Doctor Who_ Divided Loyalties Part 1

DIVIDED LOYALTIES.

by GARY RUSSELL.

1.

Her Body in My Soul

The TARDIS was hovering in the s.p.a.ce-time vortex - drift compensators stopping it from going anywhere hazardous - although soon its automatic guidance controls would silently operate on a pre-programmed set of commands, opening a gateway between the vortex and real s.p.a.ce. From there it would, to all intents and purposes, step sideways and out into a charted but near-empty region of s.p.a.ce - one of the Doctor's favourites in fact.

He rarely needed sleep - certainly not as often as his three young travelling companions did, but when he did so, he slept deeply and well.

He could have parked the TARDIS on a planet somewhere, but somehow that nearly always led to an adventure of some sort, and he felt they all needed a break from that - on their last stopover, they had accidentally started a fire in a city called London. As Pudding Lane fell victim to flame and cinder, he had abruptly sent the TARDIS spiralling back into s.p.a.ce, wanting to be as far away from that little mishap as possible.

Thus, he had elected just to float in an uninspiring region of the galaxy while they all rested.

The Doctor's bedroom was a bizarre affair, consisting of a large four-poster complete with ornate awnings, silk sheets and an enormous chocolate-coloured toy rabbit. An original Jackson Pollock was attached to the door with chewing gum.

Hey Doc was scribbled in the corner, was scribbled in the corner, Happy times and places, Happy times and places, J. J. All the Doctor had done was accidentally knock one of Pollock's paint pots over but this had impressed the artist so much he later presented him with this unique picture which he insisted was Azure in the Rain by a Man Who'd Never Been There'. Travelling with the Doctor at the time had been his old friend Romana, who made the pithy comment, Gosh, you'd never know'. But then, Romana would. All the Doctor had done was accidentally knock one of Pollock's paint pots over but this had impressed the artist so much he later presented him with this unique picture which he insisted was Azure in the Rain by a Man Who'd Never Been There'. Travelling with the Doctor at the time had been his old friend Romana, who made the pithy comment, Gosh, you'd never know'. But then, Romana would.

However, that was a lifetime ago - almost literally. The Doctor currently asleep in the TARDIS appeared to be a young, fair-haired man with a not unattractive face that was designed to smile. He normally wore Edwardian cricketing gear, complete with long beige overcoat. That coat was currently attached to the end of the four-poster via a plastic Mickey Mouse coat hanger. The Doctor currently wore white pyjamas, with tiny question-mark motifs sewn on to them.

If sleep was rare enough for him, dreaming was more so.

But at this moment, his unconscious mind had situated him in a bizarre corridor, with no end. On one side the walls, ceiling and floor were a perfect white, on the other, jet black, the shades meeting dead centre of ceiling and floor.

The Doctor stood astride both black and white and discovered that the side of him in the dark seemed to be like a monochrome photographic negative.

He held his two hands up, surprised that he wasn't actually more surprised.

Doctor... you have to help me...'

The voice was male, but he didn't recognise it. He tried to call out, but couldn't make his voice work.

Behind him, a door slammed, but he was unable to turn.

Then another.

And another.

How many doors must you slam, Doctor, before you understand the magnitude of what you did?' asked a different voice.

Then everything went dark - except the Doctor was now caught in a harsh spotlight from above. It surrounded him but offered no other illumination. He was no longer in any way negative, but the harshness of the light made the outlines of his hands indistinct and he couldn't make out his own feet - just a blast of halogen from the knees downwards.

Doctor... I need your help. We need your help. We are dying...'

The first voice sounded plaintive.

And unbidden, a series of co-ordinates flashed through the Doctor's mind, and the name of a planet. Dymok.

He'd never heard of it.

You have to come...' The voice faded away, and the light around his feet began to get brighter. He tried protecting his eyes, but even with them closed he could still see his own skeleton, so bright was the light.

It consumed him and he finally found the voice to scream!

He awoke in his bed, sweating and shaking.

A dream...' he muttered. I had a dream of... of...'

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring into his memory one iota of the dream.

So he opted to forget about it and drifted back to sleep.

And didn't dream again.

Dymok was a small planet, the fourth in a solar system. It had no satellites and few distinguis.h.i.+ng marks. With a scattering of landma.s.ses and a number of large oceans it was, in human terms, pretty average.

And yet it had recently become the centre of attention simply because of its inhabitants. Recluses in an age when recluse' was a word people had to look up in The The Dictionary of Archaic Phrases, Dictionary of Archaic Phrases, their determination to shut themselves off from the universe around them intrigued everyone. their determination to shut themselves off from the universe around them intrigued everyone.

Over the last few decades, people had ventured forth towards Dymok, ignoring its inhabitants' protestations of seclusion and anonymity. Nothing intrigues the ma.s.ses, or sells news, better than people who don metaphorical dark gla.s.ses, scarves and hats, screaming b.u.g.g.e.r off'. And the Dymova were shouting louder than anyone else via their silence.

The biggest yell had been when a cargo s.h.i.+p hired by news reporters had run the blockade into the planet's outer atmosphere. If anyone had been able to get a message back to Earth, or even the nearby s.p.a.ce station that acted as beacon, warning buoy and first-line defence all in one, it would have been incoherent.

Why?

Because to some, the s.h.i.+p was invaded by giant twenty-legged spiders. To others, voices demanded that the airlocks be opened and everyone walk out to meet their ancestors. And to the three holovid technicians in the cargo hold? They were suddenly told to overload their famously temperamental equipment, unusually stored next to the solar stacks, which naturally would ward off the extra-dimensional brick-men who were entering the universe with proclamations of conquest.

No one would ever know this of course because, when the solar stacks went up, so did the rest of the s.h.i.+p and everyone on board.

But why had the crew experienced these ridiculous images and phantoms?

It was the work of one elderly man - the Observer.

And today he stood on slightly arthritic legs, gazing up at the night sky, seeing far beyond what his natural eyesight should allow. He could see beyond the dark clouds that threatened to douse him in rain. He could see beyond the radiation belt that protected his world from the sun's harshest rays. And he could see far beyond the dark skies - among the stars in fact.

His gaze settled upon the area surrounding the Imperial Earth s.p.a.ce Station Little Boy II. Little Boy II. More specifically, he was focused on the tiny tear in the fabric of the universe that would enlarge shortly to spew out something currently occupying the s.p.a.ce-time vortex. A unique craft, manned by unique people. In particular, he was focused upon one of its occupants. More specifically, he was focused on the tiny tear in the fabric of the universe that would enlarge shortly to spew out something currently occupying the s.p.a.ce-time vortex. A unique craft, manned by unique people. In particular, he was focused upon one of its occupants.

Yes,' he croaked to anyone who might be listening. Yes, she is the one we seek. She is the one I need.'

He refocused his mind on the immediate terrain. Behind him, the black pyramid pointed far into the air - that was where he needed to be. At its apex.

He swallowed hard, closed his eyes and concentrated. This was going to hurt, but it was necessary. He knew that the one thing he must never do was allow his eyes to open once he reached the pyramid. He needed to ensure his concentration was not broken by outside stimuli.

Move.'

And slowly, eyes still closed, he walked to the base of the pyramid, reached forward and found handholds and footholds, then began climbing, using his mind rather than his sight to feel, to know, where the grips and ledges were. Slowly but very safely, the old man began his ascent.

Because of her.

2.

The New Dark Age

And I'll wager you, good sir, that none can beat this hand.'

Sir Henry Rugglesthorpe sat back in his leather chair, a self-satisfied grin on his face. And why not? It was not as if this strange man could possibly beat him. He had three aces in his hand. The six of clubs matched the six of diamonds on the table - the wild card which automatically acted as his fourth ace. And the fifth he had pa.s.sed back to the dealer at the start of his game. As everyone else had folded, the chances of his opponent having five of anything were non-existent and thus, confident, Sir Henry took the gamble.

Is that so?' murmured the smiling newcomer opposite him as he placed his cards down on the green baize table with a slight theatrical flourish.

There was an audible gasp from the others grouped around the club table.

You consider yourself to be... adequate at this game, don't you, Sir Henry?'

Sir Henry stared at the fanned cards facing him. A six of hearts and four aces - the wild making it five. King of the tables, they say, good sir. King of the tables.'

In his own hand were four cards - less than a minute ago, there had been three aces. Now, a three of clubs, the six, a jack of hearts and an eight of diamonds.

Useless.

Gritting his teeth he let the cards flop face down on to the table, his heart beating faster, his eyes widening. How had this happened?

Back at home, his wife would be doing her needlework. His daughter would be preparing for her coming-out ball. His son would be studying for his place (guaranteed, naturally) at Marlborough.

All three awaiting the return of their husband or father to the familial bosom for another night.

But tonight, if Sir Henry returned home, it would be as a broken man in every sense. No one else at the club actually knew the wager he and the stranger had undertaken. It was enough to bankrupt him - but Sir Henry's method was infallible. It always had been - that was how he had made his fortune. Bought his t.i.tle. Lied and cheated his way through society. For no particular reason, a memory of last year's greatest triumph - dancing with his wife at King George's accession ball - flickered through his mind, but it vanished in an unfocused mental shrug.

How had the cards changed?

How had the stranger cheated?

But to accuse him - effectively for no good reason - was bad form. And who would believe him?

Silently Sir Henry rose from his chair, bowed slightly and gave the stranger a tight smile.

If you will excuse me, sir, your victory has unsettled me somewhat. I shall return in a moment.'

As he turned away towards the lavatories he heard the stranger speak, his rich, educated tones resonating throughout the club.

Please, Sir Henry, it is but a game. I have enjoyed the sport, but I have no intention of ruining you. Or damaging your reputation as a king of the tables. Let us discuss my...

rewards.'

Sir Henry froze on the spot. Such behaviour was unspeakably rude, especially at the club. His honour was further impugned by the stranger's offer to erase the debt -or whatever he intended.

Angrily, Sir Henry turned on his heel and prepared to face his tormentor. For a split second he shut his eyes: he felt giddy but that cleared and he opened his eyes again.

He was no longer in the club.

There were no leather chairs. No quiet murmured speech and the occasional rustling of The Times. The Times. No subtle clink of ice in gla.s.ses and a boy pouring Scotch or a good brandy. No subtle clink of ice in gla.s.ses and a boy pouring Scotch or a good brandy.

Instead, Sir Henry was standing... somewhere else entirely.

His giddiness had cleared due to the slight breeze that kissed the back of his neck, and as far as he could see the ground was a series of bizarre splashes of colour that seemed random and indistinct. They stretched away in every direction and the furthest ones he could see appeared to be squares.

It was like a grotesque, child's version of the countryside, he realised. Like tiny fields, all of differing colours rather than just gra.s.s, mustard or turned earth. The corners of each one were marked by vast oak trees that looked dark and aged, vast branches spreading sideways.

Good shelter from the rain, he thought and momentarily relaxed until he was jolted back to reality.

There's something missing,' murmured a ba.s.s voice in his ear.

Sir Henry discovered the stranger beside him, no longer dressed as a member of the Firestrong Club of Jermyn Street, W1. No, he was now in some ludicrous garb, multicoloured like that of a jester or a circus magician. No, wait, it was more distinctive than that. Sir Henry remembered his schoolboy drawings and paintings. This was the clothing of some Chinese official, an ancient figure of authority. A mandarin. But the stranger was no oriental - his language and visage were those of a cultured Englishman in his late forties.

He had a lined but not unkind face that seemed almost serene as he smiled and waved his right arm out towards the furthest coloured fields - blue and orange and green and purple and pink and...