds and the skies waited expectantly for his arrival.
A comotion began in the crowds – one man pushed forwards, spoiling the neat arrangement of citizens, and continued to push. He lowered his hood and revealed his face. There he was, hair a straggled mess and a thin stubble starting to rear itself on his face: the Doctor. He looked down at a young boy in the crowd and ruffled his blonde hair, giving him a friendly wink.
Back on Earth, realised Jasmine, he would have been a media sensation. Here…
Well, I think he is here, too.
“I need a volunteer from the audience,” called the Doctor, apparently unaware that he was one of the audience himself. “Someone to take me to the President. Any volunteers?”
“We’re not allowed to see the President!” answered one man.
“You are now,” decided the Doctor. “I’ll ask again: any volunteers?”
A hundred and one hands shot up.
***
***
The sun had fallen by the time the Doctor arrived, and the dark orange sky had been replaced by an even darker orange. The heavens had kept up their promise of opening, and as the Doctor entered the Panopticon, already a cavernous chamber, all he could hear were the raindrops battering the six-sided building’s glass roof.
It was a darker place than he had remembered; smaller, quieter, and dustier. But the green mood lighting remained, with no apparent source, and the wall was still embroidered with golden Gallifreyan lettering. He descended the staircase, his footsteps clicking in time with the raindrops.
It was old, it was irrelevant, and it was borderline derilect. But it was…
“Home.”
Jasmine smiled sadly as she watched the Doctor musing to himself, forgetting that he had not travelled back in time; forgetting that this was the present, and that the days he remembered were long gone. He had been running away for so long. The world had changed in his absence: the things he loved had started to rot, and new and unfamiliar things had been born.
“Well,” said a voice, and Jasmine turned. It could have been one of her old teachers: the voice was well-spoken, confident, and commanding. “I never, in a million years, thought you would actually return.” The woman beamed, with more sincerity than Jasmine had expected. “Welcome home, Doctor.”
“Jasmine,” said the Doctor, returning the woman’s warmth. “Meet the President of the Time Lords.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” said Jasmine, and it was true. The President was not what Jasmine would have expected from the title. She spoke like a President, and on paper each of her qualities was only typical of the role. But there were nuances – she might have been garbed in full, resplendent regalia, but there were subtle divergences from the aristocracy of Jasmine’s time. The President seemed kind; a real, grounded kindness. And unlike most of those who held positions of power, she seemed like she had had enough.
“The President was the inquisitor in my trial,” the Doctor elaborated. “But she worked out what was happening in the end, sniffed out the corruption, and strove to extinguish it wherever she could. Not that that worked out very well,” he added cynically, scrutinising the Panopticon’s unwalked staircases and unopened doors.
“You always were the cynic, Doctor.”
“I’m surprised you remember. The last record of me even stepping foot on this planet was… when, exactly?”
“Around two hundred years ago,” responded the President. “Was it really that long?”
The Doctor nodded. “I’ve been busy.”
“That doesn’t even cover it. You don’t just drift for that long; you can only keep absense up for that amount of time if you’re running.”
The Doctor searched for an excuse, but Jasmine interrupted: “You were running, Doctor. I remember. You never stopped.” She considered that, trying to reconstruct another one of her buried memories. “Why did you keep running?”
“Because this place is a disease.” The Doctor turned around to face the President, and her smile faded like the paintwork on the walls. “President, I respect your efforts, but something has been wrong with Gallifrey for a long time. Something has been stewing here, ever since the Valeyard. Every corner of your city, every grain of your sand, and every one of your souls is infected with something, something… indescribable. I sensed it a long time ago. Time Lords. That’s the problem with us. We’re haunted by the crimes we haven’t committed yet. Something’s coming, President. Maybe you sensed it, maybe you didn’t. But it frightened the life out of me.”
“Then why,” she said, trying not to feel frustration at the Doctor writing off her society, “did you come back?”
“Because…” the Doctor thought about that, and shook his head; not as if he didn’t know, but as if the President should have understood. She sat down on the staircase, and the Doctor sat next to her. He rested his hands on his knees. It struck the President how youthful his posture still was, but there were more years in his words than in the lives of every Time Lord on Gallifrey, combined.
“You sent me a message,” he said. “You asked for help.”
“But why did you come back?” persisted the President. “Why?”
The Doctor chuckled. The President just could not grasp it. “Because you asked for help. I’ll run and run for centuries if you’ll let me, but with every step I’m still the Doctor. I made a vow. However scared I am, I will never neglect a call for help, whatever is at risk.” He smiled sadly. “So I came.”
The President eyes were watering. It was the first time that anyone had cared in as long as she could remember. Not just about her, but about her world. There was hope in him; she was sure of it, even if the Doctor refused to admit it. The Doctor’s eyes without hope would not be the Doctor’s eyes, and the man in front of her was unmistakably the Doctor.
“You’re scared?” she whispered, realising that he would probably want those words to be out of Jasmine’s earshot.
“Terrified,” he answered. “Terrified.”
***
“You are more spot-on than you thought, Doctor,” said the President, as she led the way down a passage – which, Jasmine noticed, had golden roundels on the walls, just like the TARDIS. “You said an infection had spread, and in a way it has. The Matrix.” She stopped, and looked at a device on the wall: an iris scanner, the Doctor realised. More security than he was ever used to on Gallifrey. “We developed an artificial intelligence,” she explained. “Her name is Eris.”
The Doctor was put off by the way that proper noun had been delivered. The door slipped open, and the President led him into a darkened room with a glowing red gridded pattern on the wall and Gallifreyan symbols, also glowing red, on the ceiling. He was reminded of his encounter with the Master back in Westminster Abbey.
The room was bare, save for a leather chair in its centre, with straps to secure arms and legs, and wires leading out of it and into the wall.
“The research was to see whether we could develop robots which could carry out complex tasks, in the absense of our workforce,” said the President in justification. “You’re aware of the current tensions between the Time Lords and Daleks?” She caught the Doctor’s disapproving look, and shot him back a glare. “Not helped by the fact that a certain someone bombed their parliament.”
“Four years imprisoned in a Dalek work camp, courtesy of Autumn Rivers,” replied the Doctor, glancing back at Jasmine, who seemed a little defensive. “I had my reasons.”
“There is a looming threat of war,” continued the President, ignoring his excuses. “And considering the strong possibility that we would inevitably require more men, we thought the research would be worthwhile. And for what it’s worth,” she said, raising her voice, “I have done everything I can to maintain peace between the two races, while you’ve done nothing of the sort, which means I think you owe me an apology for the foul looks you have been giving me during this conversation.”
The Doctor gulped. The President raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” fussed the Doctor, “I’m sorry.”
“Better.”
Jasmine tried not to laugh. The President was like his mother.
“The tests went too far, the intelligence got too…”
“Intelligent?” guessed Jasmine.
“Precisely, young lady. It turned against us, and escaped into the Matrix. The Matrix is the single greatest repository of information in the universe – it is, undoubtedly, our greatest weapon. It cannot be corrupted.”
“Well it can,” pointed out Jasmine. “Because it has been.”
“But it shouldn’t,” said the Doctor, deadly serious. “I’m afraid the President’s right, Jasmine, I’ve got no choice but to help. I’m going into the Matrix.”
The President was glad she didn’t have to ask that awkward question; the Doctor had pre-emptively removed that particular burden from her.
“Jasmine,” began the Doctotr, “ I can take you home if…”
“… not in a million years,” interrupted Jasmine. “I’m coming with you, Neo.”
“Who is this young woman?” asked the President, startled by her strange language. “Usually we have extensive records of companions, but – perhaps as a fault of the Matrix – we have no idea who Miss Sparks is, and even less of an idea of how you two came to meet.”
“That’s the way I like it,” said the Doctor, off-handedly. “Love a good mystery, don’t we Jasmine?” He winked at her, and they fist-pumped, confusing the President even further. “So,” he said, turning back to her, “Madam President. We’re going to need another chair.”
***
“Oh, for God’s sake. We’d only just rebuilt it.”
Victoria Station had been destroyed. The ship, which Robin could now see was about twenty feet tall and roughly the width of the station, had landed straight on top of it. As it had crushed it, parts of the building’s interior structure had stuck out of the sides, like mayonnaise leaking out of a squeezed sandwich.
They had evacuated the people. Most of them. Three casualties. Ward cursed, but tried not to show his frustration. He had seen worse; he would carry on.
“This doesn’t look good,” said Robin, eyeing up the spaceship. “This doesn’t look good at all.”
Something felt wrong. Chris and Ward were overlooking it, looking right through it, not equipped to see it, or were simply chosing not to. Robin, on the other hand, could not see over it or through it; she had no opition other than seeing it, and could only choose to see it, though she could not describe what it was.
It was a sensation. A sensation she had never had before, not even at her most paranoid. It felt like something was shifting. Like the universe she knew was migrating. Migrating away… from her.
I need to get out of here. That was her first thought, and that was her only thought. I’ve made a mistake. I need to get as far away from here as I can.
She flinched as she felt her phone vibrate, and then seeing the name of the caller, she picked it up instantly.
“Tommy?”
“Robin!” called Tommy, and she realised from the tone of his voice that he too knew something was wrong. “There’s an invasion underway. I…”
“I know,” interrupted Robin. “I’m looking at the spaceship.”
“They don’t have a name for invaders, but the Doctor’s gone away, he’s gone back to Gallifrey and we’re stuck handling this on our own.” As Tommy spoke, the front of the ship fell outwards, forming a ramp, and as Robin looked up, she could see a number of tall figures.
The sun had fallen by the time the Doctor arrived, and the dark orange sky had been replaced by an even darker orange. The heavens had kept up their promise of opening, and as the Doctor entered the Panopticon, already a cavernous chamber, all he could hear were the raindrops battering the six-sided building’s glass roof.
It was a darker place than he had remembered; smaller, quieter, and dustier. But the green mood lighting remained, with no apparent source, and the wall was still embroidered with golden Gallifreyan lettering. He descended the staircase, his footsteps clicking in time with the raindrops.
It was old, it was irrelevant, and it was borderline derilect. But it was…
“Home.”
Jasmine smiled sadly as she watched the Doctor musing to himself, forgetting that he had not travelled back in time; forgetting that this was the present, and that the days he remembered were long gone. He had been running away for so long. The world had changed in his absence: the things he loved had started to rot, and new and unfamiliar things had been born.
“Well,” said a voice, and Jasmine turned. It could have been one of her old teachers: the voice was well-spoken, confident, and commanding. “I never, in a million years, thought you would actually return.” The woman beamed, with more sincerity than Jasmine had expected. “Welcome home, Doctor.”
“Jasmine,” said the Doctor, returning the woman’s warmth. “Meet the President of the Time Lords.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” said Jasmine, and it was true. The President was not what Jasmine would have expected from the title. She spoke like a President, and on paper each of her qualities was only typical of the role. But there were nuances – she might have been garbed in full, resplendent regalia, but there were subtle divergences from the aristocracy of Jasmine’s time. The President seemed kind; a real, grounded kindness. And unlike most of those who held positions of power, she seemed like she had had enough.
“The President was the inquisitor in my trial,” the Doctor elaborated. “But she worked out what was happening in the end, sniffed out the corruption, and strove to extinguish it wherever she could. Not that that worked out very well,” he added cynically, scrutinising the Panopticon’s unwalked staircases and unopened doors.
“You always were the cynic, Doctor.”
“I’m surprised you remember. The last record of me even stepping foot on this planet was… when, exactly?”
“Around two hundred years ago,” responded the President. “Was it really that long?”
The Doctor nodded. “I’ve been busy.”
“That doesn’t even cover it. You don’t just drift for that long; you can only keep absense up for that amount of time if you’re running.”
The Doctor searched for an excuse, but Jasmine interrupted: “You were running, Doctor. I remember. You never stopped.” She considered that, trying to reconstruct another one of her buried memories. “Why did you keep running?”
“Because this place is a disease.” The Doctor turned around to face the President, and her smile faded like the paintwork on the walls. “President, I respect your efforts, but something has been wrong with Gallifrey for a long time. Something has been stewing here, ever since the Valeyard. Every corner of your city, every grain of your sand, and every one of your souls is infected with something, something… indescribable. I sensed it a long time ago. Time Lords. That’s the problem with us. We’re haunted by the crimes we haven’t committed yet. Something’s coming, President. Maybe you sensed it, maybe you didn’t. But it frightened the life out of me.”
“Then why,” she said, trying not to feel frustration at the Doctor writing off her society, “did you come back?”
“Because…” the Doctor thought about that, and shook his head; not as if he didn’t know, but as if the President should have understood. She sat down on the staircase, and the Doctor sat next to her. He rested his hands on his knees. It struck the President how youthful his posture still was, but there were more years in his words than in the lives of every Time Lord on Gallifrey, combined.
“You sent me a message,” he said. “You asked for help.”
“But why did you come back?” persisted the President. “Why?”
The Doctor chuckled. The President just could not grasp it. “Because you asked for help. I’ll run and run for centuries if you’ll let me, but with every step I’m still the Doctor. I made a vow. However scared I am, I will never neglect a call for help, whatever is at risk.” He smiled sadly. “So I came.”
The President eyes were watering. It was the first time that anyone had cared in as long as she could remember. Not just about her, but about her world. There was hope in him; she was sure of it, even if the Doctor refused to admit it. The Doctor’s eyes without hope would not be the Doctor’s eyes, and the man in front of her was unmistakably the Doctor.
“You’re scared?” she whispered, realising that he would probably want those words to be out of Jasmine’s earshot.
“Terrified,” he answered. “Terrified.”
***
“You are more spot-on than you thought, Doctor,” said the President, as she led the way down a passage – which, Jasmine noticed, had golden roundels on the walls, just like the TARDIS. “You said an infection had spread, and in a way it has. The Matrix.” She stopped, and looked at a device on the wall: an iris scanner, the Doctor realised. More security than he was ever used to on Gallifrey. “We developed an artificial intelligence,” she explained. “Her name is Eris.”
The Doctor was put off by the way that proper noun had been delivered. The door slipped open, and the President led him into a darkened room with a glowing red gridded pattern on the wall and Gallifreyan symbols, also glowing red, on the ceiling. He was reminded of his encounter with the Master back in Westminster Abbey.
The room was bare, save for a leather chair in its centre, with straps to secure arms and legs, and wires leading out of it and into the wall.
“The research was to see whether we could develop robots which could carry out complex tasks, in the absense of our workforce,” said the President in justification. “You’re aware of the current tensions between the Time Lords and Daleks?” She caught the Doctor’s disapproving look, and shot him back a glare. “Not helped by the fact that a certain someone bombed their parliament.”
“Four years imprisoned in a Dalek work camp, courtesy of Autumn Rivers,” replied the Doctor, glancing back at Jasmine, who seemed a little defensive. “I had my reasons.”
“There is a looming threat of war,” continued the President, ignoring his excuses. “And considering the strong possibility that we would inevitably require more men, we thought the research would be worthwhile. And for what it’s worth,” she said, raising her voice, “I have done everything I can to maintain peace between the two races, while you’ve done nothing of the sort, which means I think you owe me an apology for the foul looks you have been giving me during this conversation.”
The Doctor gulped. The President raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” fussed the Doctor, “I’m sorry.”
“Better.”
Jasmine tried not to laugh. The President was like his mother.
“The tests went too far, the intelligence got too…”
“Intelligent?” guessed Jasmine.
“Precisely, young lady. It turned against us, and escaped into the Matrix. The Matrix is the single greatest repository of information in the universe – it is, undoubtedly, our greatest weapon. It cannot be corrupted.”
“Well it can,” pointed out Jasmine. “Because it has been.”
“But it shouldn’t,” said the Doctor, deadly serious. “I’m afraid the President’s right, Jasmine, I’ve got no choice but to help. I’m going into the Matrix.”
The President was glad she didn’t have to ask that awkward question; the Doctor had pre-emptively removed that particular burden from her.
“Jasmine,” began the Doctotr, “ I can take you home if…”
“… not in a million years,” interrupted Jasmine. “I’m coming with you, Neo.”
“Who is this young woman?” asked the President, startled by her strange language. “Usually we have extensive records of companions, but – perhaps as a fault of the Matrix – we have no idea who Miss Sparks is, and even less of an idea of how you two came to meet.”
“That’s the way I like it,” said the Doctor, off-handedly. “Love a good mystery, don’t we Jasmine?” He winked at her, and they fist-pumped, confusing the President even further. “So,” he said, turning back to her, “Madam President. We’re going to need another chair.”
***
“Oh, for God’s sake. We’d only just rebuilt it.”
Victoria Station had been destroyed. The ship, which Robin could now see was about twenty feet tall and roughly the width of the station, had landed straight on top of it. As it had crushed it, parts of the building’s interior structure had stuck out of the sides, like mayonnaise leaking out of a squeezed sandwich.
They had evacuated the people. Most of them. Three casualties. Ward cursed, but tried not to show his frustration. He had seen worse; he would carry on.
“This doesn’t look good,” said Robin, eyeing up the spaceship. “This doesn’t look good at all.”
Something felt wrong. Chris and Ward were overlooking it, looking right through it, not equipped to see it, or were simply chosing not to. Robin, on the other hand, could not see over it or through it; she had no opition other than seeing it, and could only choose to see it, though she could not describe what it was.
It was a sensation. A sensation she had never had before, not even at her most paranoid. It felt like something was shifting. Like the universe she knew was migrating. Migrating away… from her.
I need to get out of here. That was her first thought, and that was her only thought. I’ve made a mistake. I need to get as far away from here as I can.
She flinched as she felt her phone vibrate, and then seeing the name of the caller, she picked it up instantly.
“Tommy?”
“Robin!” called Tommy, and she realised from the tone of his voice that he too knew something was wrong. “There’s an invasion underway. I…”
“I know,” interrupted Robin. “I’m looking at the spaceship.”
“They don’t have a name for invaders, but the Doctor’s gone away, he’s gone back to Gallifrey and we’re stuck handling this on our own.” As Tommy spoke, the front of the ship fell outwards, forming a ramp, and as Robin looked up, she could see a number of tall figures.
They were black figures, like something from an old clipart folder; their arms were rounded off, and though they bore humanoid shape, their faces had no features or bumps. It was as if they had been sanded, smoothed-off, and they walked with the same free flexibility. They were more like animated characters than real people.
“Robin, how close are you? You need to get away from them. If you’re within their immediate vicinity, they’ll freeze you in place, and you don’t want to know what happens then!”
Robin looked down to her feet, asking only one question; imploring. Why won’t you move?
“I think that maybe I do want to know,” said Robin, her voice shaking. “I think I really do…”
“Robin… what’s happening?” Tommy paused and waited for a reply that did not come. “Oh my God, they’ve got you, haven’t they?”
Robin looked around to her company: on her right was Chris, also frozen in one spot; on her left, Ward, trying and failing to fidget his way out of it. The black figures moved their heads sideways, examining them in their alien way.
“They’ve got all three of us,” said Robin. “Tell me, what are they going to do to us?”
“Okay.” She could hear Tommy breathing heavily on the other side of the phone; clearly he was running, as if he thought he would be able to travel the world in time to save her. “They’ll conduct a health test on you to make sure there are no major problems affecting your vital functions and all that sort of thing. If you pass the health test, they’ll freeze you and store you in their ship, and take you home to harvest what’s inside your body. Robin, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” assured Robin, but stopped when she saw that the creatures were working from left to right, scanning Chris with their strangely-shaped hands. She watched a circle, which had appeared on the central creature’s chest, being filled in clockwise, the same effect an iPhone gave when downloading an app. The download, or whatever it was, completed, and the creature looked to another.
“Health test… passed,” it grumbled; the words were scrambled, and Robin figured that only she, a time traveller, was able to understand them. Chris and Ward looked on in confusion.
A bolt of blue light shot out from the creature’s arm, and pulled Chris into the ship, his face and body now frozen. As he disappeared from view, Robin could just barely see him falling onto his side, in readiness for the long sleep and a journey across the universe.
“They’ve taken Chris,” she whispered, now crying, as Tommy continued to listen helplessly at the other end of the phone. “What happens if you fail the health test?”
The creature had turned to Robin now, and was scanning her.
“They’ll kill you,” said Tommy, rushing past the explanation, “but Robin, don’t worry. You will just be frozen just like Chris, and the Doctor will turn up soon, I’m sure he will. He’ll come and save you, he’ll…”
“Tommy,” interrupted Robin, unable to say anything else. She was crying so much now that she could not even speak.
“Robin? What is it?” She heard him stop in his tracks. “Why did you ask me what happens if you fail the health test?”
The creature’s calculations were half-complete. She would have to make it quick.
“I’m so sorry, Tommy,” cried Robin.
“No! You can’t… but… you…”
“You were wonderful, Tommy,” she continued, trying to smile for him even in his absense, in the hope that he could somehow hear it. “And so was the Doctor. Tell him that from me. Tell him it wasn’t his fault, and tell him…”
She considered whether it was time. She had never said these words before. She had never dared. But this would be her last chance.
“Tell him I’m sorry for what I did.”
“ROBIN!”
Robin felt her hands weaken, and she dropped the phone, just out of her reach. The screen cracked. She immediately regretted that, realising she would have to buy a new one, and then realised something else instead.
I won’t.
The circle was completed, and Robin closed her eyes.
“Health test… failed.”
“Onto eterntiy,” whispered Robin. “I’m coming to see you again, Tommy.”
The creature fired. Robin heard it, and counted her final seconds.
She heard how fast it was.
She heard how technologically-advanced it was.
She even thought she could somehow hear it burning as it shot through the air, a flaming arrow from the future.
That second seemed to take too long, almost as if everything were winding down.
And then she could hear nothing.
Her face hit gravel. Her natural instincts kicked in. Her eyes opened again.
She was on the ground, and she had been able to fall. She was alive, and she was breathing. The ship was still in front of her, but she had missed something.
In all her fear, in all her loss of sensation and her being completely overpowered, she had missed that sound as it crept up on her. She had not heard the wheezing or the groaning, not felt the wind on her face. She had not heard or seen the TARDIS arrive.
She looked up, fully alive, fully aware, but not understanding. Between herself and the ship, her angel had landed, and the TARDIS cast its shadow over her as its door swung open, and a woman stepped out.
Robin had a thought. She had never met the Doctor’s companion, but it must have been.
“Jasmine?”
The woman chuckled, and brushed her dark hair with one delicate finger. She wore a simple white shirt and black jacket, but Robin saw something else in her, something beyond words, and suddenly understood who she was, even though how she had come to be here and in this form, remained a mystery.
“You?” exclaimed Robin.
“Me,” said the woman.
“But you…”
“Came home, yes.” The Doctor stepped out of her TARDIS. “The long way round.”
“Robin, how close are you? You need to get away from them. If you’re within their immediate vicinity, they’ll freeze you in place, and you don’t want to know what happens then!”
Robin looked down to her feet, asking only one question; imploring. Why won’t you move?
“I think that maybe I do want to know,” said Robin, her voice shaking. “I think I really do…”
“Robin… what’s happening?” Tommy paused and waited for a reply that did not come. “Oh my God, they’ve got you, haven’t they?”
Robin looked around to her company: on her right was Chris, also frozen in one spot; on her left, Ward, trying and failing to fidget his way out of it. The black figures moved their heads sideways, examining them in their alien way.
“They’ve got all three of us,” said Robin. “Tell me, what are they going to do to us?”
“Okay.” She could hear Tommy breathing heavily on the other side of the phone; clearly he was running, as if he thought he would be able to travel the world in time to save her. “They’ll conduct a health test on you to make sure there are no major problems affecting your vital functions and all that sort of thing. If you pass the health test, they’ll freeze you and store you in their ship, and take you home to harvest what’s inside your body. Robin, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” assured Robin, but stopped when she saw that the creatures were working from left to right, scanning Chris with their strangely-shaped hands. She watched a circle, which had appeared on the central creature’s chest, being filled in clockwise, the same effect an iPhone gave when downloading an app. The download, or whatever it was, completed, and the creature looked to another.
“Health test… passed,” it grumbled; the words were scrambled, and Robin figured that only she, a time traveller, was able to understand them. Chris and Ward looked on in confusion.
A bolt of blue light shot out from the creature’s arm, and pulled Chris into the ship, his face and body now frozen. As he disappeared from view, Robin could just barely see him falling onto his side, in readiness for the long sleep and a journey across the universe.
“They’ve taken Chris,” she whispered, now crying, as Tommy continued to listen helplessly at the other end of the phone. “What happens if you fail the health test?”
The creature had turned to Robin now, and was scanning her.
“They’ll kill you,” said Tommy, rushing past the explanation, “but Robin, don’t worry. You will just be frozen just like Chris, and the Doctor will turn up soon, I’m sure he will. He’ll come and save you, he’ll…”
“Tommy,” interrupted Robin, unable to say anything else. She was crying so much now that she could not even speak.
“Robin? What is it?” She heard him stop in his tracks. “Why did you ask me what happens if you fail the health test?”
The creature’s calculations were half-complete. She would have to make it quick.
“I’m so sorry, Tommy,” cried Robin.
“No! You can’t… but… you…”
“You were wonderful, Tommy,” she continued, trying to smile for him even in his absense, in the hope that he could somehow hear it. “And so was the Doctor. Tell him that from me. Tell him it wasn’t his fault, and tell him…”
She considered whether it was time. She had never said these words before. She had never dared. But this would be her last chance.
“Tell him I’m sorry for what I did.”
“ROBIN!”
Robin felt her hands weaken, and she dropped the phone, just out of her reach. The screen cracked. She immediately regretted that, realising she would have to buy a new one, and then realised something else instead.
I won’t.
The circle was completed, and Robin closed her eyes.
“Health test… failed.”
“Onto eterntiy,” whispered Robin. “I’m coming to see you again, Tommy.”
The creature fired. Robin heard it, and counted her final seconds.
She heard how fast it was.
She heard how technologically-advanced it was.
She even thought she could somehow hear it burning as it shot through the air, a flaming arrow from the future.
That second seemed to take too long, almost as if everything were winding down.
And then she could hear nothing.
Her face hit gravel. Her natural instincts kicked in. Her eyes opened again.
She was on the ground, and she had been able to fall. She was alive, and she was breathing. The ship was still in front of her, but she had missed something.
In all her fear, in all her loss of sensation and her being completely overpowered, she had missed that sound as it crept up on her. She had not heard the wheezing or the groaning, not felt the wind on her face. She had not heard or seen the TARDIS arrive.
She looked up, fully alive, fully aware, but not understanding. Between herself and the ship, her angel had landed, and the TARDIS cast its shadow over her as its door swung open, and a woman stepped out.
Robin had a thought. She had never met the Doctor’s companion, but it must have been.
“Jasmine?”
The woman chuckled, and brushed her dark hair with one delicate finger. She wore a simple white shirt and black jacket, but Robin saw something else in her, something beyond words, and suddenly understood who she was, even though how she had come to be here and in this form, remained a mystery.
“You?” exclaimed Robin.
“Me,” said the woman.
“But you…”
“Came home, yes.” The Doctor stepped out of her TARDIS. “The long way round.”
Next Time: Bad BloodAs the Doctor's friends on Earth come to terms with her change, the Doctor on Gallifrey enters the Matrix.
Fighting the living and the dead of his homeworld, the Doctor begins to realise that the reasons he was brought here were not so simple. Dark forces are at work, on both worlds. And on one of them, salvation will come at a terrible price. On the other, there will be no salvation at all. Bad Blood will be published on Saturday 20th August. |
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