Which is exactly what the Doctor did, though not for the last time that day.
‘And here he is at last,’ someone was saying, ‘The man to end it all!’
The Doctor tried to move, tried to open his eyes, but nothing happened. He didn’t recognise the voice, but whoever it was, she had to be talking about him. It was always about him, when people talked that way.
‘My sisters, the Doctor has returned to Karn.’
Yep, there you go, he was right. Him! He wondered if he should pop one eye open and make a joke, people loved that. Or even sit bolt upright with a big smile. But when he tried, still nothing happened.
No, wait, what did she say? Karn? That rang a bell. He decided he should probably make a note, but then remembered he didn’t have a notebook. Or a pen. Or, in fact, the ability to move any part of his body. He decided to make a mental note instead, but promptly forgot what he was thinking about. Damn, why hadn’t he made a note?
The voice again: ‘This has been foretold. We have always known in our bones, one day he would return here!’
Ah, this was sounding very him. A long-awaited return! Probably a prophesied battle against an ancient foe, rising from some sort of terrible depths, he shouldn’t wonder. All in a day’s work for the Doctor. He decided to leap to his feet, swish his coat about a bit, and choose someone to make him tea. But the world stayed dark, and the rocks stayed cold against his back. Perhaps Cass could help him. He’d just saved her life, hadn’t he? She’d probably be with him in a moment. One good turn deserved another.
Now a hand was stroking his face. It was a very warm hand. Or was it that his face was very cold? Oh, that was interesting. He couldn’t remember why he was so cold.
The voice, close now, warm breath on his face: ‘Such a pity he’s dead.’
Oh! Dead, was he? That was going to make things a bit more diff—
Being dead, the Doctor was unaware of his final journey across that barren world, and only the crows of Karn saw him borne into the cave where he and I would stand face to face, at the very end.
Ow! Someone had slapped him, and there was a bitter aftertaste on his lips. He was somewhere else! Sitting on a stone floor! The wind was gone, so maybe he was inside. A cave, going by that dripping sound. There was movement around him; the smell of smoke and the crackle of burning torches. Now he heard a low murmur of female voices. Was one of them Cass? Of course! Cass must have dragged him to safety, after he’d rescued them both from that crashing ship. If only he could remember exactly how he’d done that. He decided to open his eyes as soon as he remembered how.
‘Cass!’ someone shouted. Good! Obviously she was here somewhere, and safe. ‘Cass, Cass!’ It was a man’s voice, high with desperation, and so cracked and full of terror that it took him several seconds to recognise it as his own. The shock opened his eyes.
She was old, and robed in scarlet. Her face was creased and weathered, but her stare glittered, as she squatted in front of him like a wise old ape. In a line behind her, against the fire-lit rock, stood several more scarlet robed women, younger, but as pale and hollow-eyed as upright cadavers. Each held a steaming goblet.
‘If you refer to your companion,’ the old woman was saying, ‘we are still trying to recover her body from the wreckage. You were thrown clear.’
Oh! The wreckage. Cass was still in there. He remembered Cass’s face, and how she’d looked at him when she realised what he was. ‘She wasn’t my companion,’ he said.
‘She’s almost certainly dead. No one could survive that crash.’
‘I did!’
‘No.’
That awful word, so calmly delivered. He fought to let nothing show on his face.
‘We restored you to life,’ the old woman continued, ‘but it is a temporary measure. You have a little under four minutes.
It had always been a rule of the Doctor’s never to panic early. If he still had four minutes to fill, it was time to start owning the room. ‘Four minutes!’ he protested. ‘But that’s ages! What if I get bored? I need a television, a couple of books, anyone for chess? Bring me knitting.’
‘You have so little breath left. Spend it wisely.’
Watch me, he thought. Quick scan. Six women in the room, including the old one. Two exits! One was obviously the cave mouth, the other led deeper into the mountain. Wait, how did he know it was a mountain? Had he been here before? Ah! He’d heard a name earlier. She’d named this planet. And what about this cave? It did look a little familiar. Okay, time to parade his local knowledge, if he could just remember any of it.
‘Hang on, is it you? It is, isn’t it, it’s you.’ Of course, he’d got it now. ‘Am I back on Karn?’ he said, triumphantly. ‘You’re the Sisterhood of Karn, keepers of the flame of utter boredom!’
The old woman’s eyes flashed. ‘Eternal life,’ she snapped.
‘That’s the one!’ Going by the look on her face, he’d already landed a hit. Good! Time to give it a bit more swagger. He’d clambered to his feet, but as he started to move, he could feel his body shutting down, and the pain of it almost knocked him flat. Buck up, Doctor, he thought. It won’t hurt for long.
‘Mock us if you will.’ said the old woman, ‘Our elixir can trigger your regeneration, bring you back.’
Oh, interesting. Were they trying to help him? There had been stories, back on Gallifrey, that the Karn Sisterhood could assist a regeneration in a mortally wounded Time Lord—but why should they care about him? And anyway, did he want to go through it all again? To be torn down and rebuilt into someone else, just to see more of the universe burn. He remembered his old tutor, lecturing at the academy, telling them all about the change they dreaded so much. ‘You will walk into a storm,’ Borusa had said, ‘and a stranger will walk back out. And that stranger will be you.’ A stranger to himself, yet again. Why? What was the point any more?
The old woman was gesturing to the goblets held by the others. ‘Time Lord science is elevated here. On Karn, the change doesn’t have to be random.’ She moved among the sisters, pointing to one goblet, then another. ‘Fat or thin? Old or young?’
He almost laughed. He was standing in the salesroom of his possible futures!
‘Man or woman?’ she asked him, pointedly.
Ginger? he wondered, but kept the thought to himself.
Ohila was looking at him, expectant now. He wondered briefly how he suddenly knew her name and realised he’d translated the tiny inscription on her left earring. Good to know some of his skillset was still on-line.
‘Why would you do this for me?’ he asked.
‘You have helped us in the past.’
Had he? A memory surfaced of being tied to a stake in the centre of this chamber, while wood was stacked around him and torches were lit. ‘One good burn deserves another?’ he decided not to say, then realised he already had. ‘The Sisterhood of Karn were never big on gratitude.’
‘The war between the Daleks and the Time Lords threatens all reality. You are the only hope left.’
Oh, of course. They were afraid. But why did everyone always expect him to be a soldier?
‘It’s not my war,’ he said. ‘I will have no part of it.’
‘You can’t ignore it forever.’
Ignore it? he thought. No one in the universe could exactly ignore a war that was taking place at every moment in history at once. ‘I help where I can. I will not fight.’
‘Because you are above such squalid practicalities as the business of warfare?’
Yes, he thought. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Because you are the Good Man, as you call yourself?’
‘I call myself the Doctor.’
‘It’s the same thing in your mind.’
‘I’d like to think so.’
There was movement behind him, and her eyes flicked to a point over his shoulder. A new look came over her face. Was that cunning, he wondered. Or just cruelty?
‘In that case, Doctor,’ she said, ‘attend your patient
.’
Two more of the Sisterhood had entered the cave, and between them they carried what looked like a sack. But then they laid her on the altar stone in the centre of the room, and for a moment he could find no words. She looked so small. Around her chest he noticed a bandolier. It was clearly too old to have been hers originally, and he wondered briefly who had given it to her. Someone she cared about, or who had cared about her. The thought stung him.
He used the screwdriver to scan her for life signs, but he already knew it was pointless.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Ohila was saying. ‘She is beyond even our help.’
I know, he wanted to scream into her face. Instead he just said, ‘She wanted to see the universe,’ because it was true and it made him ache.
‘She didn’t miss much. It’s very nearly over.’
‘I could’ve saved her. I could have got her off that ship, she wouldn’t listen.’
‘Then she was wiser than you. She understood there was no escaping the Time War. You are part of this, Doctor—whether you like it or not.’
‘I would rather die,’ he said, and meant it with both his hearts. Not a soldier, he thought. That was the promise. Never cruel, never cowardly, and never, ever a soldier. He knew what was inside him: the anger that could never be given voice. Death first.
‘You’re dead already,’ said Ohila. ‘How many more will you let join you?’
He forced his eyes to Cass’s face. No accusation there now. No hatred, no fear, nothing. Just another broken child. Just another one, Doctor!
‘If she could speak, what would she say?’
‘To me? Nothing. I’m a Time Lord. Everything she despised.’
‘If she understood the man you are, and the power you could wield, she would beg your help. As we beg your help now. The universe stands on the brink. Will you let it fall?’
There was no scorn in her voice. No cruelty, no cunning. Simple appeal.
How many more, he wondered. How many more children crushed and burnt as he stood apart? He must never be a soldier, he knew that. But it was like a whisper in his ear now. ‘How many more will die, Doctor? While you keep your soul pure and your hands clean?’ He felt himself gripping on to the stone table, trying to shut out that terrible, forbidden voice.
‘What will it take, Doctor?’ the whisper continued. ‘How many more will suffer and die before you act?’ it begged of him.
Ohila was moving among the goblets again. ‘Strong or fast,’ she was asking. ‘Wise or angry? What do you need now?’
Blood and rage thundered in the Doctor’s ears. To his own surprise, he noticed he was unclipping the bandolier from around Cass’s still form. Was he doing that? It didn’t feel like him. He was now holding the bandolier in front of his own eyes, as if for his inspection. It was cleaner than the rest of her clothes, and had been repaired many times. Obviously it had been of great value to her and she had worn it to the end. Someone, somewhere would have been happy to know that.
‘Warrior,’ he heard himself say.
Ohila was staring at him. ‘Warrior?’
‘I don’t suppose anyone needs a doctor any more. Make me a warrior now.’ It was his voice, but how could those be his words? It felt like someone else was talking through him.
Ohila was passing him a goblet. ‘I took the liberty of preparing this one myself.’
It was warm in his hands, and the smell was bitter one moment and sweet the next. ‘Get out!’ he said. ‘All of you!’
He heard the shuffle of feet. The sisters were moving deeper into the shadows.
‘Will it hurt?’ he asked.
Ohila’s voice seem to come to him from a great distance. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Good,’ he replied, and raised the goblet. He was alone now, but in that last moment, chose to remember all the times he hadn’t been. All the friends who had kept him safe. ‘Charley. C’rizz, Lucie, Tamsin, Molly. Fitz. Friends and companions I have known, I salute you.’ He looked to the broken child on the altar stone. ‘And Cass … I apologise.’
The goblet was almost at his lips now. One last farewell to the man he had been. ‘Physician, heal thyself.’
The Doctor drank the poison, and walked into the storm.
The stranger woke. His hands looked different, but he knew that would be the least of it. As he pulled himself to his feet, every nerve and sinew jangled: wrong, wrong, everything all wrong. No, not wrong, he reminded himself. New. Just new. He remembered to breathe, and even that felt strange. He tried to focus on the chamber around him. Oh, the colour balance was wildly different yet again. The reds were a bit greener and the yellows were out of control. He knew he’d get used to it, but it always took a while. Sometimes he missed the monochrome world of his first two incarnations. It had felt like a simpler, cleaner time; so many centuries had passed before he realised he’d just been colour blind. He looked round, testing his focal length, and saw a beautiful woman looking at him.
‘Is it done?’ asked Ohila.
Is it? he wondered. Is what done? Then he saw Cass, dead on the stone, and the sight of her hurt him all over again. Good, he still had a conscience. But something new flexed under that familiar pain, like the flick of a serpent’s eye in the darkness. What was that new feeling? Rage? Vengeance? Was that something to worry about? He ran a hand over his face. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
No, not wrong, new. A new face, for a new man.
There were no mirrors in the cave, but hanging on one of the smoother rock walls, was a highly burnished section of armour plate, some ancient relic of battle. It would do.
The first thing he noticed was that he was now wearing Cass’s bandolier round his own chest. When had he put that on? Then he glanced up and met his own eyes.
There is a moment, after regeneration, when the guttering soul of the old man looks out through the eyes of the new. So it was the Doctor who looked into the mirror—but it was me who looked back. And there we stood, the Doctor and I; one man, face to face; an end and a beginning.
My height hadn’t changed much, I noticed. My hair was a little shorter, though still dark. Those urgent blue eyes were gone and in their place, a stare like winter. For a moment that stare troubled me. But this was a time of war, and I had been reborn for battle; I was ready to look on a darker world.
I turned my new face one way, then the other. Was I younger? Older? There was something haggard and pained about me now, so it was difficult to tell. Standing before me was a man who had seen horror and no longer chose to hide it. Yes, I thought, this would do. This was right.
I held my own gaze, and spoke. The words came in a cold whisper; a silken rasp; voice like a shiver out loud.
‘Doctor no more,’ I said.
FEED CONNECTING
FEED CONNECTED
FEED STABLE
PLEASE HOLD THE BOOK STRAIGHT AND TURN OFF YOUR MOBILE PHONE.
Many years later, in circumstances too scandalous to relate, I asked Ohila what had been in the goblet.
‘Lemonade and dry ice,’ she admitted, as I lit her cigar. ‘Or something like that, I was in a hurry and it needed to look dramatic.’
‘But the Doctor did become a warrior.’
‘The Idiot Child was a warrior his entire life. The universe needed him to be a little more honest on the subject, so I provided a moment of theatre that facilitated his change of hearts.’
‘Did he ever suspect you had tricked him?’
‘He knew that darkness was always inside him. Allowing him to pretend it came from elsewhere was a mercy of sorts. From that moment on he had quite enough to worry about and I didn’t want to add self-loathing to his many burdens.’
‘You were being kind.’
‘Just practical. The Doctor has been so many different people, self-loathing could take all day.’
‘Did you know what was coming?’
‘Of course. Of course we did, the Sisterhood always knows. But there was no one else. Simply no one else could do what that
man could. He was so special, in so many ways, the Idiot Child.’
Ah, Ohila, always such a beautiful woman, and a thrilling and innovative darts player. She’s a little too inclined to lecture me on my sexual politics, but for all that, she makes a lovely cuppa.
Now most of you, as keen students of the Doctor, will also know what was ahead of him at that point in his life. The Warrior formerly known as the Doctor (or the Doctor of War, as people insisted on calling him, despite his protests) went on to wage the bloodiest campaign in the history of the known and unknown and partly known universe. It was said he felt every blow he inflicted, and grieved for every life he took, but that none of this pain ever stopped him or slowed him or diverted him from his purpose. He had become a warrior to end war, and he fought more fiercely in that cause than any soldier known before or since. The wrath of the Doctor of War was the last wonder witnessed by the many billions who stood against him. He took command at the slaughter of Skull Moon; he battled at the fall of Arcadia; he fought to prevent the rise of the Nightmare Child; he witnessed the seven deaths of Davros and he led the final charge up the slopes of the Never Vault.
And as the centuries passed, and he grew old, he realised it was all for nothing. So long as there were Daleks and Time Lords alive in this universe, this war would never end. And now that his own people had become as vengeful as their sworn enemies, he began to see there was only one solution. As is known, he broke into the Time Lord vaults and stole the Moment, a powerful weapon from the ancient times of Gallifrey, and used it to wipe out every last Dalek and every last Time Lord. A single moment of dreadful slaughter, and suddenly there was peace everywhere in the universe—except, of course, in the hearts of that lone traveller who once again called himself the Doctor. He had not expected to survive, and so lived on in the firm belief that his continued existence was punishment, and that his purpose was repentance.
Let it be said, that repentance was sincere. He travelled the galaxies, and brought peace and hope and kindness everywhere his TARDIS landed. In time the peoples of the universe forgot the war, and no one spoke or heard a word of it anywhere—except those brave souls who looked into the eyes of the last of the Time Lords and asked him what was wrong.
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