Doctor Who_ Father Time Part 1

DOCTOR WHO.

Father Time.

by Lance Parkin.

Dedicated to child of the eighties, Ca.s.sandra May.

Thanks to the usual suspects: Ca.s.sandra May, Mark Jones, Mark Clapham, Mike Evans, Kate Orman and Jon Blum.

And also to Lisa Brattan, Henry Potts, Allan and Charis Bednar, Lorraine Mann, Jonny Morris, Rebecca Levene, Graham Evans, Amanda Dingle, Lawrence Miles and Paul Griggs.

The cover is based on an original concept by Allan Bednar.

Chapter Zero.

Planet of Death.

It was a planet shrouded in fog.

Thick grey mists clung to the broken, rocky ground. Nothing but the simplest vegetation lived on the surface, although there were ruined walls and cracked roadways, evidence that a civilisation had once prospered on this world. At higher alt.i.tudes the fog grew thinner, but also more sulphurous. The sky was yellow, sickly. Even at noon, the sunlight was weak, filtered through layers of haze. Everywhere, the air was stagnant. There were no winds, not even the hint of a breeze.

But life still clung to this planet, dotted around in sealed cities, tunnels and bunkers.

A flying disc broke through the gloom and soundlessly approached the largest of these strongholds.

The palace was a collection of twisted silver spires, like fingers reaching up to grasp the stars. It was vast, the size of a city, with the tips of the tallest spires poking out of the poisonous atmosphere. There were signs of damage, and the metal surface had become tarnished over time, but it was an impressive spectacle, and the lights and air traffic were clear signs that this place was occupied, even vibrant.

The flying disc began slowing, altering its course ever so slightly. It drifted through a gap in the palace walls. As it pa.s.sed, a transparent dome slid smoothly across, enclosing it.

The room smelled of cinnamon and sandalwood. He could feel the firm stone floor beneath his knee and his feet, and hear the hum of the ventilation ducts. Not even heavy robes could keep out the cold. None of this mattered.

His shoulder was aching again. He had a sharp pain in his stomach. The headache that had prevented him from sleeping hadn't subsided, despite the pills. None of this mattered.

He heard the footsteps, identified their owner while he was still fifty paces away. He didn't rise, but kept his gaze fixed firmly on the knife that sat on the family shrine. He resumed his prayers of dedication, staring into the pitted blade, remembering.

Five paces away, and the footsteps stopped, as he knew they would.

'There is news, Eminence,' the Deputy announced.

He closed his eyes, prayed that after a lifetime this was the end.

'Tell me,' he commanded quietly.

'The Hunters are here. They say they have located the Last One.'

He nodded, gave silent thanks to the G.o.ds, and turned to face the Deputy. The old man was in his fatigues, ready for combat, even here. After all this time, the Deputy still relished the fight. This old man had been his rock all these years. There had been times forgive him when he had thought of abandoning his mission, renouncing his sacred duty, times when he thought there had already been too much killing, too much blood.

But you cannot escape the past: the great weight of decades of history and memory that shape you, make you what you are. Fate was the inevitable result of genetics and politics. The Deputy shared none of this heritage, at least not by birth, but knew what was important. What sort of man would the Deputy have been without the war? The Deputy wouldn't have the scar, but what about his permanently narrowed eyes or his hunched physique?

Only one more killing, and it would be over. He would have played his role to its conclusion.

'Where?'

'The planet Earth, in the twentieth century of the Humanian Era.'

'A precise fix?'

'To within ten square kilometres.' The Deputy sounded impressed, despite himself.

'They have done well. Authorise the second payment.'

'Sir...'

He laughed. 'I know: you are worried that they'll take the money without finis.h.i.+ng the job. Authorise the second payment, but don't let them leave the palace.'

'I am uncertain of their loyalties.'

'You are right to be, they are not part of this. They require someone to keep them in check. We both know who would be best for that role. Commission him.'

'Yes, Eminence.'

He turned to the shrine, took the knife from its reliquary and slotted it into the sheath on his belt.

He took a deep breath. 'It's nearly over, old friend. Soon the last of our enemies will be dead.'

'It will be a new beginning,' the Deputy told him. 'The poison will have been drawn, the empire will flourish, we will prevent anarchy. We will be great again.'

He could barely remember what it had been like before the civil war. He looked around, saw the great cracks in the floor, the patches where the roof and walls had been crudely repaired. At least inside here the air was breathable. It was difficult to believe that they had been on the winning side.

The anger surged within him. He remembered what his enemies had done; he remembered his vow to end their rule, to hunt them down, to exterminate them.

'We will at least have that chance,' he agreed. 'Prepare for departure, prepare the timegate.'

Part One

'Battle of the Planets'

The Early 1980s

Chapter One.

Knights and Castles.

It was a planet of darkness, snow and hills.

Or so anyone arriving in Derbys.h.i.+re that night would have thought.

There comes a time when the fall of snow is no longer the start of a marvellous adventure. There comes a time when it means sc.r.a.ping your windscreen and hoping your car starts. It means aching joints and throbbing sinuses and cold hands and feet. It means taking longer to get to work and spending all day sitting in an office where the heating isn't on. Grey slush and cracked pipes, cancelled trains and influenza, that's what snow means. You'll wake up feeling like that, one day, and it will mean you are grown up. I hope that day doesn't come soon.

This story is set in the last century. In those days, the Prime Minister was a woman, and there were no euros or pound coins, only pound notes. The Lords sat in the House of Lords, coal miners worked in coal mines, and s.h.i.+ps were built on the Tyne. There were vinyl long-playing records, not compact discs, the s.p.a.ce shuttle was s.h.i.+ny and new, there were only three television stations, and computers hard to believe, I know were black-andwhite back then.

It begins with a teacher, a primary-school teacher, driving a tan Ford Cortina through a blizzard in the dark.

The teacher's name is Mrs Deborah Castle, and she hated to see the snow falling.

She remembered a story as she drove, and it made her cry...

Once upon a time there was a girl called Debbie Gordon who used to love to see snow fall. Debbie Gordon had long, long hair, which was as black as coal. Every winter, as soon as she saw it was snowing, she would press herself against the cold pane of the dining-room window, watching the flakes drifting down into the back garden, making her eyes go funny. The first snow didn't settle, although she never remembered that. The air was so cold she could see it in front of her when she breathed out, but the ground was still too warm for snow to stick. However much snow fell, it vanished as soon as it hit the gra.s.s and paving stones. But despite that the first snow was never a disappointment.

Snow comes early in Greyfrith, high in the Pennines in the Northwest of England. The first snow can be at the end of September, while the rest of England has its first frosts. The children of Greyfrith don't understand the fuss everyone else makes about a white Christmas every Christmas Day, without fail, there's snow on the ground. Not only does the snow come early, but you can never be sure it's gone. At the train station there's an old black-andwhite photograph of a cricket pitch, covered in white. The scoreboard reads SNOW SNOW STOPPED STOPPED PLAY PLAY the only time that's happened to a county cricket match, anywhere in the world. June it was, the woman who runs the cafe at the railway station will tell you, if you ask and often even if you don't. She's in that old photograph, but you wouldn't recognise her now, not unless you knew her granddaughter. It's not snowed in June since, but there'll be snow until April, most years. the only time that's happened to a county cricket match, anywhere in the world. June it was, the woman who runs the cafe at the railway station will tell you, if you ask and often even if you don't. She's in that old photograph, but you wouldn't recognise her now, not unless you knew her granddaughter. It's not snowed in June since, but there'll be snow until April, most years.

Mrs Castle lived in Greyfrith, so it was a shame she hated it to snow.

Debbie Gordon and Deborah Castle sound like completely different people, and in some ways they are. Debbie Gordon had a big doll's house in her bedroom, a little cat, and a love of falling snow. Mrs Castle had none of the things that Debbie Gordon had, not any more, except the puppy fat. Once upon a time, not even twenty years ago, she did because as you've already guessed Debbie Gordon is what Mrs Castle was called before she became a grown-up. She got a new name on her wedding day. Gordon was a funny name, because 'Gordon' is usually a man's first name, but Castle was an even stranger name to have, and it made her think of medieval fortresses. For months afterwards she kept signing her old name by mistake annoying her husband every time she did so.

Five years after her wedding day, when our story starts, she was used to being Mrs Castle, it didn't seem odd at all. Her pupils stood up and chanted the name every morning when she came into the cla.s.sroom, it appeared on her pay-slips and phone bills. She'd forgotten what it was like to be Debbie Gordon; she'd all but forgotten that she once loved the snow.

Mrs Castle ignored the tears in her eyes, and tried to concentrate on the road in front of her instead of listening to her own silly stories. Past the windscreen wipers and their battle with the snow, a mushy orange glow peeking over the hilltops marked her way. Those were the Greyfrith street lights. The road ahead was empty and unlit, all the way home. Mrs Castle's car radio was tuned to long wave and pop music was playing. Mrs Castle knew the people singing were a group called Adam and the Ants, because it was a new song all her pupils were talking about.

A red light appeared on the dashboard.

Mrs Castle tried to ignore it, tried to press on even in this weather it would take less than ten minutes to drive the three miles to her house. She knew that her husband could sort out whatever was wrong with the car in the morning; it would be his problem, not hers. There was no other choice she couldn't see any phone boxes, and this was many years before anyone but a millionaire had a telephone in their car. Mrs Castle didn't know if Adam Ant could drive, but if he could, and he had a car, she knew it would have a telephone in it. But no one in Greyfrith did, except perhaps the manager of the factory that made spark plugs, or Lord Wallis, who owned Wallis House.

Mrs Castle could hear every rattle her husband's car made now. She was acutely aware of every change in engine note.

Nine minutes. Nine minutes away from home.

Not far away, a man called Arnold Knight lowered his binoculars, disappointed. Arnold Knight was a UFO spotter or would have been, if he had ever seen one.

Snow falling from a thick grey sky. This was not at all what he wanted. On the hillside, as Arnold was, the clouds weren't quite close enough to touch, but they looked it. For the last few days, with almost total cloud coverage, Arnold had convinced himself that the night's sky might be full of strange lights, there could be fleets of saucers flying in formation, all tantalisingly just a couple of hundred feet above his head, all swerving to avoid the occasional break in the cloud.

Arnold wasn't as fanatical as some of his fellow UFO spotters. Some of the men and women who'd congregated in Greyfrith after the initial reports of a flap thought they'd got it all worked out. They told stories about RAF planes chasing flying saucers, official cover-ups, a whole menagerie of plant men, robot men and spaghetti men from outer s.p.a.ce, not forgetting the turtle men who lived under the sea. Arnold didn't believe any of that. As the famous scientist Carl Sagan said, extraordinary claims required extraordinary proof. Arnold hoped he could provide some extraordinary proof. There were some interesting things happening in the sky. That seemed beyond dispute lights, glowing b.a.l.l.s, crosses... They'd all been seen over the years, by all sorts of reliable people. He was a good photographer he made some money from it, doing portraits and work for the local paper. So, get a few decent photos of UFOs, done by a professional, and people might start to investigate the phenomenon seriously. That was why he'd travelled halfway across the country; that was what he was here for.

But that wasn't going to happen tonight, not with this weather.

It was dark, very cold, and it was still snowing, even though the weather forecast had said the cold spell was over. He knew how to stay warm, but the best way of all was not to go out on a winter's night in the first place. He found a fallen tree, checked it wasn't too wet and sat down.

It was very quiet tonight, and the low clouds were like a roof. It made everything seem unreal, somehow. It was calm. Civilisation wasn't far away the outskirts of Greyfrith were only over the next hill, but it felt wild out here, as though there were things that people people didn't know about. The hills themselves were dark. There were local legends that the hills and mountains were giants, curled up where they fell under some enchantment. Arnold could see where that had come from the curves and undulations did make them look like fat people, fast asleep. didn't know about. The hills themselves were dark. There were local legends that the hills and mountains were giants, curled up where they fell under some enchantment. Arnold could see where that had come from the curves and undulations did make them look like fat people, fast asleep.

Arnold glanced over his shoulder and saw there was a giant standing behind him. Ten feet tall at least, and wearing angular armour. Two lights shone down, like the headlamps of a car, but they were the giant's eyes.

It was a machine, or a very tall man in a suit of armour there was no way of telling which. Sensible thoughts crossed Arnold's mind: that this was a prank, a puppet or special effect of some kind. He'd spent enough time in the pubs of Greyfrith in the last week to know that the local lads regarded the UFO spotters with suspicion and derision.

But Arnold could tell that this wasn't some lashed-together farm machinery. It was dark, but he could see that it was elegantly designed, that its movements were fluid.

It was coming towards him.

Arnold screamed, and started to run.

Mrs Castle wasn't far away, and she heard the scream over the sound of the car radio.

It startled her for a moment, but only for a moment. She quickly told herself that it was nothing to worry about, just a noise like you often hear in the middle of the night. A sound like the cry of a fierce animal, or a strange aircraft. Perhaps just a bang or a thud.

Maybe you've heard a scream. When children play, it often sounds as if they are screaming. From a little way off, a playground can sound like a battleground. If children playing sounds like screaming, then, Mrs Castle thought, perhaps a field full of screaming children will sound as if they are playing.

It was a fox, she told herself. Or some sort of bird a hawk or an owl. Or perhaps just something on the Kate Bush record that was playing now on the radio. Mrs Castle turned the radio up and tried to think of other things.

She concentrated on what was waiting for her at home. At first she thought of the nasty things. The was.h.i.+ng-up, the hoovering, the mouldy grouting in the bathroom. Barry, Mr Castle, would be there, sitting in front of the television, telling her the commentators on Rugby Special Rugby Special were useless, and that he also had a low opinion of Paul Daniels, and that the licence fee was a waste of good money. But there would be nice things at home, too: a bath, a hot, soapy bath. A book were useless, and that he also had a low opinion of Paul Daniels, and that the licence fee was a waste of good money. But there would be nice things at home, too: a bath, a hot, soapy bath. A book Sense and Sensibility Sense and Sensibility, about a young woman who was out in the rain and was rescued by a handsome man on horseback. A fairy story. There was a Paul Newman film on later, and Mrs Castle knew not even Barry could spoil that for her.

There were now three red lights on the dashboard. Mrs Castle knew she wouldn't get home. Now she was looking for a phone box. She'd driven down this road hundreds of times, but because she'd never needed a phone box, she didn't know if there was one or not. And if there wasn't, then she'd have to hope that another car came by.

She could hear hissing. The engine was making a noise like a kettle. She pictured it, bubbling and churning. She imagined her husband shouting at her, telling her she only needed to stop to put some oil and water in it, but instead she left it running, she'd damaged the engine, it was going to take him all weekend to fix and it would cost them hundreds of pounds. She knew she had to stop the car as soon as she could.

And because she was looking at the dashboard, she didn't see the man run out in front of her: she saw only his terrified expression, bleached by the headlights, as he turned to face her.