Doctor Who

by David Solomons

  ‘Wish me lu–’

  * * *

  —

  ‘I regret that I am no longer able to redirect the ship, Doctor. We are caught in the sun’s gravitational pull.’ An expression of concern slid across the Curatrix’s face. ‘Brace for solar flare!’

  A moment later, the bridge shook with the force of the energy burst. The sun spat a cloud of electrons, ions and electromagnetic waves, which tore through the vessel’s shields. An explosion ripped apart the weapons console, sending the operator flying across the bridge. She slumped against the bulkhead.

  The Doctor ran to her side, inspecting the injured Gardener. ‘She needs medical attention.’

  ‘The solar flare has compromised all the ship’s systems, including life support,’ said the Curatrix. ‘I am attempting to divert power from the main drive.’

  The Doctor looked around at the rest of the crew. ‘There’s room for everyone aboard the TARDIS. We have to get you all off this ship. Now!’

  The ship lurched again. ‘Hull breaches on decks five through eight,’ announced the Curatrix.

  That was enough for the crew. Panicked by the deteriorating situation, the Gardeners began to scramble for the exits, picking up their fallen colleague as they fled.

  ‘No!’ yelled Nightshade. ‘Remain at your posts. I order you to –’

  Another explosion rocked the bridge. Splinters from a wooden control panel sheared off and spun through the air at high velocity, piercing his side. He let out a cry and stumbled, his legs going out from under him like two great trees being felled. Gardener blood, it turned out, was red too.

  * * *

  —

  Yaz was somewhere else.

  Not a corridor this time, but a street in an ordinary-looking town that seemed at once familiar and alien. No protective dome, no weird robots, no menacing monsters. Just two rows of cosy terraced houses, chimneys drawing smoke into the blue of an evening sky. Mingled with the tang of burning coal was the comforting smell of hot dinners. The only disconcerting aspect about the scene was that the street was empty. Not a soul. Not even a barking dog.

  It was another construct, a scenario created by the TARDIS. Yaz didn’t have time for any more games. If all went to plan, the Doctor and the others would be returning any minute. The timeship had to be back in action and ready to leave, or everything they’d achieved would be in vain.

  ‘Come on,’ Yaz muttered. ‘Give me a clue here.’

  From somewhere in the distance came the sound of music. A wild, looping tune full of swoops and howls. Its cosmic rhythm got under her skin, sending a shiver through her body. She determined that it was coming from the other end of the street, and hurried along the pavement, searching for the source, sure that when she found it she would be where she needed to be. Following the trail of musical notes, she swung past the gates of a school, noting the name on a plaque at the entrance: COAL HILL. The music led her on down a side street, and soon she found herself outside a pair of large wooden doors. Printed across them was the name of a business and its address: I.M. FOREMAN, SCRAP MERCHANT. 76 TOTTER’S LANE.

  There was a gap between the doors big enough for her to squeeze through. On the other side was a junkyard heaped with piles of broken furniture, rusting washing machines and other assorted items no longer wanted by their owners. But Yaz noticed none of these. She was staring into a corner, where a blue police box stood under the glow of a street light.

  The door banged open and the music swelled.

  * * *

  —

  Small fires had erupted across the bridge of the Gardener ship, and the air was thick with smoke and the whoosh of automatic sprinklers. Nightshade lay crumpled on the floor next to his command chair, his bushy head resting on the Doctor’s knees.

  The holographic avatar of the Curatrix stood a little way off, observing the two of them. Even with all its processing power and aeons of deep learning, the AI could not understand why the Doctor remained by the side of a being who had tried to kill her not once, but twice, and who had tried to wipe out all life in the universe. The Curatrix noted that the leaves that covered Nightshade’s face had already begun to curl and turn brown. Diverting a fraction of its resources from the task of keeping the ship in one piece, the Curatrix assessed the injury caused to him by the flying debris. It judged it to be fatal.

  ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,’ said the Doctor. ‘Sorry. Been waiting ages to use that one.’

  Nightshade struggled to speak. ‘My people possess eternal patience, and yet even that is not enough to withstand your endless irritation.’ He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, as pain wracked his body.

  ‘You don’t really want to replace this universe,’ said the Doctor. ‘I mean, have you seen it? The Hanging Gardens of Babylon V. The Robotanical Gardens on Aether. Mrs Carol Carsley’s bog garden in Dorset, England.’

  Nightshade looked up at her through dimming eyes.

  ‘Sure, this universe may be old,’ the Doctor said, meeting his gaze, ‘but it’s still growing.’

  Despite the automatic suppressant system, the flames had spread to the bulkhead and were raging out of control. However, the fire was of secondary concern. The Curatrix monitored the heat shield, which was the only thing keeping the ship from being incinerated by its proximity to the sun. As the AI attempted to squeeze a little more energy out of the engines to direct to the shield, it was distantly aware of another reading.

  ‘Most Gardeners are content to bend their heads and tend the earth,’ Nightshade said, wheezing with the effort. ‘But I chose to get off my knees and look up.’

  The Curatrix observed that his gaze was fixed and empty. ‘His life has been extinguished,’ it said.

  ‘I know,’ said the Doctor, gently laying his head on the floor. She took his hand and carefully prised open his fingers. The apple seed lay in a groove of his palm.

  The Curatrix noted the subtle movement of the Doctor’s facial muscles. ‘That is an expression of relief. Why would you use that now, unless –’ the Curatrix’s eyes widened in realisation – ‘that is the Genesis Seed.’

  The Doctor reached into her pocket and pulled out Yaz’s thermos flask. She popped the seed inside the flask, and screwed the top back on firmly.

  ‘Course it is. What do you think I am – a magician?’ She glanced up at what was left of the navigation console. The dandelion swayed amid the wreckage. ‘Two clocks,’ she said. ‘Run!’

  Yaz found nine-year-old Ryan tucked up in bed, shivering beneath a duvet patterned with childish illustrations of the TARDIS. It was just the sort of bedroom a sick nine-year-old would need, helpfully provided by the TARDIS. The boy lifted his head from his pillow and Yaz saw that his skin was pale, his nose red and swollen. He gave a hacking cough and lay down again. Beside him on the floor, a wastepaper basket brimmed with crumpled tissues. He reached an unsteady hand for another from a box and blew his nose loudly.

  ‘I’m sick,’ he groaned. ‘Go away.’

  ‘I’m here to help you get better.’

  He laughed shortly. ‘Know a lot about the TARDIS drive, do you? Transpower system? Dynamorphic generators? Ringing any Cloister Bells? When was the last time you used Zyton-Seven to transfer the Eye of Harmony’s energy into orbital artron energy, eh?’ He turned away from her and drew his legs up under the duvet.

  Yaz sighed. This was going to be tougher than she’d hoped. She needed to find a different approach, and fast.

  At the end of the bed sat a TV, an ancient, boxy thing with a tiny screen, its plastic casing designed to imitate natural wood. It stood on four equally fake wooden legs. There were two small buttons and two chunky dials set into the front for turning it on, adjusting the volume and selecting the channels. On the grainy screen, a programme was playing with the sound turned down – some kids’ adventure series, by the look of it.

  ‘What are you w
atching?’ she asked.

  ‘Werelock Holmes,’ said Ryan without raising his head. ‘By day he’s an ordinary primary-school teacher, but once a month, during the full moon, he turns into a detective with wolf-based crime-fighting skills.’

  It was the first time he’d shown any enthusiasm since she’d arrived, so Yaz decided to press on with this line. ‘Sounds great.’

  Ryan sat up, growing more animated by the second. ‘It’s a reboot of the classic series. Though not as family friendly as the original. To be honest, the stories are unnecessarily complex. But Werelock’s still a great character, even after all these years. He’s smart, brave, funny, never gives up.’

  Yaz had an idea. ‘So WWWD?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘What would Werelock do? How would he defeat the noughtweed and get back to full strength?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Ryan, warming to the scenario. ‘He’d transform himself. As soon as he changes from an ordinary person into a super-strong werewolf, nothing can harm him. Except silver bullets, obviously. But the change would do it.’

  Yaz thought for a moment. That gave her an idea. ‘Couldn’t the TARDIS do the same? Change, I mean. Isn’t it able to alter its form?’

  ‘The chameleon circuit is…singular.’

  ‘But it’s possible?’

  Ryan sat up. ‘A massive blast of artron energy may theoretically reset the circuits. But it wouldn’t be permanent.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have to be. Just enough to shake off this nasty cold.’ She tore out a tissue and offered it to him. ‘What do you say?’

  * * *

  —

  The main hangar bay teemed with a forest of Gardener crew members, all desperately trying to escape immolation by the sun of Calufrax Major. Their own fanaticism and the will of Nightshade had brought them here, but with their cause in question and their leader gone their zeal had withered like autumn leaves. The remnants of Nightshade’s personal guard attempted to keep order, but even the Grave Diggers lacked conviction in the face of what promised to be a fiery end. A few misguided souls had already departed in the handful of escape shuttles, sealing their own fates as the straining ships’ engines blew themselves up vainly attempting to avoid being pulled into the sun.

  The Doctor and Graham arrived in the hangar and surveyed the chaos.

  ‘We can take everyone in the TARDIS, right?’ said Graham.

  ‘Space is not the problem,’ said the Doctor, motioning to the noughtweed writhing round the police box, seemingly attempting to consume it like some gigantic prehistoric snake. ‘Let’s hope Yaz figured out a way to get rid of that stuff.’

  ‘But you have a Plan B?’ Graham asked nervously. ‘In case she didn’t?’

  ‘Well…’ The Doctor concentrated. ‘We could try reversing the polarity of the neutron flow. That usually works.’

  The blue light on top of the TARDIS flashed, as it began its dematerialisation sequence. The hangar bay fell silent, as the wheezing and groaning grew in volume.

  ‘They’re leaving,’ said Graham in alarm. ‘Without us.’

  ‘Not so fast. Look.’

  The TARDIS faded in and out of existence, and just when it seemed finally to have vanished, it rematerialised. But not in its usual form.

  The TARDIS had become a tree.

  Ancient and monumental, the gnarled trunk was at least three metres across and its leafy crown brushed the roof of the bay. Heavy branches reached out over the vast hangar, dripping with improbably blue fruit. The Gardeners bowed before the majestic sentinel, which towered over them with a regal air.

  ‘A celestial mulberry,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not only rare and beautiful, but famously resistant to disease.’

  With a shiver of leaves, the tree faded away again, and in its place sat once more the familiar blue police box. So startled was Graham by the transformation that it took him a moment before he realised that the noughtweed had gone.

  A dark speck moved across the face of the sun, as insignificant as a seed searching for the light. And then it was gone, consumed in an inferno of ionised helium, internal convective motion and hot plasma. When it came, it was not the end of the universe but a far smaller end.

  The Doctor and her companions observed the final moments of the abandoned Gardener warship from the TARDIS, hovering in space safely protected from the sun’s blistering energy behind freshly restored defensive systems. The TARDIS’s transformation had shrugged off the noughtweed with a sullen tut, like an ungrateful teen presented with the wrong brand of mobile phone by a clueless parent.

  By the time the Doctor, Graham and the fleeing Gardeners were safely aboard, the weed that had choked the interior was dead, though not gone. Oozing brown vines still clogged the corridors. The clean-up began in earnest. It took several painstaking hours with gardening shears and secateurs, but at last the final remnants were removed and safely disposed of.

  The Attendant was only too happy to lend a helping segmented foreleg in the clean-up. It had rendezvoused with the TARDIS shortly after they had left the doomed Gardener vessel, and it was not alone. Although one version of the Curatrix had unavoidably perished along with the warship when it flew into the sun, the AI was safely backed up in the systems of the Attendant’s vessel.

  They arrived on Tellus IV to deliver the Gardener refugees into the custody of Willow and her people. Graham’s begonia was not among the survivors, but he had the oddest feeling that it was not the last time he would see the scheming houseplant.

  With the TARDIS’s console room back to its glowing best, the Doctor set the timeship in motion.

  ‘One last stop,’ she said.

  * * *

  —

  Svalbard is a chain of islands that sits in the Arctic Ocean of planet earth, halfway between the Norwegian mainland and the North Pole. It is a remote and icy spot with few visitors. However, a recent group of tourists from the planet Sigma Deltiri had included it in their itinerary. The Deltiri come from a civilisation whose sole driving instinct is to visit a list of the greatest wonders in the universe. As soon as they are old enough to travel, they begin their journey, ticking off sites as they go, one generation after another, until they have seen everything. Which they never will.

  Upon arriving in Svalbard, one Deltiran tourist pulled a sweater on over the T-shirt he had purchased in the gift shop on Shada, and commented to his brood-mate that the place was ‘almost as cold as Calufrax Major’.

  The tourists had come to see the famous Svalbard Global Seed Vault, which is located on the island of Spitsbergen. It is not open to tourists, but the Deltirans’ interest lay not in the contents of the vault but in the interplay of the Arctic light with the building’s remarkable exterior. Among beings like the Deltirans, who can see beyond the normal spectrum of human vision, the Global Seed Vault is regarded as a galactic wonder.

  However, the Deltirans, like the rest of the galaxy, are unaware of its secret.

  Along a hundred-metre tunnel and through a cold chamber lies the vault. Seeds from all over earth are safely stored here to protect ten thousand years of crop diversity from extinction by manmade or natural disaster.

  But that is just the tip of a very deep iceberg.

  * * *

  —

  The main chamber was empty when the TARDIS materialised. The handful of scientists who looked after the Global Seed Vault had returned to the nearby settlement of Longyearbyen for the night. Although, since it was summer, the midnight sun hung around like the hard-to-shift last guest at a party.

  Inside the vault, the TARDIS dealt with the security cameras, so that its presence would go unnoticed. In the morning, when the scientists returned, they would find that, instead of logging the usual twelve hours of inactivity, their cameras had inexplicably recorded the yet-to-be-streamed new season of Werelock Holmes.

  The Attendant marched down a narrow passage between shelves containing see
ds from across earth. The Doctor and the others trooped behind the beetle.

  ‘It seems that the First Gardener planned for just such a catastrophe,’ it said. ‘The co-ordinates appeared in my head the very moment that the Galactic Seed Vault was destroyed.’ The Attendant stopped at the back wall, its mandibles clicking. ‘The location of another vault. A backup.’ It waved a foreleg across the wall’s smooth surface, and the outline of a door appeared. ‘It has existed as long as the other, and is just as big, with all the same seeds. But this one has a sauna.’

  ‘Really?’ said Ryan.

  ‘No,’ said the Attendant, pushing open the door.

  Graham went to go through, but the Curatrix stepped in front of him, blocking his path. The holographic image’s eyes blazed red. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘N-nowhere,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Your work is done. We thank you for your contribution to averting the end of all life in the universe.’ The AI’s words said ‘gratitude’, while its tone said ‘back off’.

  ‘D-don’t mention it,’ said Graham.

  ‘I believe this is your responsibility now,’ said the Doctor, passing Yaz’s thermos flask to the Attendant. But as the beetle reached for it, a look of horror came over the Doctor’s face and she snatched it away. ‘Or it could be chicken soup.’ Quickly, she unscrewed the cap, stole a look inside, resealed it and handed it over. ‘No. Genesis Seed. All yours.’

  They waited until the Attendant and Curatrix had passed through the entrance to the secret vault and the door had sealed itself up again, then made their way back to the TARDIS.

  Ryan shook his head and muttered to himself.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ asked Yaz.

  ‘I still can’t get over it. Key number two – Graham and I are almost eaten by a giant carnivorous mole. Key number three – you had it all along.’