The Doctor and Romana explored the city, both feeling they were the first people ever to potter along its streets.
The Doctor jammed his hands in his pockets and whistled.
Romana kicked the occasional stone, checking for the echo.
‘You know,’ the Doctor considered, ‘I’m getting a nice feeling about this. Like it’s siesta time on a Sunday.’
The Doctor had a point. For all its echoing nature and bland buildings, the city had a sweet, calm air to it. The sun beat amiably down, there was a warm breeze which carried a hint of flowers towards them.
‘It’s nice enough,’ Romana agreed.
Their steps brought them up a gentle slope to a large, inevitably grey, domed building. ‘You know what,’ the Doctor said. ‘I’ve a rule about architecture. If it looks impressive, investigate. If it’s trying to hide, investigate that too. This –’ he rubbed his hand against the uninventive brickwork – ‘is rather impressive. In its way. I’m sure it’ll find its fans.’
‘Cathedral? Art Gallery? Cinema?’ Romana asked.
The Doctor clearly didn’t have an answer. ‘Let’s pop inside and buy a guidebook,’ he suggested.
They walked round the dome until they found a tall door of grey plastic.
‘Locked,’ said the Doctor. ‘Or closed.’ His sonic screwdriver hummed, the sound loud in the empty square.
They walked inside. For a moment all was darkness and quiet. Their eyes adjusted to the space as they walked up a path to the centre of the dome. Eventually they could see their surroundings. The building had no chairs, no decorations. It was simply a space.
Standing around them were hundreds and hundreds of people, eyes tightly closed. Saying nothing.
The Doctor cleared his throat. ‘Hello there! You’re probably worried about what’s happened to the sky,’ he said in his brightest possible voice. ‘Well, good news. I’m an alien!’
Several hundred pairs of eyes snapped open, involuntarily.
The Doctor waved.
Several hundred people blinked and then screamed.
Surrounded by a wall of noise the Doctor and Romana flinched.
The screaming grew louder and louder. It was a scream of pure animal fear and hatred.
Things had gone terribly wrong terribly fast.
The Doctor, K-9 and Romana were running.
Romana had, in her time with the Doctor, learnt a good deal about fleeing. If anyone shouted ‘Halt!’ or ‘Stop!’ or ‘Wait!’ you ignored them. They were normally taking aim.
If given a choice between running upstairs and running downstairs, always go down. Even if the lights weren’t working. Often, yes, there’d be something with tentacles lurking in the dark, but you could cross that nightmare when you came to it. Also, with a little bit of dodging, you could let it devour any pursuers while you got on with surviving.
Running upstairs ended badly. You’d find yourself on a roof with nothing but a long drop beneath you and a pressing need to do some fast talking.
Also, if you were with K-9 and faced with anything other than a simple ramp, leave the dog. He could deal with things himself.
Shoes. In her early days aboard the TARDIS, Romana had worn a variety of imposing footwear. The TARDIS wardrobe was delightfully unlike the wardrobes of Gallifrey, and so offered her the chance to enjoy experimenting. Boots. Pumps. Ballet shoes. But she’d quickly learned that anything with heels was out. They were good for making an entrance but hopeless for an exit.
Finally, always follow the Doctor unless he was clearly heading somewhere absolutely idiotic. If it only looked mildly idiotic (e.g. a time corridor or burning building) then fine. But if it was towards a squadron of Daleks then perhaps not.
When fleeing, keep an eye on local signage. Signs indicating ‘This way to the Forest of Knives’ or ‘Turn left for the Swamp of Death’ were best heeded. Signs never indicated where there was a large amount of cover, or something blast-proof to hide behind. The Universe was disappointing like that.
The Doctor was delivering a parable while he was running.
‘Friend of mine had a Flomgoose. Rescued it when it was a tiny ball of fur at the side of the road. Nursed the poor thing back to health. Let it eat his sofa. Took it for walks. It even slept at the end of the bed, chewing thoughtfully on his duvet. Marvellous, an utterly tame Flomgoose. Naturalist came over to examine it – oh dear, that was a near miss, perhaps we’d better duck behind this and, honestly, sorry about the stairs, K-9, do keep up – a naturalist came over to examine it and declared it had no idea it was a fearsome flesh-eating predator. It didn’t help that my friend had called it Mr Snuzzles. Anyway, the naturalist prevailed on my friend to give Mr Snuzzles to a zoo where he could meet other Flomgeese and get on with the job of tearing animal carcases to shreds. Reluctantly, my friend complied, and waved a fond farewell to his pet. It trotted off into the enclosure, had a sniff and a chew and seemed quite content. Until another Flomgoose emerged from its glom pit – oh, hang on, that was a bit close. I hate it when they can shoot straight. Romana, I do believe he’s singed your collar – Where were we? Ah yes, glom pit. So the other Flomgeese emerged, and made to welcome Mr Snuzzles … only he was staring at them in horror. The naturalist had said they’d all roll in the mud and then go for a meal together. The zoo had some tasty giraffes. Instead, Mr Snuzzles hissed in outrage. It had no idea that there was such a thing as another Flomgoose. It found the idea appalling. No matter what the other Flomgeese did – rolling invitingly in mud, bringing the newcomer fresh bits of giraffe – no dice. It just sat on its haunches and howled, until the pack retreated into the glom pit looking, it has to be said, a little bit miffed. They’d offered the bleeding paw of friendship and it had been spurned. Realising his mistake, my friend took his pet back. The creature hissed all the way home. At which point, Mr Snuzzles stopped hissing, ate my friend’s bed, fell fast asleep on the remains. My friend figured that was fair enough. Goodness, are those flamethrowers? Anyway, the point is that some things just can’t get along with other things, no matter how sensible it would be if they did. Let’s turn left and – what on earth …?’
Romana was pointing firmly. There were figures in cloaks standing at the end of a street, gesturing to them. Figures in cloaks were, in her experience, either a good thing leading to a swift revolution or a very bad thing leading to a quick lie-down on a sacrificial altar. Romana had grown used to being regularly offered up for sacrifice. The Doctor said she had the neck for it. In the beginning it had been terrifying – you know, being grabbed, tied up, and gabbled over by a bunch of ne’er-do-wells who just wouldn’t listen to her lectures on the merits of comparative religions.fn1
There was an overall theme to being sacrificed – you met a species, they took against you, the Doctor rescued you in the nick of time – that provided the comfort of familiar patterns. Sometimes she’d return the favour. She tried not to take being sacrificed personally, or let it get to her. It was just aliens letting off steam, and frankly, these cults normally lived in drab places with too much sand or a surfeit of swamp, so perhaps she couldn’t blame them for making their own entertainment. She didn’t feel that afraid at being sacrificed any more – like waiting for a bus, it was uncomfortable, not ideal, but something would always turn up eventually. On a good day, if the altar was good and flat, you could have a nap.
Naps were a thing the Doctor refused to recognise. He spent all his time in such a dervish of activity that the idea of grabbing a book, plumping a cushion, and drifting off for a few moments had entirely passed him by. Well, so he claimed. She wondered if he secretly pottered off for forty winks while she was being tied up and generally manhandled. It would explain why he always turned up at the last minute and looking so refreshed.
Anyway, the figures in cloaks prodded them with long sticks and soon they were in a forest. ‘Oh good,’ said Romana. ‘Soon there’ll be a clearing with a sacrificial stone.’ She looked down at her dress and hoped for a clean slab. The TARDIS laundry was su
rprisingly bad at tackling bloodstains.
‘Let’s not be hasty,’ said the Doctor, which made her scoff. ‘These might be friendly people with sharp pointy sticks.’
K-9 was trundling beside them. He uttered a little cough.
‘Got something to say, K-9?’ the Doctor enquired.
The dog said nothing.
Well, the dog was with them. That was something. At the last moment, provided his batteries held out, he could shoot a few of the cloaked figures and he and Romana could make their escape. Maybe.
They were shoved into the inevitable clearing and the figures retreated.
There was no sign of an altar which, all things considered, seemed a pity. Nor was there a stake and a pile of kindling, or even a cauldron. Just an empty patch of scrub.
‘Look up,’ a voice said.
Obligingly, perhaps too obligingly, they looked up.
‘Dust Cloud, barely a sign of a genocidal army, starry starry night,’ the Doctor remarked.
The voice echoed again. ‘The stars have returned. And they’ve changed. They’re calling it the Great Shift. Does it mean that the rest of the Universe has wiped itself out and you’re the last two beings come to us for mercy?’
‘No.’ The Doctor’s hands were in his pockets. ‘I’m afraid the rest of the Universe is alive and kicking.’
The cloaked figures pressed back against the trees and hissed.
The owner of the voice shuffled closer. ‘Aliens! Why have you come? You disgust us.’
‘Um,’ said the Doctor. ‘Truth is, there’s been an accident. Thought we’d pop in and check you were tickety-boo.’
The figure dragged itself closer. The mouth was hidden behind a mask. The voice was twisted with disgust. ‘And you dared – dared – walk amongst us?’
‘Yes,’ Romana admitted brightly. ‘You probably can’t help, but is there any chance you can direct us towards, some nice, forward-thinking rebels?’
The shape underneath the cloak was strange, gathered together tightly. ‘Forgive me,’ the figure said. Romana realised it was a woman’s voice. ‘We’re fine … with the idea of you … in theory … we don’t object … but to actually meet you … in the flesh … is …’ She swallowed, and coughed wetly. ‘Actually, excuse me,’ the figure dashed off behind a tree.
The Doctor and Romana didn’t meet each other’s eyes. This wasn’t going well.
The figure staggered back from behind the tree. ‘Do you have to be quite so disgusting?’ she groaned. ‘Would it hurt you to be less repellent?’
‘Nonsense,’ Romana retorted. ‘We’re neither disgusting nor repellent. We are simply slightly different to you. There nothing wrong with that.’
The crowd around them hissed.
‘There is everything wrong with that,’ the woman groaned.
The Doctor’s mood had improved. He was rubbing his hands.
‘Please, don’t do that,’ the figure shuddered. ‘That thing with your hands …’
The Doctor stopped rubbing his hands.
‘You’re wearing cloaks and masks, and you’re gathered in a clearing. That’s a good sign. You seem to be an angry young woman – I like that too.’
Romana leant against a tree stump and checked her watch. ‘He’ll give a speech. It’ll be terribly rousing. If you’ve heard of Shakespeare you’ll recognise a few bits. For a few brief moments you’ll forget the appalling risk and the terrible consequences and run off to save the day.’
She realised the Doctor was staring at her. ‘Sorry, recently had my mind taken over. I seem incapable of lying at the moment.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Anyway, the Doctor’s good at this. Sometimes.’
The Doctor cleared his throat. ‘Rebels of Krikkit,’ he began. Then he paused. ‘We haven’t settled that question, have we? I mean, you are the Rebels?’
The woman in the cloak lowered her gaze. ‘We’d like to be,’ she admitted. ‘We have a few problems. For one thing, and I’m sorry, your appearance is far more disgusting than I thought possible.’
‘Thank you,’ the Doctor beamed. ‘I didn’t have my hair done specially.’
‘For another thing –’ the woman tugged her cape down further over her eyes and dropped her voice – ‘we’re having trouble nailing our Mission Statement.’
‘Crumbs,’ said the Doctor.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A SHORT HISTORY OF THE REBELLION ON KRIKKIT
Something strange had happened to the planet of Krikkit. For a long time, during the endless aeons of war, the world had acted as one mind. One very angry mind.
After they’d lost, that anger had only intensified. Of course they’d been right to hate the Universe – why, look at what it was doing to them now.
And yet, over the last five years (or two million, depending on where you stood), people had begun to question this single-minded stance.
Mostly this was for a reason that will become apparent. But, before the curtain of isolation had fallen completely, some odd ideas had made their way through into Slow Time.
‘The thing is, Doctor, we’re aware of you,’ said the Rebel Leader.
‘You are?’ The Doctor failed not to look flattered.
‘Not you specifically, but of the work that people like you are doing saving the Universe. Have you a costume?’
The Doctor pointed at his clothes and tugged at his scarf.
‘Nothing more impressive? With armour? And figure hugging?’
The Doctor nibbled the edge of his scarf.
‘Perhaps an insignia? Worn over your chest?’
The Doctor gave out the longest breath. ‘Clearly, you people have been on the receiving end of some strange ideas. If I could just have a moment—’
The Rebel Leader cut him off. ‘What is your plan, Doctor? Your plan for saving our planet?’
‘Well, um …’ The Doctor’s eyes shuffled around the clearing. He nudged Romana. She stared at the floor and appeared to be whistling. ‘Something or other normally comes to me and it all works out fine.’
The Rebel Leader made a noise which was even more disgusted than usual. ‘You don’t have a plan?’
‘No.’
The rebels looked at each other. There was some muttering. The Rebel Leader strode forward. ‘We need a plan. Not a full breakdown. Just a treatment, you know, outlining your ideas.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing I do. I could get K-9 to rustle up something, but I can’t promise to stick to it.’
The Rebel Leader shook her head. ‘You’re expecting us to commit the future history of this planet to your whims?’
‘They’re nice whims.’
Beneath her mask, the Rebel Leader frowned. ‘It’s just not good enough, Doctor. We’re not asking much. We’d settle for a one-pager.’
‘Well, maybe, Romana, could you jot something down?’
Romana demurred. ‘Oh, I’d love to, Doctor, but I’m still feeling faint from all that mind control.’
Et tu, Brute? The Doctor turned back to the Rebel Leader. ‘Suppose I did scribble some ideas … what kind of approval system would there be?’
‘Oh, we’d definitely go over it quite quickly.’ The Rebel Leader had brightened considerably. Her comrades were nodding the bright relieved nods of people seizing a chance to do nothing at all. ‘So long as it’s something original. No sense in rehashing old ground, is there?’
‘Indeed not.’ The Doctor was sounding hoarse.
The Rebel Leader was finding her feet. ‘And we’d need to cost it out – have you a thumbnail budget we can price up?’
‘Rebellions aren’t what they used to be,’ the Doctor growled, and stomped out of the clearing.
‘It’s just a bit of Paperwork,’ began Romana gently. She’d found him kicking a tree.
‘Paperwork? Ptchah!’ the Doctor thundered. ‘They’ve been got at! This rebellion is grinding to a halt. Once I’ve dealt with the Krikkitmen I’m going after Paperwork.’
It isn’t exactly true to say that Pape
rwork is evil. Most people wouldn’t be surprised to know that Paperwork breeds prolifically. If you told them Paperwork was actually a pan-sentient life form capable of inhabiting any medium, they would shrug and say, ‘Oh well, that makes sense.’
Paperwork long ago worked out the best way of surviving was through a peculiarly aggressive form of camouflage – it makes itself clearly visible but ensures that no one wants to look at it. The Universe’s filing cabinets and inboxes are filled with species of Paperwork, lingering blissfully neglected. An entire tribe was found hiding in an envelope under a pizza delivery menu. Whole colonies exist in the increasingly worrying print at the back of pension statements, and a rare genus lies entirely undiscovered in the Terms and Conditions of the Barbican’s ticketing website. Most types of Paperwork are dormant, shy, fairly pointless creatures, but some have risen up and taken power. The conditions for such an evolutionary marvel have to be terribly specific. So, most of the time, Paperwork thrives by being ignored but, in some rare cases, this does not happen. Quite the opposite. Instead, people worship it, applauding in delight as it multiplies. They do all they can to encourage its endless proliferation to the consumption of all other purposes. There was a particularly nasty outbreak in the Soviet Union (crushed only when there was a cold snap and they ran out of firewood). After a group of housewives failed to come home for forty years, another equally virulent strain was found lurking in a Bingo hall in Pontypridd.
So far, only one institution in the Universe has become so overwhelmed by Paperwork that its employees sometimes struggle to remember what it is for. The name of this organisation is the British Broadcasting Corporation.
Romana had once worked at the BBC, a brief stint producing a radio programme about troubled cow owners. She and the Doctor had been hunting down the Celestial Toymaker, who had taken over the Light Entertainment Department (with terrible consequences for humanity, and a remarkable increase in viewing figures). The experience had made her realise that the Time Lords were a beacon of sizzling efficiency by comparison to the BBC, where roomfuls of people fought to get something done in between the filing and the exhausting lunches.
Doctor Who and the Krikkitmen Page 16