Previously
“I gave you the universe,” thundered God, “and you threw it back at me, scrunched up, torn, and splattered with atrocities. I gave you Heaven, and you turned it into Hell…”
It was Jasmine’s turn now. “This isn’t the way! We didn’t do that! You can’t hold the whole universe responsible for the actions of one man!”
“You all did, child. You were all responsible in your own degrees, and you will all know my wrath. The universe is about to understand what punishment truly means.” Jasmine shivered at that prospect. “And if you two wish to remain in your comfortable little bubble, I would suggest that you both stay very, very quiet .”
And just like that, the Doctor and Jasmine found themselves doing as they were instructed. They turned to each other in silence, both sharing the same thought, and knowing that, by his very nature, God could hear it.
He’s gone completely insane.
When they turned back, God was gone.
This time, the Doctor was the one asking it. “What do we do?”
Jasmine shook her head. “There’s nothing… that man is all-powerful. He knows everything and he is capable of doing anything. Whatever he has planned… I think we have to go along with it.” She smiled sadly. “Tommy’s not coming back now, is he?”
The Doctor shook his head.
Jasmine wandered over to the staircase, noticing the pile of clothes the Doctor had left out. She lifted Tommy’s sweater from the bottom of the pile, and held it up to her face, closing her eyes and breathing it in.
It still smelt of him. Of whatever aftershave and washing machine tablet he used; a combination of those two random and insignificant eccentricities of the human person. She held onto them for a moment longer, and walked up to the door which was still wide open.
“Goodbye, Tommy,” she whispered, and let go. The jumper floated out into space, the vacuum animating its arms as they waved, slowly, in different directions. It floated further and further away, knitted burgundy and frayed labels shrinking into the darkness, and Jasmine felt another tear, this one solitary, falling down her cheek. It, too, left the oxygen bubble, and joined the jumper floating through the nothingness. She closed the door, and stood against it, now completely still.
“What are we going to do, Doctor? What are we ever going to do?”
“I…” The Doctor looked down at the console. There were not even a clear set of coordinates. “I don’t know.” He looked up at Jasmine, however much it pained him. He owed her that much. “Let’s just hope that the only reason he told the Colonel about Hell was to scare him.”
It was Jasmine’s turn now. “This isn’t the way! We didn’t do that! You can’t hold the whole universe responsible for the actions of one man!”
“You all did, child. You were all responsible in your own degrees, and you will all know my wrath. The universe is about to understand what punishment truly means.” Jasmine shivered at that prospect. “And if you two wish to remain in your comfortable little bubble, I would suggest that you both stay very, very quiet .”
And just like that, the Doctor and Jasmine found themselves doing as they were instructed. They turned to each other in silence, both sharing the same thought, and knowing that, by his very nature, God could hear it.
He’s gone completely insane.
When they turned back, God was gone.
This time, the Doctor was the one asking it. “What do we do?”
Jasmine shook her head. “There’s nothing… that man is all-powerful. He knows everything and he is capable of doing anything. Whatever he has planned… I think we have to go along with it.” She smiled sadly. “Tommy’s not coming back now, is he?”
The Doctor shook his head.
Jasmine wandered over to the staircase, noticing the pile of clothes the Doctor had left out. She lifted Tommy’s sweater from the bottom of the pile, and held it up to her face, closing her eyes and breathing it in.
It still smelt of him. Of whatever aftershave and washing machine tablet he used; a combination of those two random and insignificant eccentricities of the human person. She held onto them for a moment longer, and walked up to the door which was still wide open.
“Goodbye, Tommy,” she whispered, and let go. The jumper floated out into space, the vacuum animating its arms as they waved, slowly, in different directions. It floated further and further away, knitted burgundy and frayed labels shrinking into the darkness, and Jasmine felt another tear, this one solitary, falling down her cheek. It, too, left the oxygen bubble, and joined the jumper floating through the nothingness. She closed the door, and stood against it, now completely still.
“What are we going to do, Doctor? What are we ever going to do?”
“I…” The Doctor looked down at the console. There were not even a clear set of coordinates. “I don’t know.” He looked up at Jasmine, however much it pained him. He owed her that much. “Let’s just hope that the only reason he told the Colonel about Hell was to scare him.”
Prologue
Two hundred billion years earlier
The old man used his walking stick to test the depth of the waters. As he slowly let it descend, he noticed the ripples forming around it, distorting his reflection. Beyond the reflection, he could see fish in the water, swimming around the stick as if performing some sort of ritual for their river-god.
God. The old man did not know how he knew that word, but he did. In fact, he knew it in a million different languages, though could not define it in any of them.
It was night again in the garden. The sky above grew a deep, broken-hearted purple, and the reds and pinks of the flowers found a way to compete, almost radioactively. These things always simply gave off light, the old man noticed – there were no sources of light from anywhere, above or below.
Light. That was another word the old man knew.
He walked the pathway through the flowers and the trees, protected by a canopy above, and chorused by whistling frogs. The warm air subdued his brain into a meditative state, and he found himself wondering what his memories were.
He knew that this was the path he always walked, and he knew where he was. But as for recollections? They could not quite be described as that. The Night Before or The Night Before That did not exist, as other people might have understood them.
Other… people. He shook his head and sighed. That was quite enough meditation.
The old man reached it, coming to the end of the path and looking up. It was an old tree, and yet something inside told him that he was older. Its branches stretched out into the sky, all ending on the same level, as if supporting some invisible force. He kicked a root. It stayed where it was.
The tree could not be moved. He knew that was the one fact he could be sure of, and looked up sadly at the apples growing on its lower branches, just out of his reach.
There was another word he knew, too. He saw it all around him. It was not like God or Light; it was not singular, but variable, sometimes even unrecognisable. He did not know where it ended, but he knew what it was.
Life.
***
“Death.”
The Doctor frowned. That was not the word he was expecting to hear from Jasmine Sparks’ mouth, though there was no better word to sum up their current predicament.
“All things die,” she continued, looking out to something in the distance, something beyond the TARDIS walls. “Is God necessarily an exception?”
“Don’t even go there,” warned the Doctor. “Remember, he knows about this conversation. He sees everything, and if he doesn’t like it, you’ll be the one to die.”
Jasmine pressed on regardless. “What’s the point of giving up, Doctor? You never give up, not even when one life is at stake. And this is the entire universe! Are you sure there isn’t a way?”
The Doctor stopped, slamming down a control on the TARDIS, and turning to face Jasmine. He looked weary; resigned. Jasmine did not like to speculate what it was he had resigned himself too.
“Tell me, Jasmine,” he started. “Is it worth going to war when you’re on the losing side?”
“You’re asking a logical question,” responded Jasmine. “That tells me you don’t understand.”
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, but Jasmine left the subject alone. He would have to discover the answer for himself.
“I’m taking you home again,” he said, and looked away as he piloted the TARDIS. Home was okay – as okay as anywhere in the universe was right now. Jasmine found herself more concerned about where the Doctor was taking himself.
The old man used his walking stick to test the depth of the waters. As he slowly let it descend, he noticed the ripples forming around it, distorting his reflection. Beyond the reflection, he could see fish in the water, swimming around the stick as if performing some sort of ritual for their river-god.
God. The old man did not know how he knew that word, but he did. In fact, he knew it in a million different languages, though could not define it in any of them.
It was night again in the garden. The sky above grew a deep, broken-hearted purple, and the reds and pinks of the flowers found a way to compete, almost radioactively. These things always simply gave off light, the old man noticed – there were no sources of light from anywhere, above or below.
Light. That was another word the old man knew.
He walked the pathway through the flowers and the trees, protected by a canopy above, and chorused by whistling frogs. The warm air subdued his brain into a meditative state, and he found himself wondering what his memories were.
He knew that this was the path he always walked, and he knew where he was. But as for recollections? They could not quite be described as that. The Night Before or The Night Before That did not exist, as other people might have understood them.
Other… people. He shook his head and sighed. That was quite enough meditation.
The old man reached it, coming to the end of the path and looking up. It was an old tree, and yet something inside told him that he was older. Its branches stretched out into the sky, all ending on the same level, as if supporting some invisible force. He kicked a root. It stayed where it was.
The tree could not be moved. He knew that was the one fact he could be sure of, and looked up sadly at the apples growing on its lower branches, just out of his reach.
There was another word he knew, too. He saw it all around him. It was not like God or Light; it was not singular, but variable, sometimes even unrecognisable. He did not know where it ended, but he knew what it was.
Life.
***
“Death.”
The Doctor frowned. That was not the word he was expecting to hear from Jasmine Sparks’ mouth, though there was no better word to sum up their current predicament.
“All things die,” she continued, looking out to something in the distance, something beyond the TARDIS walls. “Is God necessarily an exception?”
“Don’t even go there,” warned the Doctor. “Remember, he knows about this conversation. He sees everything, and if he doesn’t like it, you’ll be the one to die.”
Jasmine pressed on regardless. “What’s the point of giving up, Doctor? You never give up, not even when one life is at stake. And this is the entire universe! Are you sure there isn’t a way?”
The Doctor stopped, slamming down a control on the TARDIS, and turning to face Jasmine. He looked weary; resigned. Jasmine did not like to speculate what it was he had resigned himself too.
“Tell me, Jasmine,” he started. “Is it worth going to war when you’re on the losing side?”
“You’re asking a logical question,” responded Jasmine. “That tells me you don’t understand.”
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, but Jasmine left the subject alone. He would have to discover the answer for himself.
“I’m taking you home again,” he said, and looked away as he piloted the TARDIS. Home was okay – as okay as anywhere in the universe was right now. Jasmine found herself more concerned about where the Doctor was taking himself.
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 4 - Episode 16
The Night We Died
Written by Janine Rivers
Westminster, 1657
“Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven.”
Milton turned in the direction of the voice. It came from behind him, from a man of average height, standing in the doorway.
He was so used to tracing the sounds, now, that he could do it in whatever direction he was looking. He almost pitied others, who searched for the source of noise. If being blind had taught John Milton anything, it was how to focus.
“Doctor,” he said, also knowing the voice. “How pleasant to see you again, and bringing with you such words of wisdom.”
“They’re not my words,” muttered the Doctor. “But anyway; spoiler alert, as they say.”
Milton turned back to his writing desk, accustomed to the Doctor’s babble. “What can I do for you, Time Lord?”
“I need information.” It sounded as if the Doctor did not like admitting that. It certainly was not something Milton had ever heard him ask for before.
“Regarding?”
“God.”
Milton carefully laid his writing tools to rest, and turned to face the Doctor. The Doctor felt a shiver run up his spine as Milton calculated, perfectly, where the Doctor’s eyes were, and gazed straight into them.
“Religion?”
“No.” The Doctor narrowed his eyes cynically. “The real God. I think you know about him, Milton, I always have.”
Milton smiled enigmatically, frustrating the Doctor – he hated his own tactics being used against him.
“Go to the Sistine Chapel,” instructed Milton. “Look at the ceiling.”
“I’m not here on a cultural visit, Milton.”
“Go to the Sistine Chapel,” repeated the poet. “And you will find the truth. You just have to make sure that you are looking for it.”
The Doctor pulled up a chair, unsatisfied with the answer. “What’s so special about some old painting?” he asked, resting an elbow on the writing desk.
Milton sat back calmly, and smiled again. “I saw it myself earlier this year.”
“No you didn’t. You’re blind.”
“I saw it myself,” Milton repeated again, “earlier this year.” He sat forward, and the Doctor found himself doing the same. “They say that God can make the blind man see, but he did more than that. For it was not the roof of the Sistine Chapel that I saw, but something else in its place. Go to the Sistine Chapel, Doctor, and you will find the truth.”
***
A plague.
That was what they had called it. Hardly the best word to arrive home to, with its connotations still hanging around in the medieval period, the one specific time period Jasmine had never asked the Doctor to take her to.
Death, torture, organised religion, and bloody awful hygiene. Year 9 History lessons had put her off, like a bad travel brochure for a dismal package holiday.
Except these were not the Middle Ages. There were talks of antibiotic-resistant bacteria, and GCSE questions on them too. There were murmurs of viruses being carried over from other countries, of Ebola rearing its ugly head again, or of some nasty thing getting inside you and causing birth deformities in your child.
At that point, Jasmine usually switched off the news.
But of all her subjects, it was RE that struck her the most here. She remembered the pictures in the textbook: sketchily-drawn cartoons of the pestilence God had inflicted upon the Egyptians until the Jews were allowed to return to their Promised Land.
There was no promised land here. But there was definitely a distinct whiff of Exodus. She wondered whether now would be a good time to smear her door with lamb’s blood, or whatever it was they did to be spared God’s wrath.
People had died, anyway. Casualties were rolling in every second, but the numbers did not faze her as much as the language. She found herself set on edge by those inevitable, paranoid words: risk, temporary measure, containment, quarantine, contamination. She went into the bathroom, and washed her hands again.
“It’s all over London,” Sheila was saying from the living room. “They never normally come here. There was always the odd thing, y’know, my cousin died of polio, but this feels like we’re in South Africa or wherever it is. Is it a mosquito problem? There are lots of flies.”
Jasmine could not help but smile, just slightly. It felt good to be back here, better than in the TARDIS with two old men who were both starting to denounce rationality in favour of, well, whatever it was they used to justify their behaviour.
“They’re suggesting we stay inside our homes, but they’re not being very forceful about it. I was thinking, sweetheart, would you be all right here if I went out? Vitali’s invited me over to his, and he says he hasn’t been out either. He said he’d come and pick me up, so I wouldn’t have to drive or anything. Would that be okay with you?”
Jasmine stepped out of the bathroom and looked at Sheila, more attentively than she had in longer than she could remember. She sighed tiredly and nodded. “You might as well. I suppose if we stay here and live our lives shut up behind doors, we’re letting him win, aren’t we?”
“Letting who win, dear?”
Jasmine waved the subject aside. “It doesn’t matter, Nan. You look after yourself, okay?”
They exchanged smiles, hugs, and pecks on the cheek. Sheila pocketed her keys, put on her favourite necklace, and left.
Jasmine went over that train of thought again. If you live your life as he wants you to live it, you’re letting him win.
Screw the scientists and their rationality. Maybe the Doctor’s approach of pure insanity was the way to go. This was not something carried on the wind, not spread by mosquitoes and flies, not caused by resistance to antibiotics or overuse of anti-bacterial products.
It was God. It was a plague sent from above, and where it was intended, it would be received.
***
“Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven.”
Milton turned in the direction of the voice. It came from behind him, from a man of average height, standing in the doorway.
He was so used to tracing the sounds, now, that he could do it in whatever direction he was looking. He almost pitied others, who searched for the source of noise. If being blind had taught John Milton anything, it was how to focus.
“Doctor,” he said, also knowing the voice. “How pleasant to see you again, and bringing with you such words of wisdom.”
“They’re not my words,” muttered the Doctor. “But anyway; spoiler alert, as they say.”
Milton turned back to his writing desk, accustomed to the Doctor’s babble. “What can I do for you, Time Lord?”
“I need information.” It sounded as if the Doctor did not like admitting that. It certainly was not something Milton had ever heard him ask for before.
“Regarding?”
“God.”
Milton carefully laid his writing tools to rest, and turned to face the Doctor. The Doctor felt a shiver run up his spine as Milton calculated, perfectly, where the Doctor’s eyes were, and gazed straight into them.
“Religion?”
“No.” The Doctor narrowed his eyes cynically. “The real God. I think you know about him, Milton, I always have.”
Milton smiled enigmatically, frustrating the Doctor – he hated his own tactics being used against him.
“Go to the Sistine Chapel,” instructed Milton. “Look at the ceiling.”
“I’m not here on a cultural visit, Milton.”
“Go to the Sistine Chapel,” repeated the poet. “And you will find the truth. You just have to make sure that you are looking for it.”
The Doctor pulled up a chair, unsatisfied with the answer. “What’s so special about some old painting?” he asked, resting an elbow on the writing desk.
Milton sat back calmly, and smiled again. “I saw it myself earlier this year.”
“No you didn’t. You’re blind.”
“I saw it myself,” Milton repeated again, “earlier this year.” He sat forward, and the Doctor found himself doing the same. “They say that God can make the blind man see, but he did more than that. For it was not the roof of the Sistine Chapel that I saw, but something else in its place. Go to the Sistine Chapel, Doctor, and you will find the truth.”
***
A plague.
That was what they had called it. Hardly the best word to arrive home to, with its connotations still hanging around in the medieval period, the one specific time period Jasmine had never asked the Doctor to take her to.
Death, torture, organised religion, and bloody awful hygiene. Year 9 History lessons had put her off, like a bad travel brochure for a dismal package holiday.
Except these were not the Middle Ages. There were talks of antibiotic-resistant bacteria, and GCSE questions on them too. There were murmurs of viruses being carried over from other countries, of Ebola rearing its ugly head again, or of some nasty thing getting inside you and causing birth deformities in your child.
At that point, Jasmine usually switched off the news.
But of all her subjects, it was RE that struck her the most here. She remembered the pictures in the textbook: sketchily-drawn cartoons of the pestilence God had inflicted upon the Egyptians until the Jews were allowed to return to their Promised Land.
There was no promised land here. But there was definitely a distinct whiff of Exodus. She wondered whether now would be a good time to smear her door with lamb’s blood, or whatever it was they did to be spared God’s wrath.
People had died, anyway. Casualties were rolling in every second, but the numbers did not faze her as much as the language. She found herself set on edge by those inevitable, paranoid words: risk, temporary measure, containment, quarantine, contamination. She went into the bathroom, and washed her hands again.
“It’s all over London,” Sheila was saying from the living room. “They never normally come here. There was always the odd thing, y’know, my cousin died of polio, but this feels like we’re in South Africa or wherever it is. Is it a mosquito problem? There are lots of flies.”
Jasmine could not help but smile, just slightly. It felt good to be back here, better than in the TARDIS with two old men who were both starting to denounce rationality in favour of, well, whatever it was they used to justify their behaviour.
“They’re suggesting we stay inside our homes, but they’re not being very forceful about it. I was thinking, sweetheart, would you be all right here if I went out? Vitali’s invited me over to his, and he says he hasn’t been out either. He said he’d come and pick me up, so I wouldn’t have to drive or anything. Would that be okay with you?”
Jasmine stepped out of the bathroom and looked at Sheila, more attentively than she had in longer than she could remember. She sighed tiredly and nodded. “You might as well. I suppose if we stay here and live our lives shut up behind doors, we’re letting him win, aren’t we?”
“Letting who win, dear?”
Jasmine waved the subject aside. “It doesn’t matter, Nan. You look after yourself, okay?”
They exchanged smiles, hugs, and pecks on the cheek. Sheila pocketed her keys, put on her favourite necklace, and left.
Jasmine went over that train of thought again. If you live your life as he wants you to live it, you’re letting him win.
Screw the scientists and their rationality. Maybe the Doctor’s approach of pure insanity was the way to go. This was not something carried on the wind, not spread by mosquitoes and flies, not caused by resistance to antibiotics or overuse of anti-bacterial products.
It was God. It was a plague sent from above, and where it was intended, it would be received.
***
The old man looked at his reflection again, studying it with fascination. The fish continued to gather around the other end of the river, and he realised that they probably thought that he was scrutinising them.
He knew the face that looked back at him, but only in its current state. He knew what face meant, but only what his own looked like.
There were no other faces; that much he was sure of. In that one moment of absolute clarity, he turned around and saw another.
Her face was softer than his own, and younger too. She wore green robes, and smiled a kind smile at him, which he understood straight away. He was drawn to her brunette hair, which trailed down to her neck in wavy lines.
“Sit down,” she said gently. “My name is Minerva.”
She sat down on the river banks, finding a patch which would not spoil her robes. The old man sat down next to her, and continued to examine her features in utter beguilement. He knew that it would not bother her.
“Do you know who created this garden?” she asked him, throwing some bread in for the fish. Some raced to it, devouring it before the others could reach it. The old man noticed that it was cruel – the bread should be split, he thought. Each fish should have its own piece. He would make sure that this would happen, when it was his turn to give them food.
He returned to the conversation, and shook his head.
“You should know,” Minerva said. “After all, who else is here?”
“I’ve never seen another here before,” replied the old man.
Minerva smiled that smile which reminded the old man of just how intelligent she was.
“Then if you have never seen another, who must have created it?”
The old man looked around: up at the sky, down at the river, and along the land where the path twisted through flowerbeds, habitats, and patches of mud. That could not be the case. He was sure he would have remembered, if…
“I did not create this garden,” he said, with the tone of haughty understanding an adult might use to talk to a child who has asked a stupid question.
Minerva looked back with none of that attitude. She was the kind and patient parent, the one who answered any and every question in the same calm voice, with the same kind smile. “I am afraid you did, though you were not aware of it until now. This garden is a reflection of you.”
“I don’t understand!” cried the old man, and tossed his walking-stick furiously into the river. The fish gathered around it, but soon found that there was nothing to gain from it and moved off.
“That is because you are only self-aware,” explained Minerva. “You exist in a state of absolute intelligence, but it is only self-directed. However, you contain within you the knowledge of all things, and it is time for you to unlock that knowledge.”
“Time,” mused the old man. “How long has it taken me?”
“No time at all.” Minerva stood up, and the old man realised how tall she was. She reached easily for the lowest apple on the tree, and passed it down to the old man. He played with it for a moment, tossing it in one hand.
He knew that something would change if he bit into it, corrupted that shining, organic surface. But the change would not happen to the apple, it would happen to him.
“I can see you,” he remarked. “So my knowledge cannot be self-directed.”
Minerva laughed. “I too am a reflection of you. I am the part of you which allows you to be one, and soon you will see me that way. I have my function, but I am one with you.” She looked to his hand, weathered and wrinkled not by time but by knowledge. “Now eat the apple, and you will learn your name.”
“I thought I was already self-aware.”
“You are,” Minerva nodded. “But to learn your name, you must know what others call you.”
Others. A word the old man did not know. He picked up the apple, and took a bite, feeling the juices rushing through him.
“My name is God,” he said, suddenly conscious of his own voice. “That is what others call me. Others…”
He looked up into the sky. There were stars now. Light.
“Very good.” Minerva beamed, and placed a hand on God’s knee. “And with that, the first second of the universe has passed. In a number of seconds which are beyond even my capacity to count – but not entirely beyond yours – an empire will come into existence. It will call itself the Eighth Great and Bountiful Human Empire.”
Human. Another new word. God looked down at his form, and knew that it was human, but that he was not.
“The Empire will break the Skasis Paradigm, and create a being of infinite power and knowledge. It will exist at every moment in time, will know all things, and will have limitless creative energy. We are the being, and in becoming one, we bring ourselves into existence.”
“Self-sufficient,” marvelled God. His female aspect looked at him, overjoyed. He was beginning to understand. “With the divine providence necessary to call out the immoral behaviour of the people. Full power over the universe…”
“That is right,” agreed Minerva. “And it is just. So, shall we leave the garden now?”
***
With paintings all around him, it was like being trapped in one, trapped in a vortex of pictures and stories. History. The Doctor admired it, and the craftsmanship involved, making a mental note to visit Michelangelo sometime soon.
“It is said that in the beginning, in the time before the Big Bang, God walked through the Garden of Life.”
“Is it?” The Doctor turned to face the speaker, an elderly, short-haired woman wearing a blue dress and a large brooch. “I’m not very up-to-date on the Christian faith.”
“It is also said,” continued the woman, looking him right in the eye, “that God became omnipotent not by existing, but by eliminating all possible threats to his existence, crafting this reality as one which would ensure his survival for eternity.”
The Doctor frowned. “Now that’s definitely not a Christian idea.”
“No, it is not.” The woman took a step forward, and joined the Doctor in admiring the ceiling. “But you did not come here for a lesson in Christianity, did you?”
“No.” The Doctor briefly glanced at the woman, trying to figure her out without making her aware that he was doing so. “And you knew I was coming here. So, God effectively rewrote history to bring himself into existence, and the world we know is the way it is in order to keep him safe. That’s an interesting perspective.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Which is a perspective.”
The woman dropped the subject. “You’re looking at the ceiling wondering what you are supposed to be seeing,” she observed. “Everyone looks at the ceiling. But if you are searching for what I think you are searching for, then you must attempt to look where no one has even considered looking: beyond the ceiling.”
She seemed perhaps insane, but it was worth a try. The Doctor craned his neck, dulled the logical side of his brain, and focused.
The pictures did not disappear, but became something else. People became shapes, and lines formed between dots, like a map of constellations. They came together in a join-the-dots pattern, and the Doctor found himself looking at a set of Gallifreyan numbers.
He was almost surprised, and finally gasped when he realized what they were. The part of his mind that was not busy being terrified, appalled and heartbroken at the current state of events, found itself kicked into action and experiencing what he had come to know as unrestrained traveller’s excitement.
“They’re coordinates.”
“They are. I look after them as well as I can.”
“You look after them?” asked the Doctor, still staring intensely at them, saving them somewhere important in his mind in case he could not see them again. “Who are you?”
“I am the Sistine Chapel,” said the woman, and when the Doctor turned back, she was gone.
***
He knew the face that looked back at him, but only in its current state. He knew what face meant, but only what his own looked like.
There were no other faces; that much he was sure of. In that one moment of absolute clarity, he turned around and saw another.
Her face was softer than his own, and younger too. She wore green robes, and smiled a kind smile at him, which he understood straight away. He was drawn to her brunette hair, which trailed down to her neck in wavy lines.
“Sit down,” she said gently. “My name is Minerva.”
She sat down on the river banks, finding a patch which would not spoil her robes. The old man sat down next to her, and continued to examine her features in utter beguilement. He knew that it would not bother her.
“Do you know who created this garden?” she asked him, throwing some bread in for the fish. Some raced to it, devouring it before the others could reach it. The old man noticed that it was cruel – the bread should be split, he thought. Each fish should have its own piece. He would make sure that this would happen, when it was his turn to give them food.
He returned to the conversation, and shook his head.
“You should know,” Minerva said. “After all, who else is here?”
“I’ve never seen another here before,” replied the old man.
Minerva smiled that smile which reminded the old man of just how intelligent she was.
“Then if you have never seen another, who must have created it?”
The old man looked around: up at the sky, down at the river, and along the land where the path twisted through flowerbeds, habitats, and patches of mud. That could not be the case. He was sure he would have remembered, if…
“I did not create this garden,” he said, with the tone of haughty understanding an adult might use to talk to a child who has asked a stupid question.
Minerva looked back with none of that attitude. She was the kind and patient parent, the one who answered any and every question in the same calm voice, with the same kind smile. “I am afraid you did, though you were not aware of it until now. This garden is a reflection of you.”
“I don’t understand!” cried the old man, and tossed his walking-stick furiously into the river. The fish gathered around it, but soon found that there was nothing to gain from it and moved off.
“That is because you are only self-aware,” explained Minerva. “You exist in a state of absolute intelligence, but it is only self-directed. However, you contain within you the knowledge of all things, and it is time for you to unlock that knowledge.”
“Time,” mused the old man. “How long has it taken me?”
“No time at all.” Minerva stood up, and the old man realised how tall she was. She reached easily for the lowest apple on the tree, and passed it down to the old man. He played with it for a moment, tossing it in one hand.
He knew that something would change if he bit into it, corrupted that shining, organic surface. But the change would not happen to the apple, it would happen to him.
“I can see you,” he remarked. “So my knowledge cannot be self-directed.”
Minerva laughed. “I too am a reflection of you. I am the part of you which allows you to be one, and soon you will see me that way. I have my function, but I am one with you.” She looked to his hand, weathered and wrinkled not by time but by knowledge. “Now eat the apple, and you will learn your name.”
“I thought I was already self-aware.”
“You are,” Minerva nodded. “But to learn your name, you must know what others call you.”
Others. A word the old man did not know. He picked up the apple, and took a bite, feeling the juices rushing through him.
“My name is God,” he said, suddenly conscious of his own voice. “That is what others call me. Others…”
He looked up into the sky. There were stars now. Light.
“Very good.” Minerva beamed, and placed a hand on God’s knee. “And with that, the first second of the universe has passed. In a number of seconds which are beyond even my capacity to count – but not entirely beyond yours – an empire will come into existence. It will call itself the Eighth Great and Bountiful Human Empire.”
Human. Another new word. God looked down at his form, and knew that it was human, but that he was not.
“The Empire will break the Skasis Paradigm, and create a being of infinite power and knowledge. It will exist at every moment in time, will know all things, and will have limitless creative energy. We are the being, and in becoming one, we bring ourselves into existence.”
“Self-sufficient,” marvelled God. His female aspect looked at him, overjoyed. He was beginning to understand. “With the divine providence necessary to call out the immoral behaviour of the people. Full power over the universe…”
“That is right,” agreed Minerva. “And it is just. So, shall we leave the garden now?”
***
With paintings all around him, it was like being trapped in one, trapped in a vortex of pictures and stories. History. The Doctor admired it, and the craftsmanship involved, making a mental note to visit Michelangelo sometime soon.
“It is said that in the beginning, in the time before the Big Bang, God walked through the Garden of Life.”
“Is it?” The Doctor turned to face the speaker, an elderly, short-haired woman wearing a blue dress and a large brooch. “I’m not very up-to-date on the Christian faith.”
“It is also said,” continued the woman, looking him right in the eye, “that God became omnipotent not by existing, but by eliminating all possible threats to his existence, crafting this reality as one which would ensure his survival for eternity.”
The Doctor frowned. “Now that’s definitely not a Christian idea.”
“No, it is not.” The woman took a step forward, and joined the Doctor in admiring the ceiling. “But you did not come here for a lesson in Christianity, did you?”
“No.” The Doctor briefly glanced at the woman, trying to figure her out without making her aware that he was doing so. “And you knew I was coming here. So, God effectively rewrote history to bring himself into existence, and the world we know is the way it is in order to keep him safe. That’s an interesting perspective.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Which is a perspective.”
The woman dropped the subject. “You’re looking at the ceiling wondering what you are supposed to be seeing,” she observed. “Everyone looks at the ceiling. But if you are searching for what I think you are searching for, then you must attempt to look where no one has even considered looking: beyond the ceiling.”
She seemed perhaps insane, but it was worth a try. The Doctor craned his neck, dulled the logical side of his brain, and focused.
The pictures did not disappear, but became something else. People became shapes, and lines formed between dots, like a map of constellations. They came together in a join-the-dots pattern, and the Doctor found himself looking at a set of Gallifreyan numbers.
He was almost surprised, and finally gasped when he realized what they were. The part of his mind that was not busy being terrified, appalled and heartbroken at the current state of events, found itself kicked into action and experiencing what he had come to know as unrestrained traveller’s excitement.
“They’re coordinates.”
“They are. I look after them as well as I can.”
“You look after them?” asked the Doctor, still staring intensely at them, saving them somewhere important in his mind in case he could not see them again. “Who are you?”
“I am the Sistine Chapel,” said the woman, and when the Doctor turned back, she was gone.
***
The curtains had been left open, providing some natural light even though it was a rainy, overcast day, and ‘light’ may have been too strong a descriptive for the pallid grey of Britain’s skies.
The rest of the room resembled a makeshift hospital room. There were various bottles left out on a bedside table, and there was a bed rearranged into something somewhat professional-looking, with all manner of blankets.
None of London’s efforts to control the dire situation had worked. Most people who contracted the plague were dead within two weeks, after some considerable pain, and it had been little more than a month. Natalie was now in her second week here. Jasmine felt another part of herself die as she approached the pale and wheezy young woman, but that was just part and parcel of her life these days.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” said Natalie, reaching out with a limp arm. “I didn’t expect you to. You should be wearing a mask and gloves. What are you doing…”
Jasmine hushed her, and took a seat by the bed. “I don’t think it’ll affect me, not yet anyway. I just wanted to see how you were. I know we haven’t met properly yet, but…”
“I know who you are, yes.”
Jasmine smiled, to let her know that as well as being Jasmine Sparks, a confusing figure to many, she was a friend.
“They wanted to take me to hospital,” croaked Natalie. “But I know how this ends. I want to die in the comfort of my own home, that’s the least I’m…allowed…” she choked between her words, and Jasmine unhelpfully found herself offering a tissue. Natalie took it just to show that she appreciated the gesture.
“Rest your voice,” said Jasmine.
“Never.” Natalie forced a grin. “You know,” she continued, the grin fading, “things were getting worse and worse for me. We could barely pay for the… food on our… and then my mum, she’s been ill again, relapse of her condition, and the government…” She coughed. “Tommy was going to make things better. I had hoped so much that my little brother could go to university like I did, but we couldn’t pay for it, and he… he would have taken away the tuition fees, made it all possible, and now he’s never going to be able to. What sort of future does he have in this world?”
“There are safe places,” assured Jasmine. “And there are ways, you know, not everyone who’s successful has been to uni. Look at me! I don’t even have any A Levels.”
“You have wisdom,” said Natalie. Jasmine was used to hearing that one. You have old eyes was another one, and you look like you’ve been here before. Well, that last one was true. “Tommy meant so much to me, and I had so much hope, and now… maybe getting to die will be a mercy.”
Jasmine gripped Natalie’s hand, and Natalie felt it, somewhere deep and personal. It was the first time anyone had made physical contact with her since she contracted the plague, since the world around her had written her off and put up its warning signs.
“Never give up!” insisted Jasmine. “Listen to me, Natalie, Tommy would want you to be strong, and that’s why I’m not breaking down and turning into a hermit.” Natalie laughed, even though it caused every fibre of her body to ache.
“But it’s right, isn’t it? This is just… the icing on the cake of crap that’s been my life. I really am powerless now. It’s like this is someone’s idea of a joke.”
“That’s because it is,” said Jasmine, and immediately regretted it. She may as well go on now. “You know about the TARDIS, Natalie, and all that jazz? Even if you don’t quite believe it?”
Natalie nodded.
“There’s a tyrant,” Jasmine continued. “And he’s done this, all of it. And you know, no one apart from him can see the way I think, because everyone sees this young woman… no, not even that, this girl… someone who smiles, who is happy, who has boyfriends and who’s living her life thinking she’s immortal without a worry about the future. But the truth is, that’s not me. Not at all. Inside, I’m not young and optimistic, I’m furious. I am so angry, and I don’t know how yet, but I am going to make him pay.” She paused. “I can feel it, all of that anger. It must be worth something, when you put it together.”
“So you’re not going to run away?” asked Natalie, almost surprised.
“No, never. Some people can run away, and that’s okay. I hear Robin and Chris are living in Barcelona now, and you know what? Good on them. I hope it’s the very last place to ever be hit by this plague. But I…” Jasmine shook her head. “I have a legacy to carry on.”
“Autumn Rivers,” whispered Natalie.
“You know?”
“Sort of. But I do remember her.”
“Remember the scarf?” asked Jasmine. They both laughed. That day Natalie had been shot, almost fatally wounded… it was so far away now that it didn’t matter. Jasmine hoped, impossibly, that this day would eventually be seen the same way, that they would meet up to chuckle at how Natalie had thought this would be her deathbed.
“Remember the guinea pig?” asked Natalie.
Jasmine nodded furiously. “Alfie! He lived until five, you know, only died a few weeks ago. Beautiful little animal, he was, kept me happy in both of my…” Let’s not go there. “It doesn’t matter. In fact, none of it matters. Because… I can’t fight him. I can’t, Natalie, there’s no way I ever could. Which means, and I’m sorry I have to tell you this, I can’t save you.”
***
Straight away, God had created the first world-- a trial, a template-- before he stepped back and allowed the universe to do its work with the rest. He created seas and lands, crafted the delicate balance that allowed for new life, and then watched.
He wrote the rules wherever they would be read. He had them written on tablets, which would be dug up and discovered centuries later, their words translated and treated as gospel. He wrote them into law, steering the direction of civilisation so that it could be free, but serve his will.
Last, but not least, he wrote the moral law into the hearts of the people. It was his gift to them. With each and every one of their decisions, they would fully have the measure of what they were doing; they would be held back by guilt, or moved by satisfaction.
God named the planet Harmony.
***
The Doctor closed the TARDIS doors behind him, shutting off a warm Renaissance evening for good. He hung up his jacket, and walked up to the console unit, hesitating before taking any action.
There was always somewhere to go, always some monster to fight, except now. He took a seat, and considered that some more.
His question to Jasmine came over him again, a wave that continuously knocked him off his feet.
Is it worth going to war if you know you’re on the losing side?
No. That was the only answer. He stroked his chin as he considered that bizarre occurrence: how Jasmine, that intelligent young woman with an uncanny habit of being right, had told him, in a few more words, that the answer was yes.
There was no way that it could be. He sat back and closed his eyes. Perhaps he was seeing it all wrong, and the best approach was to shut it all out altogether…
***
God stood over the ball of energy, a pulsating orb of shifting, indistinct forms of power and potential. To people, those under its influence, they would see themselves reflected back by it, and would be drawn to it, as a way to fulfill their own potential.
God had already moved into a state of actuality; already fulfilled his purpose. To him, the energy was an equal, of sorts.
The Prime Mover, it was called. Now it was a part of him. Or rather, it was always a part of him: once, the Prime Mover had wandered through a garden, lost and without a purpose, both in awe of and held back by the fact of its own existence. God had made it aware. And, he thought, it should thank him for that.
One of God’s servants knocked on the door. He beckoned them in.
“Lord,” he said, his voice shaking. “We have a visitor. He has arrived.”
***
“You’re right,” confessed the Doctor. “You are absolutely right, of course. They can never know. I can never save them, and I can never bring down the Empire. You win.”
God smirked.
“And that makes you even more the monster,” added the Doctor. “You’ll always win, always beat the people you decide are the monsters, always separate the sheep from the goats because the goats are clever enough to tell what you really are. And with you in control of the law of the universe, everyone else will always be wrong.” He moved closer to God until they were inches apart. “Why do you do it? Why do pretend to be a hero and inspire them when all you’re doing is making them take risks and kill themselves in your name? Why do you pretend it’s not your fault when it is? Why do you make them thank you, worship you, and devote their whole lives to you? Why can’t you just LEAVE THEM ALONE?!”
God was silent for a few seconds, and then, unexpectedly, stepped back, and exploded into hysterical laughter. He put his hand down on the desk to steady himself and cleared his throat, putting his amusement to the back of his mind. “You know, Doctor, I’m really not sure it’s me who needs to be asked these questions.”
“You’re not sure I need to be asking you?” retorted the Doctor. “You’re calling yourself necessary, like you’re not contingent, not defined by any other beings! Well guess what? That means the responsibility is yours. If you’re the only being in the universe not to be dependent on another then the mistake of everyone else in the whole of creation falls on you. Adam took the apple because you let him, and it’s time you took responsibility.”
“You’re right.” God sat down and buried his head in his hands. “Doctor, you’re absolutely right.” The Doctor was speechless, puzzled. “It is wrong, of course, and it’s time justice is done.”
“Yes, it is.”
God stopped, rested his hands on the table, and stared accusingly up at the Doctor. “You let Autumn Rivers take the apple. Your actions created the person she became. You destroyed a whole world to make her.”
“Autumn Rivers defined who she was,” said the Doctor. “All those years in solitary confinement with no one to change her but herself. Autumn made Autumn.”
“A solitary confinement which you inadvertently caused,” pointed out God. “And she took that apple because of you, died because of you. So you’re right. It’s time for you to take responsibility. I lied to you.” The Doctor cocked his head, wondering where God was going with this. “Autumn will keep her memories – eventually, anyway. As she lives her new life she’ll begin to remember, if she lives long enough at least: parts of her old life will come back to her, and she’ll learn about who she was and why she was reborn. But you will never see her again.”
“I’m sorry?”
“There are consequences, as you say, for letting one of your creations take the apple. I’m not going to tell you where she is or who she becomes. She will live out her life, and remember, if she’s lucky, but you will never see each other again. And you will never know whether she was successful.”
“Don’t do this, God. Don’t do this to prove a point.”
“You don’t want me to interfere anymore? Fine, I won’t.” God stood up, got a large book off his shelf, opened it up and inserted a bookmark. “I’ll stay here on my own, find myself some hobbies. Read books, collect trains. Leave the Prime Mover to do its own thing, and stop talking to people. That starts now, by the way.” He kept his eyes on the page, not even looking up at the Doctor, and straightened his glasses. “I can’t interfere with your life, sorry, I can’t give you information. Not my place, like you said. Can’t tell you how to find her.”
The Doctor wanted to kill God then and there: take one of the larger books and smash him over the head with it, in one swift blow. Unfortunately, it was an action he would never be permitted. God still possessed immense power, and would leave the Doctor a speck of dust before he could even touch him.
“I hate you,” uttered the Doctor, standing up and heading for the exit. He assumed if he walked to the end of the corridor, he would eventually end up back in his TARDIS; a part of God’s plan, no doubt. “And if I ever get the chance, I will tear down your empire and take your place.”
God looked up from his book. “And that makes you better than me how, exactly?”
The Doctor smiled to himself. “It doesn’t.”
***
“Come in.”
Jasmine was suspicious of Colonel Ward’s kindness. If anything signalled the end of human civilisation, it was Ward deciding to adopt manners and sensitivity.
She sat down regardless, and took a sip of the water he had left out for her. This was some kind of meeting room, rarely-used, which was a shame, she thought, since it overlooked the Thames and the streets along its embankments. She watched tourists outside the Tate Modern with just a hint of amusement.
Ward sat down opposite her and sighed, taking some files out of a plastic wallet. His hand was shaking, and his face was a pale white. She hoped that he was nervous; in these times, it was better than the alternative.
“Miss Sparks,” he began. Jasmine was sure that he had never called her that before. “There really is no easy way of saying this… we’ve found out why your father killed himself.”
“Oh, God.” Jasmine covered her mouth, and Ward went on.
“Researchers at the observatory in Hawaii finally discovered the reason for the strange readings from that location. There’s a temporal anomaly situated in the telescope’s line of sight, which feeds back an image of space, but… two years into the future.”
“What?”
“Your father, on the day he took his life, looked into his telescope and saw an image of today’s night sky. Now that the dates finally correspond, we are able to see what it was that he saw.” Ward took a deep breath. This was when he would usually make a quick quip, but instead he took a sip of his own glass of water; the first time Jasmine had ever seen anything non-alcoholic enter his mouth.
“The blue-shift has started,” said Ward, and what little Jasmine remembered of GCSE Physics struck fear into her heart. “I’m not even sure exactly what that means, but it’s what the scientists are saying. The light from all surrounding stars and planets has shifted, overnight, to the opposite end of the electromagnetic spectrum. Space, it… seems to be closing in on us. Anyway.” He pushed the matter aside, as if it could be saved for a later meeting, and passed Jasmine a photograph of what appeared to be an alien spacecraft. It was a familiar design, probably one she had encountered from one of her travels with the Doctor.
“We’ve had a lot of ships passing through our orbit recently,” Ward continued, “and we were concerned, especially since it’s coincided with… well, all of this. So I had one shot down.” He noticed Jasmine’s glare of disapproval, and was stirred enough to make a case for himself. “I ensured that those on board were not hurt, Miss Sparks. As a matter of fact, they were quite friendly with us. They told us what we needed to know.”
“Which is?”
“They’re running. Almost every intelligent civilisation in the universe is fleeing as fast and as far as they can. And the blue-shift – that’s just us getting caught in the crossfire.” Ward coughed, and put a tissue to his mouth. “When I asked what from, they said they were running from the wrath of their creator. That was about all we could glean from them, so I let them go.”
That, too, seemed distinctly unlike Ward.
“I just called you here to tell you, Miss Sparks… your father was just doing what he thought was right. Saving a small group of people from having to see the end. Unfortunately, he couldn’t save us.”
“My father was a murderer,” replied Jasmine simply. She was shocked at the words she had chosen.
“So was Autumn Rivers,” said Ward, and Jasmine shivered. “Sometimes the worst people of all are the ones that know the truth.” And with that, he stood up and left, coughing again on his way out.
That’s not nerves, thought Jasmine, and unexpectedly felt a sensation sweep over her, a crippling sense of pity for a man who probably hadn’t earned it until this conversation.
***
It took less than twenty generations for Harmony to fall apart. First, the rules carved into stones and written onto paper were disobeyed: they were passed off as remnants of the past, misinformed, faked. They were destroyed, buried, or forgotten. Then, the people of Harmony began to disobey the rules written into their own hearts. They began to like their guilt, let it drive them; until, God observed, his creations became creatures of guilt alone.
Thus, when Harmony became imbalanced, God decided that it no longer deserved its name, and destroyed it. Using the only mercy he had left for them, he gave the people just enough time to evacuate their children, before burning every man or woman alive who had ever dared to disobey the law he laid down.
He ensured that the children were far away from Harmony by that time, and that they did not have to see. A home was made for them elsewhere. They grew up, grew old, and disobeyed the law too.
***
Christmas – several years ago
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor said to Robin. “This isn’t going to be easy. But I’m not here for you. I crashed at your house because you had an energy trace. You carried it, all the way from here. This shop is emitting massive amounts of life energy, and I can show you why – if you want to see. If you think you’re ready to see.”
The room turned dark as Robin took the Doctor’s hand. Slowly, flames emerged. Slow, flickering flames. They danced across the room, as other dancing shapes moved through them. These shapes had depth, weight. They danced innocently. Robin realised, in horror, that these were the shapes of children.
“A world,” said the Doctor, beginning his story. His voice echoed. “See a world. A world, a very long way away.” He closed his eyes, hiding them from the child who fell into the flames, becoming one with them. “A burning world.”
Robin covered her mouth with her hand. A tear fell from her eye.
“That world was advanced. And as a last resort, the children of that world were saved. Their bodies converted into something else – a spirit, almost. Life energy.”
“Why children?” asked Robin.
“Why ever children?” questioned the Doctor. “Because of their emotions. Their emotions, intense emotions-- their happiness, their fear, their love, their wonder – was what converted them. So they travelled as raw, abstract emotions, across the galaxy. I followed them, and they arrived here. Now this world is real, and safe, they can manifest again. Become children. They can take shape. They can dance.”
“So why aren’t they?”
The Doctor sighed, opening the door again. The projection faded.
“I said there wasn’t much festive spirit. But look at you. Look at this city. It’s built up of fear, anxiety and chaos. It’s Christmas, but take a look around you. No one’s happy these days. Emotions manifesting in a world like this? The conversion’s become wrong. God help those children – they’re relying on you to help them. And look at what the human race has done. Through your fear, you’ve turned them into monsters. The manifestation’s started, and it’s too late.”
“What do we do?” asked Robin.
“We wait. And we do what we always do at Christmas, or always should do. And that’s hope.”
***
The Doctor sat up.
He was back in the room. He knew the room instantly; the four years he’d spent here had been supressed, but still, they were four years.
He reached out, just to be sure, and ran his fingers delicately along the concrete walls. Outside, as if just to support the confirmation, he heard the shrill screams of the Dalek race, barking orders to whomever today’s unfortunate prisoners were.
“Don’t worry.”
The Doctor turned around, startled. In the dim golden light of his sleeping quarters, there was one other: an old man; tall, slim, and dressed in the Doctor’s own clothes, sitting back on the bed of one of his old friends.
“You’re just dreaming.”
“Thank God for that,” said the Doctor, before chuckling at his own words. “In fact, I probably can thank God for that.”
The old man smiled. “I’m definitely not God.”
“No.” The Doctor frowned. “You’re not.”
“I’m here to talk to you. You don’t seem very happy at the moment.”
“Really?” replied the Doctor, more than just a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You think you can’t fight him,” said the old man, and winked at the Doctor, setting him on edge. “The truth is, it’s the other way round. God perverted the natural order, tried to make it his own, but he knows nothing about destiny at all.”
The Doctor sat on his own bed, facing the old man. It struck him now just how similar they looked.
“You are the destined ruler of the Universe, Time Lord.”
“I don’t want to be.”
“Not yet.” The old man tapped his nose. “But you will. You just have to stop him.”
“There’s no way.”
“There’s always a way. I’d tell you to take arms, but you already have.”
The Doctor rolled his eyes, sick of the puzzles. His own mind was playing tricks on him now; the arch-manipulator had turned on himself. “Who are you?” asked the Doctor.
The old man smiled wryly, and the door of the sleeping quarters clicked open behind him. The lock smashed to the floor, broken. Impossibly for a Dalek camp, a clear and bright daylight shone into the room.
“I am the Universe.”
And the Doctor woke up.
***
Jasmine closed the door to her apartment. Sheila was out again with Vitali. Jasmine tried not to worry as she checked her phone repetitively, before realising that she was doing just that.
The sun was trying to shine through the clouds; she thought she could see it, a dim light in one little grey patch. Perhaps it would emerge, eventually, and everyone else would see it too. Jasmine put one of the lamps on, to give the room some extra light.
She leapt back as she entered the living room, a reflex response: a woman stood there, clad simply in a white shirt and black suit jacket; behind her, a television was showing a silent movie, and in front of her, a pile of Sheila’s Guardian newspapers waited to be put into the trash.
Ordinary, everyday life. And then this woman.
Jasmine knew from the way she looked back at her who she was. No one ever regarded her – or in fact anyone – in that way. Except, of course, for one person – if ‘person’ was quite the right term.
“Doctor?”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “You’re incredibly perceptive.”
“Tommy told me about you.” Jasmine felt her routine pang of despair with the utterance of his name, and, looking at the Doctor, was surprised to see her feel it too. “You’re a future version, aren’t you?”
The Doctor nodded. “He can’t ever know I was here.”
“How far?”
She looked out of the window, as if estimating, and then gave up. “Very far.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Why are you here?”
The Doctor sat down. Jasmine was surprised to see that she had not made herself a tea, or raided the larder, as her Doctor so often did.
“I’m here to speak to you,” began the Doctor, and Jasmine sensed that she was in for yet more bad news. “I want to tell you something.”
Jasmine found herself sitting down opposite the woman, already roped into her plan, or whatever this was.
“I know what you’re thinking of doing,” the Doctor said. “About God. And I just came to tell you… you don’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to do it.” She spoke very softly, almost as if she were afraid of someone overhearing. “Things are… about to change. Change so much that they make me into the person I am today. And you kick off that change. But you don’t have to, Jasmine. You don’t have to be there for it.”
She was looking right into Jasmine, into the centre of her pupils. Jasmine reciprocated the action, and noticed that this Doctor’s eyes were hazel, deep and aged like a beautiful, ancient tree.
“You’re from the future,” Jasmine pointed out. “You know what happened, and whatever happened, you can’t change it. There are rules.”
“The rules are wrong.”
Jasmine sat back, startled.
“Were wrong, I mean…” The Doctor looked to the floor. “Time is malleable, a lot more malleable than I thought. Jasmine Sparks, you don’t have to fight God. You do not have a duty; that is, and always has been, mine. There’s still time to turn your back.”
“Doctor…” Jasmine shook her head. “If you feel compelled to do something, then that’s your duty. Duty comes from within you. And this will always be my duty. I’m sorry.” She stood up, but as she went to leave, the Doctor grabbed her hand. Jasmine stopped, and they both stood where they were for a moment.
She had held the Doctor’s hand before while running down corridors, visiting alien worlds, whatnot. It was the same person, but even the touch of the Doctor’s skin had changed. She let it last a moment longer, more for the Doctor’s sake than her own, and then let go before leaving the apartment.
As Jasmine walked down the street, she thought of Tommy once more. It hurt, but it was better than considering why it was that the Doctor had tried to talk her out of this.
***
Noa walked down the corridor towards God’s office, unmoved by the polished gold walls, or the long, velvety red rugs. Luxury to her always seemed paradoxical: ‘luxury’ was not a luxury, but a burden, a cause to look at the world around you and feel somehow inadequate.
The one and only adult survivor of Harmony, Noa was rescued from the burning world by God. She was no different from any of her friends, but he had selected her as his servant nonetheless, and frequently reminded her of how she had been saved and chosen to serve him.
The only one. So she figured, she must hate him more than did anyone else in the universe.
She made the same wish in her head that she made every day – that somehow, she would be allowed to see her children again. She avoided turning it into a prayer, realising who it would be addressed to.
“Noa!” said God as she knocked on his door. “Come in.”
Noa pushed the door open, irked by God’s friendliness, and approached his desk deferentially.
“Happy Birthday,” he said, with a condescending grin. “It’s thirty-two today, isn’t it? Such a young thing. I wonder what my next will be. How old is the universe, exactly?”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied Noa, with as little intonation as possible.
“Birthday present for you.” God leaned forward, and gazed up at his servant with a smirk. It was his way of telling her: something had changed. “I’ve decided that it’s time for the end.”
“The end, sir?”
“Well, time and space, it’s all getting a bit old now, isn’t it? And I’ve seen a lot in my time, I really have, but I think Heaven was the last straw. There will be no Time War. There will be no… well, anything, really.”
“Sir…”
“This universe is full of lawlessness, Noa. Sinners like yourself. So, I’m about to destroy them. All of them, and the universe with them.”
Noa shuddered. God felt it, and delved into her mind.
“It’s okay,” he said, in answer to one of her thoughts. “I’m not going to kill you. What’s the point in putting on a show without an audience? You can watch it all burn, again. Perhaps your children are out there somewhere.”
“I’d kill you,” interrupted Noa, her voice shaking. God’s smile just widened, as he sat back and crossed his arms, satisfied by what he had drawn out of her. “If I got the chance, I would… oh, I have so many ideas of how I’d do it.”
“I know. I’ve seen a few of them. I can give you a servant to practise on, if you like.”
“At the moment I’m being drawn to a bullet to the head,” continued Noa. “After all, all of this has come from that warped, twisted mind of yours.”
“Nice.” God nodded. “Poetic. Such a shame there’ll never be a way for you to do that, isn’t there? Still, never mind. Are you ready for the show?”
***
The rest of the room resembled a makeshift hospital room. There were various bottles left out on a bedside table, and there was a bed rearranged into something somewhat professional-looking, with all manner of blankets.
None of London’s efforts to control the dire situation had worked. Most people who contracted the plague were dead within two weeks, after some considerable pain, and it had been little more than a month. Natalie was now in her second week here. Jasmine felt another part of herself die as she approached the pale and wheezy young woman, but that was just part and parcel of her life these days.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” said Natalie, reaching out with a limp arm. “I didn’t expect you to. You should be wearing a mask and gloves. What are you doing…”
Jasmine hushed her, and took a seat by the bed. “I don’t think it’ll affect me, not yet anyway. I just wanted to see how you were. I know we haven’t met properly yet, but…”
“I know who you are, yes.”
Jasmine smiled, to let her know that as well as being Jasmine Sparks, a confusing figure to many, she was a friend.
“They wanted to take me to hospital,” croaked Natalie. “But I know how this ends. I want to die in the comfort of my own home, that’s the least I’m…allowed…” she choked between her words, and Jasmine unhelpfully found herself offering a tissue. Natalie took it just to show that she appreciated the gesture.
“Rest your voice,” said Jasmine.
“Never.” Natalie forced a grin. “You know,” she continued, the grin fading, “things were getting worse and worse for me. We could barely pay for the… food on our… and then my mum, she’s been ill again, relapse of her condition, and the government…” She coughed. “Tommy was going to make things better. I had hoped so much that my little brother could go to university like I did, but we couldn’t pay for it, and he… he would have taken away the tuition fees, made it all possible, and now he’s never going to be able to. What sort of future does he have in this world?”
“There are safe places,” assured Jasmine. “And there are ways, you know, not everyone who’s successful has been to uni. Look at me! I don’t even have any A Levels.”
“You have wisdom,” said Natalie. Jasmine was used to hearing that one. You have old eyes was another one, and you look like you’ve been here before. Well, that last one was true. “Tommy meant so much to me, and I had so much hope, and now… maybe getting to die will be a mercy.”
Jasmine gripped Natalie’s hand, and Natalie felt it, somewhere deep and personal. It was the first time anyone had made physical contact with her since she contracted the plague, since the world around her had written her off and put up its warning signs.
“Never give up!” insisted Jasmine. “Listen to me, Natalie, Tommy would want you to be strong, and that’s why I’m not breaking down and turning into a hermit.” Natalie laughed, even though it caused every fibre of her body to ache.
“But it’s right, isn’t it? This is just… the icing on the cake of crap that’s been my life. I really am powerless now. It’s like this is someone’s idea of a joke.”
“That’s because it is,” said Jasmine, and immediately regretted it. She may as well go on now. “You know about the TARDIS, Natalie, and all that jazz? Even if you don’t quite believe it?”
Natalie nodded.
“There’s a tyrant,” Jasmine continued. “And he’s done this, all of it. And you know, no one apart from him can see the way I think, because everyone sees this young woman… no, not even that, this girl… someone who smiles, who is happy, who has boyfriends and who’s living her life thinking she’s immortal without a worry about the future. But the truth is, that’s not me. Not at all. Inside, I’m not young and optimistic, I’m furious. I am so angry, and I don’t know how yet, but I am going to make him pay.” She paused. “I can feel it, all of that anger. It must be worth something, when you put it together.”
“So you’re not going to run away?” asked Natalie, almost surprised.
“No, never. Some people can run away, and that’s okay. I hear Robin and Chris are living in Barcelona now, and you know what? Good on them. I hope it’s the very last place to ever be hit by this plague. But I…” Jasmine shook her head. “I have a legacy to carry on.”
“Autumn Rivers,” whispered Natalie.
“You know?”
“Sort of. But I do remember her.”
“Remember the scarf?” asked Jasmine. They both laughed. That day Natalie had been shot, almost fatally wounded… it was so far away now that it didn’t matter. Jasmine hoped, impossibly, that this day would eventually be seen the same way, that they would meet up to chuckle at how Natalie had thought this would be her deathbed.
“Remember the guinea pig?” asked Natalie.
Jasmine nodded furiously. “Alfie! He lived until five, you know, only died a few weeks ago. Beautiful little animal, he was, kept me happy in both of my…” Let’s not go there. “It doesn’t matter. In fact, none of it matters. Because… I can’t fight him. I can’t, Natalie, there’s no way I ever could. Which means, and I’m sorry I have to tell you this, I can’t save you.”
***
Straight away, God had created the first world-- a trial, a template-- before he stepped back and allowed the universe to do its work with the rest. He created seas and lands, crafted the delicate balance that allowed for new life, and then watched.
He wrote the rules wherever they would be read. He had them written on tablets, which would be dug up and discovered centuries later, their words translated and treated as gospel. He wrote them into law, steering the direction of civilisation so that it could be free, but serve his will.
Last, but not least, he wrote the moral law into the hearts of the people. It was his gift to them. With each and every one of their decisions, they would fully have the measure of what they were doing; they would be held back by guilt, or moved by satisfaction.
God named the planet Harmony.
***
The Doctor closed the TARDIS doors behind him, shutting off a warm Renaissance evening for good. He hung up his jacket, and walked up to the console unit, hesitating before taking any action.
There was always somewhere to go, always some monster to fight, except now. He took a seat, and considered that some more.
His question to Jasmine came over him again, a wave that continuously knocked him off his feet.
Is it worth going to war if you know you’re on the losing side?
No. That was the only answer. He stroked his chin as he considered that bizarre occurrence: how Jasmine, that intelligent young woman with an uncanny habit of being right, had told him, in a few more words, that the answer was yes.
There was no way that it could be. He sat back and closed his eyes. Perhaps he was seeing it all wrong, and the best approach was to shut it all out altogether…
***
God stood over the ball of energy, a pulsating orb of shifting, indistinct forms of power and potential. To people, those under its influence, they would see themselves reflected back by it, and would be drawn to it, as a way to fulfill their own potential.
God had already moved into a state of actuality; already fulfilled his purpose. To him, the energy was an equal, of sorts.
The Prime Mover, it was called. Now it was a part of him. Or rather, it was always a part of him: once, the Prime Mover had wandered through a garden, lost and without a purpose, both in awe of and held back by the fact of its own existence. God had made it aware. And, he thought, it should thank him for that.
One of God’s servants knocked on the door. He beckoned them in.
“Lord,” he said, his voice shaking. “We have a visitor. He has arrived.”
***
“You’re right,” confessed the Doctor. “You are absolutely right, of course. They can never know. I can never save them, and I can never bring down the Empire. You win.”
God smirked.
“And that makes you even more the monster,” added the Doctor. “You’ll always win, always beat the people you decide are the monsters, always separate the sheep from the goats because the goats are clever enough to tell what you really are. And with you in control of the law of the universe, everyone else will always be wrong.” He moved closer to God until they were inches apart. “Why do you do it? Why do pretend to be a hero and inspire them when all you’re doing is making them take risks and kill themselves in your name? Why do you pretend it’s not your fault when it is? Why do you make them thank you, worship you, and devote their whole lives to you? Why can’t you just LEAVE THEM ALONE?!”
God was silent for a few seconds, and then, unexpectedly, stepped back, and exploded into hysterical laughter. He put his hand down on the desk to steady himself and cleared his throat, putting his amusement to the back of his mind. “You know, Doctor, I’m really not sure it’s me who needs to be asked these questions.”
“You’re not sure I need to be asking you?” retorted the Doctor. “You’re calling yourself necessary, like you’re not contingent, not defined by any other beings! Well guess what? That means the responsibility is yours. If you’re the only being in the universe not to be dependent on another then the mistake of everyone else in the whole of creation falls on you. Adam took the apple because you let him, and it’s time you took responsibility.”
“You’re right.” God sat down and buried his head in his hands. “Doctor, you’re absolutely right.” The Doctor was speechless, puzzled. “It is wrong, of course, and it’s time justice is done.”
“Yes, it is.”
God stopped, rested his hands on the table, and stared accusingly up at the Doctor. “You let Autumn Rivers take the apple. Your actions created the person she became. You destroyed a whole world to make her.”
“Autumn Rivers defined who she was,” said the Doctor. “All those years in solitary confinement with no one to change her but herself. Autumn made Autumn.”
“A solitary confinement which you inadvertently caused,” pointed out God. “And she took that apple because of you, died because of you. So you’re right. It’s time for you to take responsibility. I lied to you.” The Doctor cocked his head, wondering where God was going with this. “Autumn will keep her memories – eventually, anyway. As she lives her new life she’ll begin to remember, if she lives long enough at least: parts of her old life will come back to her, and she’ll learn about who she was and why she was reborn. But you will never see her again.”
“I’m sorry?”
“There are consequences, as you say, for letting one of your creations take the apple. I’m not going to tell you where she is or who she becomes. She will live out her life, and remember, if she’s lucky, but you will never see each other again. And you will never know whether she was successful.”
“Don’t do this, God. Don’t do this to prove a point.”
“You don’t want me to interfere anymore? Fine, I won’t.” God stood up, got a large book off his shelf, opened it up and inserted a bookmark. “I’ll stay here on my own, find myself some hobbies. Read books, collect trains. Leave the Prime Mover to do its own thing, and stop talking to people. That starts now, by the way.” He kept his eyes on the page, not even looking up at the Doctor, and straightened his glasses. “I can’t interfere with your life, sorry, I can’t give you information. Not my place, like you said. Can’t tell you how to find her.”
The Doctor wanted to kill God then and there: take one of the larger books and smash him over the head with it, in one swift blow. Unfortunately, it was an action he would never be permitted. God still possessed immense power, and would leave the Doctor a speck of dust before he could even touch him.
“I hate you,” uttered the Doctor, standing up and heading for the exit. He assumed if he walked to the end of the corridor, he would eventually end up back in his TARDIS; a part of God’s plan, no doubt. “And if I ever get the chance, I will tear down your empire and take your place.”
God looked up from his book. “And that makes you better than me how, exactly?”
The Doctor smiled to himself. “It doesn’t.”
***
“Come in.”
Jasmine was suspicious of Colonel Ward’s kindness. If anything signalled the end of human civilisation, it was Ward deciding to adopt manners and sensitivity.
She sat down regardless, and took a sip of the water he had left out for her. This was some kind of meeting room, rarely-used, which was a shame, she thought, since it overlooked the Thames and the streets along its embankments. She watched tourists outside the Tate Modern with just a hint of amusement.
Ward sat down opposite her and sighed, taking some files out of a plastic wallet. His hand was shaking, and his face was a pale white. She hoped that he was nervous; in these times, it was better than the alternative.
“Miss Sparks,” he began. Jasmine was sure that he had never called her that before. “There really is no easy way of saying this… we’ve found out why your father killed himself.”
“Oh, God.” Jasmine covered her mouth, and Ward went on.
“Researchers at the observatory in Hawaii finally discovered the reason for the strange readings from that location. There’s a temporal anomaly situated in the telescope’s line of sight, which feeds back an image of space, but… two years into the future.”
“What?”
“Your father, on the day he took his life, looked into his telescope and saw an image of today’s night sky. Now that the dates finally correspond, we are able to see what it was that he saw.” Ward took a deep breath. This was when he would usually make a quick quip, but instead he took a sip of his own glass of water; the first time Jasmine had ever seen anything non-alcoholic enter his mouth.
“The blue-shift has started,” said Ward, and what little Jasmine remembered of GCSE Physics struck fear into her heart. “I’m not even sure exactly what that means, but it’s what the scientists are saying. The light from all surrounding stars and planets has shifted, overnight, to the opposite end of the electromagnetic spectrum. Space, it… seems to be closing in on us. Anyway.” He pushed the matter aside, as if it could be saved for a later meeting, and passed Jasmine a photograph of what appeared to be an alien spacecraft. It was a familiar design, probably one she had encountered from one of her travels with the Doctor.
“We’ve had a lot of ships passing through our orbit recently,” Ward continued, “and we were concerned, especially since it’s coincided with… well, all of this. So I had one shot down.” He noticed Jasmine’s glare of disapproval, and was stirred enough to make a case for himself. “I ensured that those on board were not hurt, Miss Sparks. As a matter of fact, they were quite friendly with us. They told us what we needed to know.”
“Which is?”
“They’re running. Almost every intelligent civilisation in the universe is fleeing as fast and as far as they can. And the blue-shift – that’s just us getting caught in the crossfire.” Ward coughed, and put a tissue to his mouth. “When I asked what from, they said they were running from the wrath of their creator. That was about all we could glean from them, so I let them go.”
That, too, seemed distinctly unlike Ward.
“I just called you here to tell you, Miss Sparks… your father was just doing what he thought was right. Saving a small group of people from having to see the end. Unfortunately, he couldn’t save us.”
“My father was a murderer,” replied Jasmine simply. She was shocked at the words she had chosen.
“So was Autumn Rivers,” said Ward, and Jasmine shivered. “Sometimes the worst people of all are the ones that know the truth.” And with that, he stood up and left, coughing again on his way out.
That’s not nerves, thought Jasmine, and unexpectedly felt a sensation sweep over her, a crippling sense of pity for a man who probably hadn’t earned it until this conversation.
***
It took less than twenty generations for Harmony to fall apart. First, the rules carved into stones and written onto paper were disobeyed: they were passed off as remnants of the past, misinformed, faked. They were destroyed, buried, or forgotten. Then, the people of Harmony began to disobey the rules written into their own hearts. They began to like their guilt, let it drive them; until, God observed, his creations became creatures of guilt alone.
Thus, when Harmony became imbalanced, God decided that it no longer deserved its name, and destroyed it. Using the only mercy he had left for them, he gave the people just enough time to evacuate their children, before burning every man or woman alive who had ever dared to disobey the law he laid down.
He ensured that the children were far away from Harmony by that time, and that they did not have to see. A home was made for them elsewhere. They grew up, grew old, and disobeyed the law too.
***
Christmas – several years ago
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor said to Robin. “This isn’t going to be easy. But I’m not here for you. I crashed at your house because you had an energy trace. You carried it, all the way from here. This shop is emitting massive amounts of life energy, and I can show you why – if you want to see. If you think you’re ready to see.”
The room turned dark as Robin took the Doctor’s hand. Slowly, flames emerged. Slow, flickering flames. They danced across the room, as other dancing shapes moved through them. These shapes had depth, weight. They danced innocently. Robin realised, in horror, that these were the shapes of children.
“A world,” said the Doctor, beginning his story. His voice echoed. “See a world. A world, a very long way away.” He closed his eyes, hiding them from the child who fell into the flames, becoming one with them. “A burning world.”
Robin covered her mouth with her hand. A tear fell from her eye.
“That world was advanced. And as a last resort, the children of that world were saved. Their bodies converted into something else – a spirit, almost. Life energy.”
“Why children?” asked Robin.
“Why ever children?” questioned the Doctor. “Because of their emotions. Their emotions, intense emotions-- their happiness, their fear, their love, their wonder – was what converted them. So they travelled as raw, abstract emotions, across the galaxy. I followed them, and they arrived here. Now this world is real, and safe, they can manifest again. Become children. They can take shape. They can dance.”
“So why aren’t they?”
The Doctor sighed, opening the door again. The projection faded.
“I said there wasn’t much festive spirit. But look at you. Look at this city. It’s built up of fear, anxiety and chaos. It’s Christmas, but take a look around you. No one’s happy these days. Emotions manifesting in a world like this? The conversion’s become wrong. God help those children – they’re relying on you to help them. And look at what the human race has done. Through your fear, you’ve turned them into monsters. The manifestation’s started, and it’s too late.”
“What do we do?” asked Robin.
“We wait. And we do what we always do at Christmas, or always should do. And that’s hope.”
***
The Doctor sat up.
He was back in the room. He knew the room instantly; the four years he’d spent here had been supressed, but still, they were four years.
He reached out, just to be sure, and ran his fingers delicately along the concrete walls. Outside, as if just to support the confirmation, he heard the shrill screams of the Dalek race, barking orders to whomever today’s unfortunate prisoners were.
“Don’t worry.”
The Doctor turned around, startled. In the dim golden light of his sleeping quarters, there was one other: an old man; tall, slim, and dressed in the Doctor’s own clothes, sitting back on the bed of one of his old friends.
“You’re just dreaming.”
“Thank God for that,” said the Doctor, before chuckling at his own words. “In fact, I probably can thank God for that.”
The old man smiled. “I’m definitely not God.”
“No.” The Doctor frowned. “You’re not.”
“I’m here to talk to you. You don’t seem very happy at the moment.”
“Really?” replied the Doctor, more than just a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You think you can’t fight him,” said the old man, and winked at the Doctor, setting him on edge. “The truth is, it’s the other way round. God perverted the natural order, tried to make it his own, but he knows nothing about destiny at all.”
The Doctor sat on his own bed, facing the old man. It struck him now just how similar they looked.
“You are the destined ruler of the Universe, Time Lord.”
“I don’t want to be.”
“Not yet.” The old man tapped his nose. “But you will. You just have to stop him.”
“There’s no way.”
“There’s always a way. I’d tell you to take arms, but you already have.”
The Doctor rolled his eyes, sick of the puzzles. His own mind was playing tricks on him now; the arch-manipulator had turned on himself. “Who are you?” asked the Doctor.
The old man smiled wryly, and the door of the sleeping quarters clicked open behind him. The lock smashed to the floor, broken. Impossibly for a Dalek camp, a clear and bright daylight shone into the room.
“I am the Universe.”
And the Doctor woke up.
***
Jasmine closed the door to her apartment. Sheila was out again with Vitali. Jasmine tried not to worry as she checked her phone repetitively, before realising that she was doing just that.
The sun was trying to shine through the clouds; she thought she could see it, a dim light in one little grey patch. Perhaps it would emerge, eventually, and everyone else would see it too. Jasmine put one of the lamps on, to give the room some extra light.
She leapt back as she entered the living room, a reflex response: a woman stood there, clad simply in a white shirt and black suit jacket; behind her, a television was showing a silent movie, and in front of her, a pile of Sheila’s Guardian newspapers waited to be put into the trash.
Ordinary, everyday life. And then this woman.
Jasmine knew from the way she looked back at her who she was. No one ever regarded her – or in fact anyone – in that way. Except, of course, for one person – if ‘person’ was quite the right term.
“Doctor?”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “You’re incredibly perceptive.”
“Tommy told me about you.” Jasmine felt her routine pang of despair with the utterance of his name, and, looking at the Doctor, was surprised to see her feel it too. “You’re a future version, aren’t you?”
The Doctor nodded. “He can’t ever know I was here.”
“How far?”
She looked out of the window, as if estimating, and then gave up. “Very far.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Why are you here?”
The Doctor sat down. Jasmine was surprised to see that she had not made herself a tea, or raided the larder, as her Doctor so often did.
“I’m here to speak to you,” began the Doctor, and Jasmine sensed that she was in for yet more bad news. “I want to tell you something.”
Jasmine found herself sitting down opposite the woman, already roped into her plan, or whatever this was.
“I know what you’re thinking of doing,” the Doctor said. “About God. And I just came to tell you… you don’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to do it.” She spoke very softly, almost as if she were afraid of someone overhearing. “Things are… about to change. Change so much that they make me into the person I am today. And you kick off that change. But you don’t have to, Jasmine. You don’t have to be there for it.”
She was looking right into Jasmine, into the centre of her pupils. Jasmine reciprocated the action, and noticed that this Doctor’s eyes were hazel, deep and aged like a beautiful, ancient tree.
“You’re from the future,” Jasmine pointed out. “You know what happened, and whatever happened, you can’t change it. There are rules.”
“The rules are wrong.”
Jasmine sat back, startled.
“Were wrong, I mean…” The Doctor looked to the floor. “Time is malleable, a lot more malleable than I thought. Jasmine Sparks, you don’t have to fight God. You do not have a duty; that is, and always has been, mine. There’s still time to turn your back.”
“Doctor…” Jasmine shook her head. “If you feel compelled to do something, then that’s your duty. Duty comes from within you. And this will always be my duty. I’m sorry.” She stood up, but as she went to leave, the Doctor grabbed her hand. Jasmine stopped, and they both stood where they were for a moment.
She had held the Doctor’s hand before while running down corridors, visiting alien worlds, whatnot. It was the same person, but even the touch of the Doctor’s skin had changed. She let it last a moment longer, more for the Doctor’s sake than her own, and then let go before leaving the apartment.
As Jasmine walked down the street, she thought of Tommy once more. It hurt, but it was better than considering why it was that the Doctor had tried to talk her out of this.
***
Noa walked down the corridor towards God’s office, unmoved by the polished gold walls, or the long, velvety red rugs. Luxury to her always seemed paradoxical: ‘luxury’ was not a luxury, but a burden, a cause to look at the world around you and feel somehow inadequate.
The one and only adult survivor of Harmony, Noa was rescued from the burning world by God. She was no different from any of her friends, but he had selected her as his servant nonetheless, and frequently reminded her of how she had been saved and chosen to serve him.
The only one. So she figured, she must hate him more than did anyone else in the universe.
She made the same wish in her head that she made every day – that somehow, she would be allowed to see her children again. She avoided turning it into a prayer, realising who it would be addressed to.
“Noa!” said God as she knocked on his door. “Come in.”
Noa pushed the door open, irked by God’s friendliness, and approached his desk deferentially.
“Happy Birthday,” he said, with a condescending grin. “It’s thirty-two today, isn’t it? Such a young thing. I wonder what my next will be. How old is the universe, exactly?”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied Noa, with as little intonation as possible.
“Birthday present for you.” God leaned forward, and gazed up at his servant with a smirk. It was his way of telling her: something had changed. “I’ve decided that it’s time for the end.”
“The end, sir?”
“Well, time and space, it’s all getting a bit old now, isn’t it? And I’ve seen a lot in my time, I really have, but I think Heaven was the last straw. There will be no Time War. There will be no… well, anything, really.”
“Sir…”
“This universe is full of lawlessness, Noa. Sinners like yourself. So, I’m about to destroy them. All of them, and the universe with them.”
Noa shuddered. God felt it, and delved into her mind.
“It’s okay,” he said, in answer to one of her thoughts. “I’m not going to kill you. What’s the point in putting on a show without an audience? You can watch it all burn, again. Perhaps your children are out there somewhere.”
“I’d kill you,” interrupted Noa, her voice shaking. God’s smile just widened, as he sat back and crossed his arms, satisfied by what he had drawn out of her. “If I got the chance, I would… oh, I have so many ideas of how I’d do it.”
“I know. I’ve seen a few of them. I can give you a servant to practise on, if you like.”
“At the moment I’m being drawn to a bullet to the head,” continued Noa. “After all, all of this has come from that warped, twisted mind of yours.”
“Nice.” God nodded. “Poetic. Such a shame there’ll never be a way for you to do that, isn’t there? Still, never mind. Are you ready for the show?”
***
Colonel Ward nodded to the guard as he left UNIT HQ, and after taking a few steps away, looked back at the building.
The Tower of London. He beamed, proud of his job. Proud to have grown up in a crime-ridden street on a diet of bread, water, and whatever he could snatch off his siblings, and to have ended up here: an important figure for an important organisation, situated inside this indescribably important monument to an impressive, if slightly decadent cultural history.
He sighed. It wasn’t fair that these places carried on for so long, that their bricks took forever to crumble. They got to be old for the rest of time, but for everyone else, that was a faster process.
Ward looked down at his shaking hand. It was either the illness, or the promise he had made to himself. It didn’t matter which, now.
Like roughly a tenth of the population (and set to rocket higher), Colonel Ward was dying.
***
Natalie heard the door click open again, and hoped it wasn’t burglars. She wouldn’t have the energy to fight them, and at this stage they’d probably mistake her for a piece of furniture and steal her, too.
It wasn’t. In the suffocating uncertainty of a winter’s night in London, Jasmine Sparks had returned.
“J…”
Natalie tried to say her name, but could not find the energy. She twitched her fingers to show that she welcomed her visitor.
“Hey.” The chair Jasmine had pulled up earlier was still where she had left it, and she sat down on it again, gripping Natalie’s hand. The hand was warm and clammy. Jasmine frowned, concerned.
“Natalie, I’m going away.”
Natalie squeezed Jasmine’s hand. Jasmine understood the message: stay.
“I’m going to finish this, Natalie. I’m going to destroy that tyrant I told you about, and it’ll kill me, but I’ll do it. Or I’ll try.” She felt herself crying, and hoped that Natalie would stay strong for her. She returned Natalie’s earlier gesture, squeezing her hand. “If we don’t see each other again, I want you to know that I did this for you, and for everyone else, but most of all because it was all I ever could do. I’m not someone to sit back and let suffering happen. And if that gets me martyred, then so be it.” She took a deep breath, and steadied herself. “I’m terrified, but that’s okay. There are some things you have to do, even when you don’t want to. That’s where the idea of courage came from in the first place.”
She lifted Natalie’s hand, and kissed it softly, before placing it back where it had been. A single tear rolled down Natalie’s cheek. Jasmine rubbed it off with her index finger.
“Stay strong,” whispered Jasmine. “Be brave, and never be sorry.”
She stood up, and turned to the door. She didn’t jump this time, though a part of her was still surprised.
The Doctor was there. Not the one from earlier – her Doctor.
“I understand now,” said the Doctor, quietly. “What you said to me earlier about me treating it as a logical problem. It never was – it was a moral question. Are you obliged to go to war with someone you know to be utterly evil, even if you know that they’re going to beat you?”
“I am,” answered Jasmine, without any hesitating. “But then, we decide our own obligations, don’t we?”
***
Ward did not have to walk for long before he found an abandoned street. There were now so many in London. The city was a labyrinth, and no one ever reached the heart. Sometimes, just sometimes, there were other people to guide them through, some of the way at least.
Ward smiled at the thought, and then dismissed it. He was never much one for Greek mythology: besides, he had smiled too much today.
He reached down, and pulled out his gun.
***
The TARDIS
Jasmine ran her hands along the bookshelves as she entered. This time, no dust came off on her fingers: the Doctor had been busy, reading up and rearranging. A thought struck her, and she gave up trying to supress it.
I’ve missed this place.
Perhaps they could carry on. If they forgot God, he would forget them. He’d destroy the Earth, sure, but they could forget that too. Have adventures on other worlds, build new homes and leave before he tore them down. They could carry on for the rest of their lives at least.
No. Jasmine shook her head. That was an insane thought, to both the younger girl and her companion.
“You’re right,” said the Doctor, plotting coordinates. He seemed to be thinking, retrieving them from somewhere. “I can’t just sit back and let this happen, that’s not me and it won’t ever be. But you do realise this will kill us, don’t you? Both of us?”
Jasmine stepped up to the console area. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The Doctor nodded. “I’d send you home, but I’ve learnt by now that you’re better at making your own decisions, all of you.”
He finished plotting the coordinates, and the TARDIS took flight.
“Where are we going?”
“Where all the rule-breakers go.” The Doctor pulled a lever, and the TARDIS jolted to a sharp halt. “To Hell.”
***
Earth
With his spare hand, now shaking even more than the other one, Ward got out his phone. No passcode lock – perfect. Anyone could find it and see what was left. He squinted at the menu, a bright light on a dark and shadowy street.
Voice recorder. He held his thumb over the button.
“My name is Co…” he paused, trying to stop his voice from shaking, and remembered what this message was to be. “Graham Ward,” he corrected himself. “I’m dying from the plague, and have been since yesterday. I have a wife, and a fifteen year-old son. If I return home, they’ll end up with it too. And if I go into hospital… it’ll end the same way as it would for anyone else.” He huffed. “Bugger.”
His ribs were starting to ache. He thought it was his ribs, anyway. His back was beginning to give in, too. He slid down against the wall, falling into a seated position.
“Argh… this is more torturous than the bloody Paul O’Grady show. Christ on a battleship…” he pushed himself up a little, and held the phone back up to his face. “This is really it, isn’t it? You’re born, lots of people swear at you, and then you die. Still, never mind, eh.” He started to laugh, and it turned into a violent cough, splattering the screen of his phone with blood. “I love you, Mikey. And I know I don’t often tell you it, son, but… I’m so proud of you.”
Insufficient space. The phone stopped recording. Ward nodded; it had cut him off at the right time, saving him another needless movement.
***
Natalie’s father pushed open the door to her house. It moved with ease. Someone else must have been in.
“Natalie, sweetheart!” he called. The night responded with silence. “I came back for you. The others are safe now, but I couldn’t leave you here. Natalie?”
He entered the room he had left her in, propped up and secured on a makeshift bed. The same bottles were in the same places. Just outside the window, a black cat watched, soullessly, as Natalie’s father tried to manoeuvre himself round to a suitable location. He shut the curtains as he went.
“Natalie, love…” he looked down at her. She was so pale, so still…
“C’mon, Natalie. It’s your dad. Give us a nod, eh?”
He reached for one of her hands. It was stone cold.
***
Ward stared down the barrel of the gun, before chuckling at the cliché. He had tried not to be that kind of man, but he was, and always had been.
“Lucky I remembered you, too.” Ward fumbled around, and took the cap off his bottle of whiskey, taking one last, satisfying swig. “The number of times I snuck you in unnoticed. We were a right pair, us two…”
He thought back to his first day on the job; now it was only the two of them. Looking up to that old superior of his, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, the man who knew everything. All those years he had spent, trying to make him proud, until one day, Lethbridge-Stewart had invited him out for a pint, told him that he was one of the most loyal men he had ever known, and above all else, one of his best friends.
Friends, family, whiskey, work. That was life. And, Ward decided in those few seconds, it was sodding brilliant.
He took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.
Morning came, as it always did, marked by a freshness in the air, a crescendo of noise – and, this one time -- the discovery of the body of Colonel Graham Ward. A soldier who had lived honestly, fought staunchly, and died bravely.
****
The Tower of London. He beamed, proud of his job. Proud to have grown up in a crime-ridden street on a diet of bread, water, and whatever he could snatch off his siblings, and to have ended up here: an important figure for an important organisation, situated inside this indescribably important monument to an impressive, if slightly decadent cultural history.
He sighed. It wasn’t fair that these places carried on for so long, that their bricks took forever to crumble. They got to be old for the rest of time, but for everyone else, that was a faster process.
Ward looked down at his shaking hand. It was either the illness, or the promise he had made to himself. It didn’t matter which, now.
Like roughly a tenth of the population (and set to rocket higher), Colonel Ward was dying.
***
Natalie heard the door click open again, and hoped it wasn’t burglars. She wouldn’t have the energy to fight them, and at this stage they’d probably mistake her for a piece of furniture and steal her, too.
It wasn’t. In the suffocating uncertainty of a winter’s night in London, Jasmine Sparks had returned.
“J…”
Natalie tried to say her name, but could not find the energy. She twitched her fingers to show that she welcomed her visitor.
“Hey.” The chair Jasmine had pulled up earlier was still where she had left it, and she sat down on it again, gripping Natalie’s hand. The hand was warm and clammy. Jasmine frowned, concerned.
“Natalie, I’m going away.”
Natalie squeezed Jasmine’s hand. Jasmine understood the message: stay.
“I’m going to finish this, Natalie. I’m going to destroy that tyrant I told you about, and it’ll kill me, but I’ll do it. Or I’ll try.” She felt herself crying, and hoped that Natalie would stay strong for her. She returned Natalie’s earlier gesture, squeezing her hand. “If we don’t see each other again, I want you to know that I did this for you, and for everyone else, but most of all because it was all I ever could do. I’m not someone to sit back and let suffering happen. And if that gets me martyred, then so be it.” She took a deep breath, and steadied herself. “I’m terrified, but that’s okay. There are some things you have to do, even when you don’t want to. That’s where the idea of courage came from in the first place.”
She lifted Natalie’s hand, and kissed it softly, before placing it back where it had been. A single tear rolled down Natalie’s cheek. Jasmine rubbed it off with her index finger.
“Stay strong,” whispered Jasmine. “Be brave, and never be sorry.”
She stood up, and turned to the door. She didn’t jump this time, though a part of her was still surprised.
The Doctor was there. Not the one from earlier – her Doctor.
“I understand now,” said the Doctor, quietly. “What you said to me earlier about me treating it as a logical problem. It never was – it was a moral question. Are you obliged to go to war with someone you know to be utterly evil, even if you know that they’re going to beat you?”
“I am,” answered Jasmine, without any hesitating. “But then, we decide our own obligations, don’t we?”
***
Ward did not have to walk for long before he found an abandoned street. There were now so many in London. The city was a labyrinth, and no one ever reached the heart. Sometimes, just sometimes, there were other people to guide them through, some of the way at least.
Ward smiled at the thought, and then dismissed it. He was never much one for Greek mythology: besides, he had smiled too much today.
He reached down, and pulled out his gun.
***
The TARDIS
Jasmine ran her hands along the bookshelves as she entered. This time, no dust came off on her fingers: the Doctor had been busy, reading up and rearranging. A thought struck her, and she gave up trying to supress it.
I’ve missed this place.
Perhaps they could carry on. If they forgot God, he would forget them. He’d destroy the Earth, sure, but they could forget that too. Have adventures on other worlds, build new homes and leave before he tore them down. They could carry on for the rest of their lives at least.
No. Jasmine shook her head. That was an insane thought, to both the younger girl and her companion.
“You’re right,” said the Doctor, plotting coordinates. He seemed to be thinking, retrieving them from somewhere. “I can’t just sit back and let this happen, that’s not me and it won’t ever be. But you do realise this will kill us, don’t you? Both of us?”
Jasmine stepped up to the console area. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The Doctor nodded. “I’d send you home, but I’ve learnt by now that you’re better at making your own decisions, all of you.”
He finished plotting the coordinates, and the TARDIS took flight.
“Where are we going?”
“Where all the rule-breakers go.” The Doctor pulled a lever, and the TARDIS jolted to a sharp halt. “To Hell.”
***
Earth
With his spare hand, now shaking even more than the other one, Ward got out his phone. No passcode lock – perfect. Anyone could find it and see what was left. He squinted at the menu, a bright light on a dark and shadowy street.
Voice recorder. He held his thumb over the button.
“My name is Co…” he paused, trying to stop his voice from shaking, and remembered what this message was to be. “Graham Ward,” he corrected himself. “I’m dying from the plague, and have been since yesterday. I have a wife, and a fifteen year-old son. If I return home, they’ll end up with it too. And if I go into hospital… it’ll end the same way as it would for anyone else.” He huffed. “Bugger.”
His ribs were starting to ache. He thought it was his ribs, anyway. His back was beginning to give in, too. He slid down against the wall, falling into a seated position.
“Argh… this is more torturous than the bloody Paul O’Grady show. Christ on a battleship…” he pushed himself up a little, and held the phone back up to his face. “This is really it, isn’t it? You’re born, lots of people swear at you, and then you die. Still, never mind, eh.” He started to laugh, and it turned into a violent cough, splattering the screen of his phone with blood. “I love you, Mikey. And I know I don’t often tell you it, son, but… I’m so proud of you.”
Insufficient space. The phone stopped recording. Ward nodded; it had cut him off at the right time, saving him another needless movement.
***
Natalie’s father pushed open the door to her house. It moved with ease. Someone else must have been in.
“Natalie, sweetheart!” he called. The night responded with silence. “I came back for you. The others are safe now, but I couldn’t leave you here. Natalie?”
He entered the room he had left her in, propped up and secured on a makeshift bed. The same bottles were in the same places. Just outside the window, a black cat watched, soullessly, as Natalie’s father tried to manoeuvre himself round to a suitable location. He shut the curtains as he went.
“Natalie, love…” he looked down at her. She was so pale, so still…
“C’mon, Natalie. It’s your dad. Give us a nod, eh?”
He reached for one of her hands. It was stone cold.
***
Ward stared down the barrel of the gun, before chuckling at the cliché. He had tried not to be that kind of man, but he was, and always had been.
“Lucky I remembered you, too.” Ward fumbled around, and took the cap off his bottle of whiskey, taking one last, satisfying swig. “The number of times I snuck you in unnoticed. We were a right pair, us two…”
He thought back to his first day on the job; now it was only the two of them. Looking up to that old superior of his, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, the man who knew everything. All those years he had spent, trying to make him proud, until one day, Lethbridge-Stewart had invited him out for a pint, told him that he was one of the most loyal men he had ever known, and above all else, one of his best friends.
Friends, family, whiskey, work. That was life. And, Ward decided in those few seconds, it was sodding brilliant.
He took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.
Morning came, as it always did, marked by a freshness in the air, a crescendo of noise – and, this one time -- the discovery of the body of Colonel Graham Ward. A soldier who had lived honestly, fought staunchly, and died bravely.
****