‘He is, of course he is. The most extraordinary genius anyone has ever met.’
The Doctor was booming away again. ‘Yes, Sarah, yes,’ he was saying, ‘but there might have been a force field as well!’
‘Then he’s not a genius all the time?’ asked Kate.
‘No, it’s all the time,’ said her father, with funereal regret.
‘So when is he an idiot?’
‘All the time.’
‘That doesn’t really make any sense,’ said Kate, after a moment’s consideration.
‘Yes, that’s about the size of it,’ he replied. The Doctor was striding towards them now, and as always her father straightened his shoulders and put some effort into a smile. Many years later, Kate found herself doing the same.
‘Doctor,’ she said. ‘May I extend the official apologies of UNIT.’
‘Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, a word to the wise!’ said a very different version of the same man, who was now scrambling to his feet. ‘As I’m sure your father would have told you,’ he continued, ‘I don’t like being picked up.’
‘That probably sounded better in his head,’ said a pretty young woman, appearing next to him. She’d just emerged from the TARDIS, which had now come to rest in the square. Ah, yes, Kate thought, Clara Oswald, the schoolteacher. Where does he find them all?
‘I was acting on orders direct from the throne,’ said Kate and nodded to Osgood—who, she noticed in sudden horror, was wearing a stupidly long, multi-coloured scarf. Dear God, this was no time to be fangirling.
Osgood had passed the thick, ancient envelope to the Doctor, who was now inspecting the wax seal with what looked like alarm. Kate frowned: alarm, she thought, or could that that be guilt? Out loud she said: ‘Sealed orders from Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the First.’
‘The Queen?’ asked Clara, whose eyes had somehow got even wider. ‘The First? Sorry, Queen Elizabeth the First??’
‘Queen Elizabeth the only,’ snapped the Doctor, who suddenly didn’t look like a buffoon any more. ‘She didn’t like being numbered, and I sympathise entirely.’ He looked dubiously at the envelope, as if he didn’t want to open it, didn’t even want to hold it. So much for his famous curiosity. ‘How do we know this is genuine?’
‘Her credentials are inside,’ she replied.
With visible reluctance, the Doctor started to break the seal but Kate laid a hand on his arm. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Inside.’ And she gestured to the huge ornate building behind her.
‘Inside the National Gallery?’ asked Clara. ‘What kind of credentials do you keep in a gallery?’
‘Nice scarf,’ said the Doctor to Osgood, and left her fumbling for her inhaler as he strode toward the steps. Clara was already running to catch up.
Kate watched them go, and kept the frown off her face. The change of mood was quite striking. ‘Sometimes you get the clown,’ her father had said, in his final illness, ‘sometimes you get the ancient beast.’ Then he’d started to laugh which had set him off coughing again, and she’d had to sit him up and get him some water. When he’d recovered, he corrected himself. ‘Actually, I think you always get both.’ And he’d given her that smile which had always comforted her as a child, but now just made him look frail and old. They’d sat in silence with only the clock ticking and the rain at the windows.
‘God, I miss that man,’ he had said at last.
‘Maybe he’ll visit tomorrow,’ she had said, her hand tight on his.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he had smiled, closing his eyes.
She could never decide, over the years, if those were the best or the saddest last words.
The Doctor and Clara were striding in step through the evacuated gallery, when Kate caught up with them.
‘Did you know her? Elizabeth the First?’ Clara was asking.
‘Unified Intelligence Taskforce,’ the Doctor replied.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘This lot,’ he said, waving a hand at the various soldiers standing guard around the building. ‘UNIT. They investigate alien stuff, anything alien.’
‘What, like you?’
‘I work for them.’
‘You have a job?’
‘Why shouldn’t I have a job? People have jobs. I’d be brilliant at having a job.’
‘You never have a job.’
‘Yes, I do. This is it. This is my job.’
‘What kind of job could you have?’
‘This one. This one I’m doing right now, in front of you.’ The Doctor threw an eye-roll over his shoulder at Kate.
It took an effort, but Kate managed not to slap him. Had he really never mentioned any of it? Clara was obviously, at the very least, his friend. Had he never told her he’d spent years, trapped on Earth, in her father’s protection, working with him? They’d stood guard on a world together, they’d been friends. Best friends, she’d thought. She fought down the memory of the dying old soldier in the hospice. Maybe tomorrow.
I’m sorry, said a voice in her head, and it almost froze her. She’d been briefed about the Doctor’s occasional telepathy: low level, they’d said, and rarely used. I miss him too.
Not now, she thought back at him, we’ve got work to do. She felt her cheeks flush and her jaw tighten: he should have the damn decency to stay out her head!
As you wish, said the Doctor, and stepped politely away. But as I returned to my own thoughts, I took an image of Kate’s dying father with me, and filed it for later: Alistair waiting for me. ‘One should live with one’s sins,’ I’d told a young man once, though I couldn’t remember who or why. Clara was glancing at me, so I kept striding and smiling, as she expected. Clown and ancient beast—was that really what Alistair had thought? Was that what Clara thought too? I resisted having a look inside her head. In front of us, a pair of doors were being opened, and I forced my mind back to the present. Work to do! I squared my shoulders, straightened my bow tie, and the Doctor stepped through the doors.
At the far end of a long, darkened room, two soldiers were standing on guard, either side of a large painting mounted on an easel. The painting itself was draped in cloth, like it was something forbidden. Or maybe they were just keeping the dust off—why did he always think it had to be something sinister? He resisted the part of his mind that was now listing all the reasons in chronological order.
Kate had stepped ahead of him now, and given a nod to the soldiers. The drape was pulled back and an oil painting lit up the room like a fireplace.
A shattered city below a black and orange sky; plunging battleships suspended over a burning skyline; an intricate lattice of stabbing energy beams; running people, frozen in their screams.
The Doctor could feel the double slamming inside his chest. He wondered if everyone could hear his hearts.
Kate’s voice now, from so far away. ‘Elizabeth’s credentials,’ she was saying. ‘She left an account of where to find this painting, and its significance to you.’
The Doctor couldn’t find his voice. His eyes were locked on the painting. He felt himself taking Clara’s hand, although it wasn’t Clara who was afraid.
‘This isn’t why you were called here today. This is just proof that the message in your hand is from Elizabeth herself. Obviously, over this amount of time, forgery is a possibility.’
He tried to make sense of her words over the roar of the painting, but surely no one could. Surely everyone could hear those screams? And then, from deep inside him, from another place and another life, he found himself saying: ‘No more.’
‘That’s the title!’ said Kate, evidently surprised.
‘I know the title,’ snapped the Doctor, and reached for Clara’s hand, before remembering he was already holding it. She was shaking, but dimly he realised it might not be her.
‘Also known as—’
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it!
‘—Gallifrey Falls,’ finished Kate.
The Doctor didn’t reply for a moment. He noticed Clara’s grip was ve
ry tight, then worried he might be hurting her and released her hand. He willed himself to speak. ‘It’s the fall of Arcadia,’ he said. ‘Gallifrey’s second city.’ Say it, say it, just say it. ‘The last day of the Time War.’
The last day. The floor tremored at his feet. Were there shockwaves coming out of the painting?
The last day. He was back on Karn, so many faces ago, and he was drinking the poison, ready to walk into the storm.
The last day. The desert was hot beneath his boots, and a tiny barn shimmered on the horizon.
The last day. Elizabeth of England tilted back her face to be kissed, but it wasn’t really her.
The last day. He was trapped in a cell with two old men who hated him, but the shadows hid their faces.
The last day. He was standing in a gallery, and Clara was asking him if he was okay.
The last day of the Time War. That was wrong, he suddenly realised. Because somehow all those different days, spread across his life, were also the last day. Somehow the last day had become millions of days, each of them, impossibly, the last. No such thing as last, something screamed in his mind, laughing at him.
And understanding arrived, like sickness: a truth he had been running from for centuries. A long time ago, he had taken a decision to become a warrior, and many years later he’d thought he could walk away from it. How stupid. Of course not! He’d drunk the poison, and walked into the storm, and never found his way out. He had forsaken his name, gone to war, and in one terrible moment of unparalleled savagery, slaughtered them all, Time Lords and Daleks alike. Everyone had screamed, and then everything had stopped.
The murderer who stood alone and alive, in that awful silence, told himself what he’d done was justified; that peace was worth any price; that the war, at last, was over.
He was wrong of course. The Time War wasn’t over. Not for me.
FEED CONNECTING
FEED CONNECTED
FEED STABLE
PLEASE KEEP THE PSYCHIC PAPER OUT OF DIRECT SUNLIGHT AT ALL TIMES TO AVOID FATALITY.
Whatever these modern authors might say on the subject, there comes a point in every story when it has to begin. So, at last, we proceed to Chapter One, The War of the Doctor. If the last day of the Time War is ever to be understood, then what follows is the first step on that journey. Or in the case of this book, the third. That’s the thing about writing live, it’s already too late when you realise you have contradicted yourself. Anyway, authorship is again central to our studies—so you might want to take the gum out of your mouth. It’s hard enough writing all this, without you squelching away. Yes, you. Spit it out please, now, you’re holding up the book up for everyone.
Right, good, thank you!
Now authorship. The last chapter was—as I’m sure you realised—written by the Doctor himself. If I may be candid now, almost all the Doctor Papers are written by the Doctor himself, at least where we can be certain of authorship. Chapter Nine, The Truth of the Doctor, is the only one where the provenance is uncertain (for reasons that will be evident when we get to it) but still the majority of scholars remain convinced it is again from the Doctor’s hand.
Ah! I sense some of you keen to skip ahead to Chapter Nine. Please do not, it complicates the live stream no end. Additionally, it is the most dangerous chapter in this book (it’s not even listed on the contents page for that reason) and a proper briefing before reading will be required—
Oh, stop it, come back here. No, not you lot. I mean, you lot. Reading this book out of sequence is highly ill-advised—it’s ALREADY out of sequence. Oh, if you insist. But if you do read it now (don’t, spoilers, enormous) come straight back here and rejoin us at the top of the next paragraph.
Right then! Here we all are. Chapter One is ready to roll. And I can now reveal to you, at last, that this chapter, unlike the previous one, is not written by the Doctor.
Your close attention is advised. Emotional engagement should be minimised. Because this is the day the Doctor killed them all.
Chapter 1
The War of the Doctor
She wasn’t listening and I didn’t think she ever would.
‘He’s here,’ I said, keeping tight rein on the panic levels in my voice. ‘I can hear him, moving about. He’s in Time Vault Zero. The Doctor is in Time Vault Zero.’
There was nothing but static for a moment. Even this far below the surface, the pounding from the sky was growing louder by the minute. Grit and live-fibre was pouring down on me from the cracked ceiling, and the last of the emergency lights had started to flicker. The Daleks were raining everything they had on the very heart of Gallifrey; it could only be a final assault. The end couldn’t be far away. The comm-link sputtered again, and I slammed it with my fist. In truth, it was a wonder that any of links were still working.
Her voice came like a miracle. ‘The Doctor is currently located in Arcadia, he was sighted there this morning—’
‘He was there this morning,’ I shouted at her. ‘He blew up a lot of Daleks, and wrote, No More on the side of a building, with a fusion blaster! I know where he was this morning, everybody does. But that was hours ago …’
‘We have no reason to suppose he’s in the Capitol.’
You’ve got me, I wanted to scream, but I kept my voice calm. ‘Yesterday he was on Skaro. He blew most up most of the Emperor’s fleet, stole a gunship, and burned a message over half their city. Do you know what it said? No More! Do you see? He’s saying it to both sides!’
There was more crackling. When she spoke again, she was clearly terrified, and her words sounded rehearsed. ‘The Doctor, while rogue, and often alarming and unpredictable in his behaviour, is nevertheless on our side.’
‘He hasn’t been the Doctor for centuries, and he’s not on anyone’s side any more. He’s just declared war on the Daleks, and the Time Lords, and now he’s in Time Vault Zero. Do you know what’s inside Time Vault Zero??’
Of course she knew. Everybody knew, although no one was supposed to. ‘There is no breach indicated for the Time Vaults.’
‘And I’m standing outside the doors, and they’re still sealed, but I know he’s in there.’
‘The doors can only be opened from here.’
‘I know that, of course I know, don’t you think I know. I also know he’s in there!’
‘How?’ she asked, her voice so low and fearful I could barely hear her.
‘I feel him. I sense him. We grew up together, we’ve been psychically linked all our lives. Please believe me when I say I know that man, I know that he’s in the Vault, and I know what he’s going to do.’
I could tell by her silence she didn’t believe me. Whoever she was, she wasn’t stupid. ‘Have you talked to him?’ she said, at last.
‘We don’t need to talk to him, we need to kill him,’ I screamed at her. ‘I’ll help, I’m good at killing him, it won’t be my first time. Please just tell the General he’s in there!’
A silence. Then: ‘Just a moment.’
I leaned against the wall and felt the city shudder. I pictured the scene, far above, in the war room. She’d be pulling the General aside, and at first he’d be irritated, and then he’d be frowning. Time Vault Zero, he’d be thinking. The final resting place of the Moment, also known as the Galaxy Eater: a weapon so powerful, so independently intelligent, it had been sealed in the deepest vault for eons untold, and had remained untouched and unused even during this war. Legend had it that the Moment had grown so powerful, the Interface had evolved its own conscience. Who would dare to use a weapon of such colossal power, when it could, if it chose, stand in judgement over you? Right about now, the General would be realising there was only one ego in the universe big enough to even try. There would be panic in his eyes, as he started to think what might happen if the Moment felt into the hands of a madman.
The comm-link fizzed. ‘The General and the elite guard are on their way down to you. Please remain on site.’
‘Where would I be likely to go?’ I
snapped.
‘I am commencing the door-opening sequence, so please stand clear.’
Behind me, the two tall, iron doors shivered and whined, as mechanisms deep within them spun back to life.
‘The General’s not here yet,’ I protested. ‘Don’t open them now.’
‘The Vault has been sealed for a very long time; we’re not sure how long it will take to unseal it. We don’t have time to waste!’
‘But I’m alone down here,’ I shouted. ‘You can’t leave me down here, with him.’
‘You should probably take cover.’
‘Are you listening to me? It’s him! It’s him and he’s got the deadliest weapon in the history of the universe—where exactly do you suggest I take cover?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she breathed, and the comm-link pinged into silence. I imagined her sitting there, traumatised, caught between the Daleks above, and the devil below. Her fear wouldn’t last long, of course: she would be dead very soon.
As it happened, she was wrong: the doors didn’t take long to open. In fact, they were grinding open already, and the heat of ages past stung my face.
The chamber was walled in dripping black rock, and the far end was lost in steam and shadow. At the centre stood a plinth, seemingly fashioned from a lattice of blades, and resting on the blades was an ornate wooden cube, about a foot square. It looked like an antique puzzle box, but when my eyes came to rest on it, it stopped my breath.
The Moment. The Galaxy Eater.
I willed my hands to stop shaking, lifted the box from its glittering nest, and placed it carefully inside my sack. Before I left, I scratched the words No More in the stone of the ancient floor.
The desert was hot beneath my boots, and a tiny barn shimmered on the horizon. Somewhere far behind me, in the burning city, the General would be screaming orders and even as Gallifrey fell, the Time Lords would be calling for the head of the Doctor. Why did they still call me that? The man the Doctor had been was long dead, and at my hand. Everything the posturing, prancing fool had stood for had burned on Karn, and I was what had walked out of the fire. Did it comfort them to think that pity could still slow my hand? If so, today they would learn better.
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