by Gary Russell
The door opened and, again as one, the toys looked around as the Toymaker made his appearance. The huge toy robot clanked after him, its hydraulic limbs hissing with each move. Behind it limped the bedraggled Captain Bimm.
‘Master, I am sorry... ‘
The Toymaker shrugged. ‘Winners and losers, Captain. I told you that at Ypres. You lost, the Doctor won. Square, if not
entirely fair.’
The robot rested a metal fist on Bimm’s neck and wrenched it. The Doctor winced, but the robot was now holding just a broken tin head in his palm, and on the floor lay the tiny broken body of the Bimm toy.
‘You are evil,’ the Doctor hissed. Are they dead?’
‘They are toys, Doctor -’
The Toymaker lurched suddenly, grasping at a shelf and knocking sail boats and a couple of jigsaws to the floor.
And the snowstorm he was holding hurtled towards destruction - until the robot neatly caught it.
The Toymaker gasped loudly and for a fleeting moment the face changed - it had Rallon’s dark complexion and it was staring wildly.
‘Doctor,’ cried Rallon, ‘save me... get me out of here... I can’t ... I can’t...’
The Toymaker threw his head back with a growl, shaking his head into an indistinct blur. Both faces struggled for dominance until finally the more familiar features that the Doctor recognised as the celestial being took a firm hold again.
‘Fascinating,’ the Toymaker murmured. ‘He fights me from within.’
The Doctor realised the being was thinking aloud, and that neither he nor the toys mattered at that moment. ‘It’s going to take longer than I anticipated to appreciate corporeal existence.’
And he vanished.
‘Rallon? Rallon!!’ The Doctor rushed to the doors of the toyshop, flung them open and raced through into...
space
He stood there, aghast. He was simply floating, thousands of galaxies surrounding him. It was as if the whole universe had been captured within one small area and he could see everything.
Everything in creation.
Everything that constituted the Toymaker’s playground.
Behind him, the doors to the toyshop were open, suspended in the middle of nothing.
Covering his eyes to keep out the mind-blowing enormity of the universe, the Doctor stumbled back into the shop, and collapsed to the floor.
‘I have reasserted control, Doctor,’ said the stentorian voice of the Toymaker.
He stood in front of the Doctor, smiling, his eyes burning with... life.
Rallon’s life-force. Consumed completely by this... animal, this twisted, monstrous, primeval force for negativity that...
that...
The Doctor’s anger boiled over and he hurled himself at the Toymaker - but he went straight through him, crashing into the toys ranged on the floor, trying to blot out the echoing laughter of his nemesis.
‘Aggression, Doctor? I like you. I like this battle of wills between us. We will play again, one day, when you are better equipped to deal with me. When you are a Time Lord rather than a mere Gallifreyan student. Oh yes, Doctor, everything Rallon knows... knew... is part of me now. I thank you for bringing me my form, my shape. For aeons I have jumped from body to body, disposing of each one as it wore out, never keeping the same face for more than a century. But now, with the potential energy of Rallon to play with, to manipulate and expand upon, I can keep this form for an eternity. Or at least until this universe dies and I move on to the next.’
The Doctor was surrounded by toys, but he didn’t care. He kicked and punched and lashed out, sending them sprawling, ignoring those that simply got up and resumed their observation of him.
Hundreds of dead eyes gazing at him, staring inside him, knowing his guilt, feeling his anger.
Laughing at his fear.
‘Give me back Rallon and Millennia and we’ll leave for ever.
We’ll never, ever come back.’
‘Rallon is mine, Doctor, he cannot be given back. He no longer exists. His unique energy has given me my new life.
And Millennia? She stays too. I can always use a new doll around the place.’
The Doctor looked at the toys he had kicked, among them the broken bodies of Captains Bimm and Bamm.
‘Oh yes, Doctor. They too were sentient once. Those I collected, those that ventured here. Some even volunteered.’
He indicated George and Margaret, now back at their familiar door duty. ‘They all played my games, tried to defeat me, to escape. They all lost. As a result, they stay here. My playthings, Doctor. My friends.’ He smiled. Coldly. ‘But you, Doctor, you I don’t want here now. Inside you burns something so passionate, something so completely different to Rallon, to Millennia, that I need to watch you, need to see you get out among the stars and live.’
The Doctor seemed to relax, but it was a feint. He suddenly scrambled up, snatched the snowstorm from the robot’s metallic fist and threw himself at the mah-jong set on the lacquered table.
If he had calculated correctly...
He landed with a thud on the ground. White ground. Around him, the mah-jong tiles towered upwards.
The Doctor scrabbled over them and made for the yellow path.
Still clutching the snowstorm, he ran and ran along it, glancing once over his shoulder to see the tiles thrown upwards in a maelstrom of destruction - but not fast enough to overtake him.
The TARDIS!
He could see its white dome in its natural state on the horizon.
He realised he was crying. Fear? Panic? Or just the loss of his friend Rallon?
His fault. Rallon was dead and it was his fault.
And what of Millennia? Maybe, if he could escape the Toymaker’s realm, get away from this bizarre dimension where nothing was logical, she would revert to normal.
Yes, that had to be it!
He reached the TARDIS, pushed open the door and dropped to the floor of the console room.
Home.
Barely looking, he set the controls for Gallifrey, operating on adrenalin and instinct, and held his breath as familiar sounds indicated departure.
And on the scanner was the space-time vortex.
‘Made it,’ he whispered. ‘I... we made it, Millennia. We’re free.’
He looked at the snowstorm.
It was empty - just liquid sloshing about and a few flakes of snow.
No miniature Capitol.
No Millennia.
And all around the TARDIS echoed the now-hateful sound of the Toymaker’s laugh.
George and Margaret stood behind their master, staring over his shoulder at the screen on the robot’s chest.
On it, a fuzzy monochrome picture showed the TARDIS
materialising on Gallifrey and the unresisting Doctor being dragged out by chancellery guards, humiliated and distraught.
The Toymaker laughed. ‘One day, Doctor, one day we shall play the games again...’
And he turned away, clicking his fingers at George and Margaret who followed him like the faithful grey people they were.
Lying prostrate on the Chinese lacquered table, replacing the mah-jong set, was a string puppet. The robot reached over and picked it up by its control rods. As it was carried towards a toy cupboard it swung heavily on its strings.
It had a dull, bleached female face with painted-on red cheeks and tiny black eyes. Its limbs hung limply, poking out from under a distinctive set of burgundy robes...
3
Watch Us Fall
The Deca was broken. For ever. There was no going back now.
The High Council stood arranged around the dais in the Panopticon, their faces unreadable as always, the ever-present green lighting reflecting back on their skin. Were they angry? Amused? Concerned?
They might as well have had blank faces like the Toymaker.
The Doctor did his best to look confident, to look assertive.
But inside, he felt neither.
Standing to one sid
e was the Kitriarch of the House of Stillhaven - Rallon’s family. The Brightshore family, Millennia’s House, were not present - they could not bear to be in the Capitol alongside the Doctor.
And his friends?
Where were they?
Koschei and Ushas were on Academy research projects elsewhere. Jelpax was most likely too busy, working for records and libraries alongside co-ordinator Azmael.
Mortimus and Drax had both dropped out of the Academy and simply vanished. (There had been some panic when they did so, as it had been assumed that they, too, had departed with the Doctor.)
Only Magnus had come to watch, standing on one of the carved jade walkways that went high up into the domed ceiling - somewhere on the fourth or fifth level, no doubt. As the Doctor had been led towards the Panopticon, Magnus had caught his eye and given him a reassuring nod. He had got himself assigned to the scientific research department for the rest of his time at the Academy.
But what now for the Doctor? Self-pity wasn’t one of his more regular traits but, right now, flanked by Gold Usher and a troop of chancellery guards, he felt an overwhelming sense of dread.
The chapter cardinals. The department heads of the Academy. The entire High Council. Castellan Rannex and his guards. All it needed was an appearance by the CIA and his humiliation would be complete.
An appearance by them, or the president.
His reverie was broken by Gold Usher thumping his staff against the black polished floor.
Silence reigned - the Doctor could have sworn everyone held their breath. Unsurprisingly. The steps from the dais to the floorway split slightly, and a dark area was revealed. Behind the steps was another flight of stairs, these ones going downwards.
The Doctor’s skin crawled, and he was sweating. His shame had indeed drawn the attention of President Drall. Preceded by two chancellery guards, their customary red-and-white uniforms replaced by gold-and-black facsimiles, the President silently emerged, looking agile for his age.
His immaculate white robes, white headdress and white sandals were a stark contrast to the ebony of his skin. He wore the Sash of Rassilon around his body, carried the Great Key and on his forehead wore the diadem that linked him to the Matrix.
From behind him stepped three more figures, all dressed in black-and-white tabards. All three were members of the Celestial Intervention Agency. All three had been in conference with the President.
The eyes of the President of the High Council of the Time Lords skimmed across his audience, and focused on the Doctor.
And the Doctor felt a probing in his mind like millions of fingers brushing his consciousness, flicking through his memories, experiences, thoughts, beliefs and fears as he himself had flicked through ancient card indexes in libraries so many times.
Millions of minds, deceased and living, connected to the Matrix, all finding out in one second everything he had witnessed.
‘Contact,’ he heard himself mutter, unable to hold back the word.
A handful of Time Lords and Gallifreyan students in the room said it simultaneously, their minds, like his, untrained at dealing with telepathic investigation.
President Drall held up a hand and Gold Usher thumped the floor again.
If the Doctor believed he could not be more ashamed, he was wrong. Cardinal Borusa was being summoned forward. Held responsible for his failings.
Borusa nodded to the President and then turned to address the assembled crowds. Those on the floor, those on the countless walkways and those watching the vidcast in the Academy.
Thankfully, his words weren’t being publicly broadcast to the Houses or workstations.
Borusa swallowed and then looked at the Doctor. For a brief moment, it was as if they were the only two people in the universe, such was the concentration on both their laces.
‘You have been educated at Gallifrey’s Academy. You have spent many decades here, as part of the Prydonian Chapter, as is your birthright.’
Birthright. It always came back to birthright. The Doctor felt himself becoming angry. Blame him. Shout at him.
Punish him. But why keep on dredging up familial connections? Next thing, he’ll mention Quences.
‘Ordinal-General Quencessetianobayolocaturgrathadadey-yi lungbarrowmas put the request in for your formal education, your possible ascension to the rank of Time Lord and all that is bestowed with it, before you were brought into existence. Many people have given much of their lives trying to instil within you the capacity to think, to act and to understand as a Time Lord should. You have chosen to ignore all of that, believing that you possess a destiny different from everyone else. You have a gift, an intellect and an inquisitive nature that need channelling.’
‘Whether or not you believe that this Academy can provide you with something to satisfy your precocious character is irrelevant. This Academy is all you have. All you had.
Recent... events have meant that we can no longer rely upon you, or your studies.’ Borusa cast his eyes downwards. ‘In all our history, we have never had to expel someone from the Academy before.’
The Doctor took a deep breath and clasped the folds of his Prydonian robe near his neck. ‘I am glad to be unique, then,’
he muttered, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
A muted gasp circulated through the assembled Time Lords, and the Doctor felt himself go red.
Borusa shook his head. ‘You have a brilliant mind, but you will never amount to anything in this galaxy while you retain your propensity for vulgar facetiousness. So many of your classmates have achieved the highest honours, the highest positions.’ Borusa cast his eye to the left, and the Doctor followed his gaze to where Jelpax stood to attention. So, he had actually turned up then. And there was dear Azmael, a few paces behind Jelpax, but refusing to catch the Doctor’s eyes.
Of course - he had a position in society to consider.
Borusa was still droning on, pointing to Jelpax ‘The proud purveyors of the next wave of Time Lord history have sat at your side, and yet you hold them in contempt.’ He turned to President Drall. ‘With your permission?’
The President nodded slowly.
Borusa re-addressed the Doctor. ‘You have broken every edict we have tried to give you, every rule we have written and ignored every principle we hold dear. You are expelled forthwith from the Academy, and all you have so far achieved will be erased. You will spend the next five hundred years in the records area and traffic control. Whilst there, you will study in your spare time for your doctorate.
Should you finally gain it, you will be allowed to reapply to become a Time Lord.’
The Doctor was aghast. Five hundred years, plus a subsequent reapplication to gain rank? Why not sentence him to exile from Gallifrey or disperse his atoms or...
No! No, he would face this with some shred of dignity, if only in memory of Rallon and Millennia. He could never bring them back, but he would do it all again, for them.
Not for Quences. Not for Borusa. Not even for dear Azmael.
For his friends, because they had stood by him in adversity, even though it cost them so much.
The Doctor was aware that the crowd was dispersing, but no one came to him. He was left alone for what seemed like ages but was probably just a few moments. Then a hand rested on his shoulder.
‘Magnus? You are still talking to me?’
Magnus shrugged. ‘Someone betrayed you, Doctor.
Someone contacted the Celestial Intervention Agency.’
The Doctor frowned. It couldn’t be dear Koschei? And Ushas, driven as she was, would only do such a thing if it benefited her directly, which this did not. So, Mortimus?
Wax? Unlikely. That only left two possibilities. Jelpax or Vansell.
Magnus, as if reading his mind, pointed towards the archway leading out of the Panopticon. Easing himself away from the last of the Time Lords and guards was Jelpax.
‘It was not me,’ Jelpax said, once he got closer. ‘I admire you, Doctor. I believe you were wrong,
but I admire you for having the courage of your convictions.’
The Doctor suddenly felt very tired. ‘Those convictions cost us dearly, my friends.’
Then he felt Magnus tense up beside him.
Standing to the rear of the hall were three CIA recorders -
plus Vansell, similarly attired in black-and-white robes. Vansell marched towards them and the Doctor suddenly understood.
‘You were with them all along, weren’t you? Watching to see which of us would break free of the Time Lords first.’
Vansell shrugged. ‘Yes and no. Yes, I was with the CIA from the day I entered the Academy. No, I was watching you specifically. Drax, Mortimus even, your old friend from the mountains of south Gallifrey near your House, they’ve already left Gallifrey. They’re not the first to choose exile, freedom, whatever, rather than stay here. But you, Doctor, you are the first to interest the agency. You have... potential. We saw it in your genes from the day you came into existence.’
The Doctor wanted to shout, to scream his anger. But no, that was not the way forward. From now on, he was going to have to be very careful, plan very slowly. And if it took five hundred years to get what he wanted, then that was what he would give it. So he just smiled at Vansell.
‘However,’ he said calmly, ‘I have something you lack.
Despite what Chancellor Delox believes, I do understand loyalty. To my friends. To what I believe to be morally right. I have gained a victory over you, Vansell, when I was not even aware there was a war. I have friends. You? You have a job to do, and nothing more. My friends will mean more to me over the coming years than your wrangling, your duplicity, your maliciousness.’
He placed his hands on Magnus’s and Jelpax’s shoulders.
‘Friends, Vansell. Look the word up. I will always be there for them.’
‘I will always be there for them.’
‘I will always be there for...’
‘I will always...’
‘I will…’
Round Three
Universal