Doctor Who_ Fallen Gods Part 1

FALLEN G.o.dS.

by Jonathan Blum & Kate Orman.

Foreword by Storm Constantine

When I was asked to write an introduction for this book, I had no idea what to expect from it, and was a little surprised by the request. I am not known for being an aficionado of Doctor Who, and my main experiences of it are the memories of childhood teatimes and the programme on TV that both terrified and enthralled me. Seen later in life, those BBC sets have not travelled through time quite as efficiently as the character they framed, but the Doctor has his own magic and that has not been diminished either by time or by memory. The fact that he has endured, sometimes against great odds, is testament to that.

My qualification for speaking here is my own pa.s.sion for the mythic, because in this novel the Doctor manifests in Bronze Age Thera; but I confess I was a little sceptical. My previous experience of spin-off novels from TV series has not been edifying. However, I trusted the publishers' opinion enough to think they wouldn't have asked me to contribute if they weren't sure I'd like the book. And I'm pleased to say that Fallen G.o.ds has been a revelation to me; it has opened my eyes to the modern world of D has been a revelation to me; it has opened my eyes to the modern world of Doctor Who.

In this story, the melding of science fiction with myth is seamless and feels in no way contrived or unlikely. Throughout human history, knowledge and enlightenment have dragged superst.i.tion, sometimes kicking and screaming, into the realm of science. What we perceive, in ignorance, to be supernatural is eventually revealed to be part of the workings of the universe, and perhaps that process is and will be ongoing, for as long as there are humans eager to probe the secrets of life.

Although the Doctor and his own mythology are the main components of the story, it is not just for the diehard Doctor Who fan, and will be enjoyed by any reader who appreciates good writing and has a fascination for the Golden Age of ancient times, when sirens haunted the mists of the wine-dark sea and the tragic Minotaur stamped through the echoing corridors of the labyrinth. The authors have brought the Minoan civilisation vividly to life with much authentic detail, sewing into their story colourful images of Greek and Cretan legend. The fallen G.o.ds include the Doctor himself, here recreated in the image of many trickster deities. He is the Fool of the Tarot, reckless and unfathomable; the cosmic jester, who illumines potential yet speaks like a sphinx in riddles. He is a doomed fallen angel, Prometheus bringing the gift of fire, Icarus flying on wings of folly towards the sun. He is also Daedalus, whose vision and inventions are craved by kings. His character is complex; his wry wit matched by glimpses of a deep inner pain that spans the universe and beyond. It is inevitable that wherever he manifests in the streams of time and s.p.a.ce, he changes them and diverts the current of the future. Therefore, he cannot help but be aware that as much as he is an agent for good, his intrusion can unwittingly spell death or non-birth for those who might otherwise have survived or existed. In this awareness lies his tragedy. He is an eternal child, yet ancient beyond imagination, as evanescent as a phantom. Deftly, his authors do not allow the reader to identify him fully, which is how it should be. He is like a shapes.h.i.+fter: images and ideas of his appearance, personality and motives are in constant flux. He is, we can suppose, what we expect him to be, designed by our own desires and beliefs, which mirrors what he reveals to the priestess Alcestis on the nature of supernatural beings.

The relations.h.i.+p between the Doctor and Alcestis smoulders throughout the story, erotic without being s.e.xual, a Greek tragedy of unconsummated love, which culminates in a skilful retelling of the myth of Prometheus. There are so many allusions to Greek legend in this novella, weaving in and around each other, that it's a delight for any reader interested in the subject to try to spot them all. I'm sure repeated readings would reveal more little treasures hidden in secret corners.

When any writer adds to the existing canon of a fictional character, they expand the myth, keeping it alive and dynamic. Doctor Who spans generations, and its appeal continues to attract new fans. Perhaps one of the reasons for its success is that within its framework anything is possible, nothing is pinned down in time and s.p.a.ce. It continues to evolve, because from its beginning no limits were placed upon it. It is not confined to a particular time in history, such as the early black and white TV programmes, which were but one aspect of the Doctor's evolution. The Doctor is an eternal hero, who can slip into any reality and change it. The universe is infinite, so the potential for Doctor Who stories is infinite. It's tempting to imagine what it would be like if he manifested in a time and place that is beyond human description. You can only suppose that must happen to a Time Lord now and again! stories is infinite. It's tempting to imagine what it would be like if he manifested in a time and place that is beyond human description. You can only suppose that must happen to a Time Lord now and again!

The Doctor has come a long way from what I remember of those old TV episodes. I am happy to discover he is alive and well, because I used to love so much being scared by the series, no matter what nightmares they inspired. I am even happier to discover that darker aspects of the Doctor are being revealed, giving him more depth and fascination. He has stood the test of time, as a Time Lord should, of course. And his history is in safe hands with writers such as Jonathan Blum and Kate Orman. It's no less than he deserves.

Storm Constantine Stafford Stafford

One: Dance

-Close your eyes, murmurs her teacher.

Alcestis, poised, touch of sun-baked sweat drying onto her. Finding her balance as she stands in the open fields. The odd foreign man behind her, pale and cool as ivory in the heat.

Inside her eyes, all is warm orange. Even with them shut, the Aegean sunlight is bright enough to burn inside. She stands, breathing just a little too hard, and listens to his voice pa.s.s slowly behind her.

-Feel the wind? he asks. -Just a light breeze. You can feel it against your skin. You're so light, if you lifted up just a touch, it could blow you away.

His words form a circle around her as he paces. -There's a rhythm to it. A tempo. Swelling and fading. A slow, endless beat, slower even than your heart. It's the longest music in the world.And she can feel it, spreading across her: individual points of gooseflesh on her arms and chest, the ever-so-slight change in the pressure of her flounced skirt against her legs. She relaxes into it, just lets herself feel the wind blowing through her, as if emptying her mind will make her as light as he says.

He's right by her ear now, but softer than ever. -You can feel it quickening now.

Alcestis s.h.i.+vers for a moment. His breath came against the wind, she could feel it rock her in a different direction. She s.h.i.+fts her balance, raises herself up, light on her toes, ready to take the first step.

-It's got a good beat you can dance to it. Ask the local eagles. You know there are some people in the world for whom dancing isn't sacred? Oh, give them a tune and they can bounce about a bit, but that's as much as they know or care ... They don't know what it means to move with the world, not just through it.

She knows the dance, remembers from her time in the temple. This isn't so different. The tempo is far slower, but she can find it now in the rhythm of the breeze playing across her skin, as it s.h.i.+fts direction, spirals and eddies, but always in the end leads back to the sea. And the counter-rhythm of his words winding around her.

-Now take the wind to pieces. It's coming from so many directions at once, just look at one of them. Just feel the part that's moving across you, left to right.

She can feel the difference ... the afternoon sunfire on her right, just that much warmer than the breeze on the other side. Both sides of her tingling now, s.h.i.+vering in the heat.

-Now the other direction. Just feel the bit of the wind on your front. It's got its own rhythm, you can play the two of them against each other. You'll have to remember that, to keep control.

-And now the other other direction. Out of the plane, right angles to everything else, away from the ways you usually move. Straight up and down. You can feel the wind lifting you, can't you? You can't follow it, not yet, but you can feel this pull ready to launch you. direction. Out of the plane, right angles to everything else, away from the ways you usually move. Straight up and down. You can feel the wind lifting you, can't you? You can't follow it, not yet, but you can feel this pull ready to launch you.

-And now the other other other direction. other direction.-You can feel the wind blowing from your past to your future. A breath inside you, fanning the little spark of fire at your core. Feel that now.

And it's as clear and sharp as all the others the thrumming of her body, that she's never been able to pick out from her heartbeat. The currents blowing inside her, pulling her to the next moment. She can feel the rhythm running through each second, she knows how to move with it.

Alcestis, ready now to dance.

-Now, up And she blows away.

A moment later she's falling, legs flailing in search of the ground. When she hits it's a smack across her chest, driving the breath from her even as she tries to gasp. Suddenly furious with herself, she rolls over in the dust, fighting to breathe, demanding of her body which piece of it has failed her.

She sits up, pus.h.i.+ng her hair out of her face and plucking gra.s.s from the heavy black tresses. One of her earrings is gone, lost during her instant of flight.

She recognises the goat-track winding through the distance: she's up near the high side of the island, a short distance from the cliffs overlooking Kamenai. In an instant she's leaped halfway across the island. She thinks of those cliffs, six hundred feet down to the water, and is grateful that this gift she's discovered wasn't a half mile more prodigious.

By the time he finds her, on the goat-track, the sun is sinking low. The sunset brings colour to his pasty foreign skin, makes him look like he's blus.h.i.+ng. No, she realises, he is flushed from excitement, triumph, awe, or the last run he took to catch her once he came over the hill. There's a hint of shadow under his cheekbones, a sketch of crows-feet around his eyes, a look of amazement too fierce to be simple joy.

-Well I'm thoroughly impressed, he tells her.

-I'm not, the way I landed ...

-Halfway across the island, he says, as they turn and head for home. And only then does the low wonder in his voice reach her, and she begins to realise what she's just done.

-How did I do it? How did I go so far?He begins to explain, one of his complex tales full of moving hands and convoluted gestures. -Well I'd expected you to catch just the edge of one of the temporal currents, but instead you dived right into the middle of them. For a fragment of a second, you held yourself completely still.

-It didn't feel like stillness!-The Earth moved, rotating and revolving and so forth, and so the next moment there was something else underneath you.

-So I can just ... vanish. Get away from them.He frowns, suddenly stern. -Well, that would confuse them, but I don't think it would hold their attention. So it does rather miss the point of the exercise. No, you need to be able to do more than stay still you need to be able to move as you choose. Catch the current, ride it at an angle, blend it into the other three dimensions of the dance. The way the currents round here are distorted, you can use them to move through s.p.a.ce as well.

-And keep riding them?

-Mm, yes. That's all flying is enough moments of not falling.

They walk together towards the sunset. It makes her think not of endings, but of all the days to come.

It was up near here that she'd first found him, on the morning before the sixth attack. She'd taken the day off to go walking on the high side of the island telling herself she wanted to look for a new design for her pottery among the leaves and flowers, but really just feeling Akrotiri itching under her skin. The town always sc.r.a.ped her nerves, but at least she usually knew what she wanted to escape. All she'd had that day had been an unfocused twitchy desire to be anywhere else.

Maybe it had been Nisus, the previous night in the tavern. She'd first met him just after the fourth attack, as she'd helped clear the rubble; she remembered him working in a diligent daze beside her, even as she'd heard the awed whispers about how he'd rushed into Cretheus's house to support the corner lintel the demon's hooves just round the wall from him long enough to allow Cretheus and his daughters to get clear. She'd seen the look of disbelief creep across Nisus's face while they worked, as he'd slowly realised what an unimaginable thing he'd done, and the sight had been almost enough to make her forget herself and hold him.

Weeks had pa.s.sed, and that night in the tavern he'd been repeating his own legend, slopping wine down young Aerope's blouse in the telling. The family Cretheus had ceased to be the important ones in the story. His voice had lurched through the latest bellicose anthems, ready to war with anyone, just as soon as they knew whom.

Maybe it had been Nisus. Maybe Neleus the innkeeper, watering the drinks as always, goading old Cocalus for being Athenian by birth precisely the same way he'd goaded him before the attacks, but now with the extra weapon of being able to jeer at his loyalties. They had danced in Athens at the news of Akrotiri being laid low, a tale Neleus used like a bludgeon. Using the world's new cruelty to justify further little cruelties.

Maybe Nisus, maybe Neleus. Maybe herself, finis.h.i.+ng her wine in silence and leaving without making a fuss. Maybe a whole island that had known peace since the days of the first Minos, now so ready to dismiss its better nature as a pampered fantasy, to respond to ugliness in kind. One of the richest islands in all of Minos's empire, and they acted as if all their luxury and privilege had vanished overnight, such that decency was an indulgence they could no longer afford. Harsher than the loss of innocence was the loss of compa.s.sion and when she'd realised she couldn't even weep for them, she'd had to get out.

So she was wandering near the cliffs facing Kamenai when she first saw him falling. More remarkable than simply being there to see him was the fact that she looked up; they had all lost the habit of raising their eyes. But Alcestis did, looking over the water towards the royal island, wondering whether she'd be feeling this unsettled itch if her years over there had not come to such an abrupt end. And so she saw the speck plummeting towards the ocean from the sky.

Being a G.o.ds-fearing individual, she found the sight of a man being cast out of heaven, if not familiar, at least explicable. Still, it wasn't something Alcestis had ever seen for herself. Pelopia was always swearing she'd seen a nymph flitting round her vegetable patch, or that twenty years ago a centaur had barged in on her when she was bathing (though probably only the equine half of the fellow would have taken any interest in Pelopia), but generally such creatures kept their profiles even lower than the people of Akrotiri kept their eyes.

It was only when the rainbow wings spread over his head that she thought perhaps she shouldn't be looking. Ah well, if this G.o.d were the sort that paraded himself in all his glory and then blinded those who stared, as the sun was known to do, it was too late now. The wind from Kamenai was sweeping him towards her.

Closer now, they weren't wings instead a multi-coloured canopy curving above, roped to his back. Not a G.o.d, then. No G.o.d would need to break his fall. An inventor, perhaps, or a sailor, expansive in his cunning, using a rainbow sail to catch the wind and slow his descent. If whatever G.o.d had taken him up had expected him to be shattered by his landing, they'd be surprised.

The man cleared the edge of the cliff with a few feet to spare, and swerved between the stubby trees to reach the open land. When he touched the ground he ran with the wind for a few paces, the rainbowpanelled canopy settling to earth behind him, then let forth a triumphant, fierce breath declaring to all the world that he wasn't dead. His chestnut hair stuck out like a mane after tussling with the wind. He stood like a king surveying his new domain.

-Well now. This'll do.He met her eyes, from across the clearing, then blithely let them go again. As if saying it was nice to meet her, but since she was probably going to flee in terror she had his permission to get on with it. Instead she approached him, as he busied himself gathering up the fabric of his wings.

-And you are? she asked.

He smiled, like a cat with a mouse. -Guess.

-There are a hundred thousand men in the empire, each with his own name. I don't know enough of them to guess.

-A man, then? Not a G.o.d?

-Probably.

(A grin.) -You've no idea what a relief that is. (Then a sudden pout.) Not even half a G.o.d? Human on my mother's side, perhaps, with my father a divine bull from the heavens ...

She couldn't be sure which of them he was mocking. Straight faced, she looked him up and down, the thick fabric of his elaborate clothes, his blue eyes and his wild hair. -It's not impossible.-Well that's something. I'd hate to think I suggested a lack of possibilities.

-You'd have to convince me, though.-Yes. Well, I'm afraid that might have to wait for a while. You see, I was rather aiming for over there.

He pointed off the cliff towards Kamenai and went on packing his sail away. -There's a powerful updraft, threw me off course. I hadn't counted on it.

-There's always a wind near Kamenai. From the volcano.-Volcano? Oh, of course. This is Thera, after all. How does one usually get there?

-There's a boat every day from Akrotiri. It goes right around to the temple and palace.

-Palace?

-On the royal island.

-Royal island? The volcano? You mean, a palace right on the slopes?

-Of course.

-Well there's chutzpah for you.

He finished balling up the fabric, and started down the path away from the cliff. She found herself moving alongside him. -Could you possibly lead me to the docks? he asked. -In Akrotiri? You see, I need to get over there rather urgently.

-Can't you just fly there?He looked bewildered, then took in the ma.s.s of silk he was holding, and beamed. -Oh no, I don't fly. I just fall with a certain amount of style.

He calls himself the Doctor. He's a big man more than five-and-a-half feet tall but somehow gives a sense of smallness, as if he squeezes himself down to her size. Perhaps that containment produces the pressure inside that drives him. His eyes are full of pride and insouciance, the hint of crows-feet around them suggesting an age that his lithe movements belie. The creases developing in his face speak of a wide-ranging, much-used mockery. They frame a perilous smile.

He had asked why she had been so able to accept his arrival, and she hadn't told him. In the temple, in her young days, she had cultivated her awe. Even when the other priestesses had faded under the familiarity, seeing the G.o.ds as a source of easy blessing and the bulls as a source of noise, she had stood at night in the alabaster halls cut into the side of the mountain, her mind open even to a flicker of the t.i.tans' flame.

After years touching the cool fire of the t.i.tans, then years of silence, even the Doctor's colours seemed muted. But if it meant that she could talk to him where others would be tongue-tied, perhaps it was for the best.

Some nights after that first lesson, she stands on the edge of the cliff again leaning into the wind, one foot out over the abyss. She breathes hard, feels the current inside lifting her, ready to tear her away from the moment. His torch, the only light, reveals just enough of them to hint at more.

-The currents near the island are bent around the land. They don't just pull you through time, but through s.p.a.ce as well. That's how they move. Can you feel the angle it's at?

-From behind.

-Lean into it. Find the balance.

She flexes, s.h.i.+vering, and pushes herself against the current, letting it support her. The world judders with her heart. But she's still there he's still there flickering, insubstantial, his pale face looking like a hole in the night. The flames moving slower now, at just the wrong speed.-Good, good. Now just lean into it She lets the wind and the current balance her between themselves. Turns to look at him, sees the look of awe on his face. Follows his gaze down, to where her foot is no longer on the ground.She catches her breath, and doesn't fall.Inside she leans again, feels herself buoyed up. Lets the wind carry her inland, the ground flickering past. Pushes herself forward, tries a swoop down, then pulls herself up and with a wrench brings herself to a dead stop in the air. Gritting teeth, gasping, then laughing.

She hovers now in front of him, holding her balance like a tightrope walker. His gaze takes her in, his eyes s.h.i.+ning, staring at what he's done no, at what she's done. Then moving from her to the stars beyond. done. Then moving from her to the stars beyond.-I wish that I could be the sky, with all those eyes to look at you ...She sweeps down upon him and gathers him up. Whirling him into the dance. But she feels him freeze, his arms and legs locked against her, like trying to move with a tree trunk. She meets his eyes, and slows to astop in the air.-Put me down? Please? Now?Gently she lowers him, not letting her own feet touch the ground, afraid they'll never leave again. She hangs in front of him, struggling.

-Why?

He just shakes his head, his face still tight and twisted. He looks away, past her again, to the sky. Waves a hand. -It's all yours. Yours alone.

-But ...

-Go on. Explore it. I'll still be here. Just don't go too high.

-Too close to the sun?

He shakes his head, a hollow smile. -No, you won't burn up there. It's cold. There's a lot of cold between you and the sun. And so much loneliness you won't even have air for company.

She wants to stay, to ask more, but the currents are already buoying her upwards. She s.h.i.+fts her balance, feels her legs sweeping upwards behind, hovering p.r.o.ne. His face is just below her, just out of reach of hers. But he's looking at her again as she raises her head, begins to sail forward and up. Up into the dark.

She hears him call quietly after her. -And when you come back, I'll teach you to fight.

At the docks, of course, the liveried soldiers who guarded the s.h.i.+pment of supplies to Kamenai refused to let this foreigner on board. His profile was all wrong, his sunless skin and not-even-shoulder-length hair marking him out as dangerous. He declared he was a n.o.ble of a northern tribe; they indicated that a n.o.ble from outside the empire was in their esteemed opinion a contradiction in terms. He told them there was a catastrophe coming; they sn.i.g.g.e.red and said they had guessed as much. He told them he had detailed information; they looked him over and said to aid his memory they'd be glad to provide him with a set of leg-irons and a hot poker or two. He departed with offended dignity and his exotic clothes barely intact.

So, instead, at a shop he traded a silver ring for a simple knee-length skirt and a bronze belt, grimed his face and his hands, and before Alcestis's eyes pulled himself down half a dozen social cla.s.ses into a pitch-scented sailor. She couldn't be sure whether he was putting a skin on, or taking one off.

She said her goodbyes to him again at the docks, then watched him inveigle himself into the crew of the boat, send one of the hands away on an errand. He pa.s.sed under the watchful eyes of those same guards as they counted the crew, and she saw him disappearing into the ma.s.s of rowers as they pulled away.