Doctor Who: The Eight Doctors Read online

  Suddenly the red segment separated from the first blue segment and began moving towards the second.

  'What this means, Madam President -' began Volnar.

  '- is that the Doctor has made brief contact with his first self, and apparently proposes to do the same with the second?'

  'Precisely so, Madam President.'

  Flavia frowned. 'Why is he doing this?'

  Volnar spread his hands. 'Who can say?

  "The Doctor's motives are often enigmatic. But this seems eccentric, even for him."

  'Speaking as a humble temporal technician, the real question is not so much why as howl said Volnar. 'In normal circumstance, cross temporal activity such as this is strictly forbidden by the Laws of Time. Not only is it forbidden, it is also impossible - certainly in an antiquated Type Forty.'

  'The Doctor's abilities are often surprising,' said Flavia. 'We must remember that he has engaged in cross-temporal activity three times before. Once, at our request, to deal with the Omega crisis, again when he became involved in the Game of Rassilon, and once when his sixth self was allowed to go to the rescue of his second. Perhaps he, or hisTARDIS, developed some -

  capability.'

  Volnar looked sceptical. 'On the occasions to which you refer, Madam President, the Doctor had the support, or at least the tacit consent, of Temporal Control, here on Gallifrey. Even in the Game of Rassilon, our power was involved, misused as it was. But this - this activity has occurred with no authorisation whatsoever!'

  A tall, thin-faced Time Lord in the green robes of the Arcalian Chapter stepped forward.

  'Surely, Madam President, the important question is not why or how but what? What must we of the High Council do to restrain this criminal?'

  Flavia looked thoughtfully up at him. 'I must advise you to moderate your language, Councillor Ryoth. The

  Doctor is not a criminal. Though he has often been at odds with the High Council, he has, on occasion, served, however briefly, as its President.'

  'Not everyone on the High Council takes such an indulgent view, Madam President. There are those who feel, as I do myself, that the Doctor is a dangerous renegade.'

  'The Doctor is dangerous only to the enemies of Gallifrey,' snapped Flavia.

  'His activities, however unconventional, are usually beneficial in their effect.

  Moreover, we must remember that he is newly regenerated - and new regenerations are frequently unstable.' Ignoring Ryoth, she turned to Volnar. 'I want this situation kept under strictest scrutiny. You will continue to observe the Doctor's time stream, but you will not, for the time being, attempt to interfere. Is that understood?'

  Volnar bowed his head. 'Madam President.'

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  Flavia's eyes scanned the group, fixing finally on Ryoth.

  'By everyone?'

  Ryoth's eyes fell and he bowed his head.

  Flavia nodded, turned and moved away, Tarin and her guards falling in behind her.

  As she left the temporal control room, she could almost feel Ryoth's burning eyes on her back.

  Back in her office she found a burly broad-shouldered figure in plain robes awaiting her. His uniform helmet framed a stern weathered face with a rock-like jaw.

  This was Castellan Spandrell, the Capitol's equivalent to a Chief of Police.

  He was an old friend of Flavia, and acquainted with the Doctor as well.

  Like Flavia, he had preserved much the same temperament and appearance through several regenerations, and was also once again serving in the same post. He was younger-looking than when he had last met the Doctor, but he still looked exactly what he was - the Gallifrey version of a tough cop.

  Castellan Spandrell nodded briefly to President Flavia. Neither of them was very big on ceremony.

  'I wanted to see you about -'

  'Never mind what you came to see me about, what have you got on Councillor Ryoth?'

  Immediately Spandrell moved to a side-terminal and punched in a secret security code. Ryoth's face appeared on the screen, followed by a stream of data which Spandrell scanned with a professional eye.

  'Small-time political conspirator, basically. Suspected links to Goth and Borusa in earlier regenerations. Marginally involved with the Committee of Three, but too low-grade to be worth prosecuting. Why the interest?'

  'The Doctor seems to be up to some kind of temporal jiggery-pokery...'

  Spandrell groaned. 'I might have known he was involved.'

  He was fond of the Doctor in his way, but he associated him with trouble.

  'Where does Ryoth come in?'

  'He seems to be keen to make as many problems for the Doctor as possible.'

  Spandrell waved a massive hand at the screen. 'Scarcely surprising, is it?

  He's been on the fringes of three major conspiracies, each one foiled by the Doctor.'

  'Is he dangerous?'

  'Ryoth? Shouldn't have thought so.' Spandrell checked through the rest of the data. 'Except -'

  Flavia looked up. 'Except what?'

  'There are rumours of links to the Agency.'

  The Celestial Intervention Agency had originally been set up to deal with dangerous and unpleasant problems with which the Time Lords didn't care to dirty their hands. As such secret organisations will, it had eventually become a power in its own right, a ruthless unseen force in Time Lord affairs.

  Flavia nodded. 'I see. I suppose it's no use asking what you've got on the Agency?'

  Castellan Spandrell shook his head. 'I'm a dammed sight more worried about what they've got on me.'

  In his private office, Councillor Ryoth was doing a little political lobbying on the videcom.

  'I quite agree, Councillor Ortan, the

  President's attitude is deplorably lax.

  But don't worry, some of us are keeping an eye on the situation.

  Impeachment is a serious business I know, but if it comes to that...' He lowered his voice. 'With all due deference to Madam President's feminine sensibilities, she mustn't be allowed to let her personal relationships endanger Gallifrey.'

  Pleased with this outrageously sexist slander, Ryoth switched off the videcom. Ortan was a gossipy old fool, but he had a lot of influential friends. If he could start a groundswell of opinion that Flavia was showing the

  Doctor undue favour... It was politically dangerous - Flavia would break him if she ever found out - but on the whole it was worth the risk.

  Ryoth sat quietly for a moment considering his next move then went into the tiny inner sanctum that led off his main office, sealing the door behind him. He opened a concealed cupboard, revealing a sound-only corn-link and touched controls.

  'Director, please.'

  As well as its mysterious all-powerful Director, and its cohorts of agents, the Agency had an immense network of low-grade informers. Ryoth, as Spandrell suspected, was one of them.

  Among the tasks of these informers, who were rewarded with credits and with political favours, was reporting anything and everything that might interest the Agency.

  A metallic voice came from the corn-link. 'Report.' Ryoth never knew if he was talking to a man or to a machine.

  He didn't want to know.

  'I came across something curious in Temporal Control; he said. 'Something concerning the Doctor...'

  Chapter 4

  Lost Legion

  TheTARDIS materialised.

  The door opened and the Doctor stepped outside. He stood for a moment, surveying the scene before him.

  He was at the top of a steep hill. Below him lay a long wide valley, through which meandered a broad, winding river.

  At his back, and on either side were rolling, heather-covered hills, stretching away to distant mountains.

  Here and there, banks of mist clung to the hill tops.

  The Doctor considered what to do.

  The TARDIS had brought him here, just as it had taken him to the junkyard and the jungle. Presumably his other self, his next r
egeneration was somewhere near. The logical thing was to go and look for him.

  And there, at his feet was a moorland path, leading towards a narrow valley between two low hills.

  As he strode briskly along, the Doctor reflected that retracing his own steps through time might prove rather a dangerous business. Clouded though most of his his memories still were, something told him that he had lived extremely eventful lives.

  What had the angry old man in the jungle said? Seven regenerations - six other selves still to be met! So many lives, so many adventures, so many friends - and enemies - all forgotten, all lost to him.

  Still, he knew who and what he was now.

  A Time Lord of Gallifrey.

  A fugitive Time Lord, perhaps?

  Certainly that was how the First

  Doctor had thought of himself.

  The Doctor shook his head as if trying

  to rattle his memories into life. What attitude had his people taken to his defection? Had they simply ignored it? Or were they angrily hunting him down? He didn't feel like a fugitive.

  Perhaps there had been some kind of reconciliation? A lot could happen in half a dozen lifetimes.

  Drawing in deep breaths of the crisp, clean air, the Doctor told himself that for once his quest had taken him somewhere peaceful and pleasant.

  There was a fresh, unspoiled quality to this open, rolling landscape - an unpolluted, pre-industrial, dawn-of-time sort of feeling.

  Then he heard the sound of horses' hooves and the tramp of marching feet. A troop of soldiers appeared in the valley before him. Ahead came a standard-bearer, carrying a long pole which bore the image of a fierce golden eagle. Below the eagle were the initials SPQR.

  Behind the standard-bearer was a chariot, drawn by two tired horses. An officer marched beside the chariot, and behind him marched weary ranks of armoured men. They wore breastplates and helmets with horse-hair crests.

  They carried square shields, javelins and short swords.

  Romans, thought the Doctor, and immediately wondered how he knew. He stepped forwards, raising his hand in salute.'Hail!'

  Astonished, the officer raised his hand. 'Halt!'

  The charioteer reined in his horses, and the ranks of marching soldiers came to a halt. Tired as they were, they made no attempt to break ranks.

  They stood alert, grasping thek swords and spears, awaiting orders.

  The officer studied the Doctor cautiously and decided that one man, alone and unarmed, presented no threat. Moreover, this man, strangely dressed as he was had an air of civilisation, even of rank about him. Flinging his arm across his gilded breastplate in salute, the officer spoke.

  'Hail! I am Pertinax Maximus, Centurion of the Ninth.'

  The Doctor returned the salute.

  'Hail!' he said again. 'I am called the Doctor.'

  'Are you a Roman citizen, Doctor?'

  'Indeed I am,' the Doctor heard himself reply. 'I am an Imperial Legate on a tour of inspection.'

  The centurion turned to face his men.

  'Company -general salute!'

  Swords clashed across breastplates with well-drilled precision.

  Thankfully, the Doctor realised, his extraordinary mind had somehow thrown up precisely the right thing to say. Had he ever been a Roman citizen? Perhaps he had.

  He returned the salute.

  'With your permission, Legate,' said

  Pertinax, 'I'll rest the men for a few

  minutes. They've had a long march after a hard battle.'

  The Doctor nodded assent.

  The centurion roared, 'Ten minutes, no longer. Commissary bring out the bread and figs and the wineskins. A handful of food and a mug of wine for each man.'

  He turned to the Doctor. 'If I can offer you refreshment, Legate? Only soldier's fare, I'm afraid.'

  'It will be most welcome,' said the

  Doctor, suddenly realising he was

  actually feeling quite peckish. 'I seem to have mislaid my servants and my baggage.

  'Same with us, sir,' said the centurion.

  'We lost touch with the main cohort some time ago. We're trying to rejoin them now. It's the mist that does it - that and these cursed hills. They all look alike.'

  A soldier brought food and wine, and the Doctor and the centurion sat a little apart from the rest. Behind them the men broke up into little groups.

  Sentries were posted and the

  Doctor noticed that even as they munched their hard bread and figs and swigged their wine, the men remained alert, eyes continually glancing all around them.

  The Doctor munched a handful of dried figs, washing them down with a swallow of rough red wine.

  'Poor thin stuff, I'm afraid,' said the centurion. 'What I'd give for a flask of the old Falernian in Lurcio's tavern back in Rome...'

  'How long have you been - out here?'

  'Seems like forever, to be honest. One day's so much like another, you lose track.'

  'And how are things going?'

  The centurion took another swig of wine before replying, then gave the Doctor a swift, worried glance.

  'It's all right, Centurion,' said the

  Doctor quietly. "That's why I've been sent here, to find out what's really going on. The Emperor needs to know the truth. He suspects some of the generals aren't giving him the full picture.'

  'Wouldn't surprise me one bit, sir,' muttered the centurion.

  'Well, then?'

  'To be honest, Legate, it's - confusing.

  We march, we fight, we march again, we fight some more. Fair enough, that's a soldier's life. But - '

  'But?' encouraged the Doctor.

  'We never seem to get anywhere.

  Sometimes it's little local skirmishes, like now, and sometimes we join with the other legions and fight a proper battle. But nothing changes. We sustain casualties, reinforcements arrive from somewhere, but they seem as confused as we are. There's never any leave, never any news from home...'

  'Don't your generals keep you informed about the campaign?'

  'Hardly ever see 'em, sir. One of 'em turns up now and again, riding a fine white horse and ordering another attack...

  'The lads reckon they all live in a posh villa somewhere, eating lark's tongues, swigging Falernian wine and planning another battle between orgies.'

  Now that he'd got started, the centurion seemed eager to talk. The Doctor sensed it must be his first relief for some time from the proverbial loneliness of command.

  'Then there's the enemy, they seem to keep - changing. Sometimes it's the Picts - hairy little beggars who usually attack at night. Sometimes it's a full-scale army - Gauls or Germans, real soldiers with cavalry and everything.

  But we never really seem to win - or lose either, come to that. We just go on fighting.' He paused.'And strange things happen ..."

  'Such as?'

  'Occasionally we run into little groups of men in weird clothes. Some of 'em have weapons that sound like thunderbolts and kill from a long way away.'

  'Do they attack you?'

  'Not always. Some of them want to talk - weird stuff about resistance, and the war being all a game. I tell the men to chase them away. Can't have mutiny, can we?'The centurion lowered his voice. 'The other day, not far from here we found this great big

  - wagon, I suppose you'd call it, sitting on the road, with a group of weird-looking people standing round it.

  There was only a handful of 'em and we reckoned the wagon might be full of enemy supplies, so we attacked.'

  'What happened?'

  The centurion lowered his voice. "The strangers jumped back in the wagon and it moved away, back into the mist

  - all by itself? No horses, nobody pushing, nothing! And once it was in the mist, it, well, disappeared!'

  'You mean you lost sight of it?'

  'No, it really disappeared. Just kind of... faded away.'

  The Doctor thought for a moment.

  'Can you tell me anything else about this wagon?' />
  'Not really - just a big, square thing.

  Oh, it had some kind of religious symbol painted on the side.'

  'What sort of symbol?'

  'That cranky cult that was spreading back in Rome - the one the Emperor was so down on. What were they called

  - Christoes, Christies, something like that.'

  'Christians,' said the Doctor. 'You mean there was a cross on the wagon?'