Doctor Who: Dreams of Empire: 50th Anniversary Edition

by Richards, Justin

  Contents

  Cover

  The Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Collection

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Opening

  Chapter One: Placing the Pieces

  Chapter Two: The Game of Death

  Chapter Three: Quiet Moves

  Chapter Four: Knight’s Tour

  Chapter Five: Prepared Variation

  Middle Game

  Chapter Six: Hanging Pieces

  Chapter Seven: J’adoube

  Chapter Eight: Sacrifice

  Chapter Nine: Fine Nets and Stratagems

  Chapter Ten: Knight Moves

  Chapter Eleven: Poisoned Pawn

  End Game

  Chapter Twelve: Lost Pieces

  Chapter Thirteen: Resignation

  Chapter Fourteen: Risks and Gambits

  Chapter Fifteen: Checkmate

  Chapter Sixteen: The Death of Kings

  Copyright

  The Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Collection

  Ten Little Aliens

  Stephen Cole

  Dreams of Empire

  Justin Richards

  Last of the Gaderene

  Mark Gatiss

  Festival of Death

  Jonathan Morris

  Fear of the Dark

  Trevor Baxendale

  Players

  Terrance Dicks

  Remembrance of the Daleks

  Ben Aaronovitch

  EarthWorld

  Jacqueline Rayner

  Only Human

  Gareth Roberts

  Beautiful Chaos

  Gary Russell

  The Silent Stars Go By

  Dan Abnett

  For Alison, my White Queen, and Julian and Christian – two slightly tarnished Knights

  INTRODUCTION

  Back in the misty depths of time in the era that Earthlings call 1997, Editor and Who-Supremo Steve Cole asked me to write a Second Doctor novel, and I was happy to oblige. More than happy. The Second Doctor is one of my favourites – he’s the Doctor of my formative young years, and as so much of his era no longer seems to exist he is, sadly, a misty memory himself…

  Most of my novels sort of emerge from a fog of ideas, coalescing over time as I gather pieces, discard notions, fit it all together into the plan for a coherent narrative. That’s certainly true of this book, but I do recall the starting point.

  I was watching a television documentary about Julius Caesar. I have to say in tribute to the blurb writer that it was far more interesting in Radio Times than it was on the screen. But I stuck with it, trying to convince myself I wasn’t wasting my time and wondering, as I often do with history: ‘What if…?’

  Which was when my much-missed friend and fellow author Craig Hinton rang. ‘Are you watching this?’ he asked. He didn’t say what – he didn’t need to as we were very much on the same wavelength. He knew that, of his friends, I’d be the one tuned in to Ancient Rome right now. ‘Boring, isn’t it?’ he added. We didn’t pause live television then, so we talked as we both watched.

  I agreed that yes, it was rather boring, though that wasn’t really history’s fault. ‘But what do you suppose would have happened,’ I asked, ‘if Pompey had defeated Caesar?’ What, I wondered, if Caesar had crossed the Rubicon to defeat. Or shied away from dipping his toe in the water at all.

  We talked a bit how Rome could have stayed a Republic and what that might have meant. But in my head I was already pondering what they would have done with Julius Caesar if he hadn’t died in battle – the popular war hero suddenly a traitor and would-be despot. They couldn’t execute him. What prison could hold him when he had such a following?

  The answer I thought would be some sort of guarded exile – like Napoleon sent to St Helena.

  And that was the starting point for this novel. It gave me the situation – a republic torn apart by one man’s (perhaps justified) Dreams of Empire. The best of friends who find themselves on opposite sides idealistically (and, possibly, for more personal reasons).

  It gave me a canvas on which to start to paint the layers of the picture of the story.

  There are other influences too, of course. The chess motif, my own fascination with the collision of history and technology, the image of the Man in the Iron Mask, and the notion that nothing is ever quite what it seems…

  Binding it all together is the Doctor. And what a Doctor.

  I’ve written novels depicting most of them – and written for all of them in one form or another. The Second Doctor may be the most difficult to depict in prose. Perhaps that’s why he’s always been a bit short-changed in the novels – backgrounded, or not quite getting his fair share of the bookshelf. (As an aside, I was delighted and excited when Stephen Baxter wanted to write for the Second Doctor – what a way to redress the balance!)

  I think the reason the Second Doctor is so difficult to capture in prose is two-fold.

  First, this is a Doctor who is at odds with his appearance more than any other. He seems to be a buffoon, it appears that he’s out of his depth, when he saves the day it’s possible it could all just have been a lucky accident. But there are moments, flashes, when we glimpse the strategic genius beneath. If the adventure was a game of chess (I thought) he’d win without really seeming to be involved at all. Only after laying down his king would his opponent begin to realise that maybe he’d been outplayed right from the very first move…

  Getting that across without seeing Patrick Troughton’s incredible performance is very difficult. Maybe it’s impossible. But I did the best I could.

  Of course, I cheated. There is one sequence where I deliberately showed the Doctor the other way round. We see the darker player behind the mask manipulating a captive into getting exactly what he wants. And only afterwards do we realise that perhaps, after all, it wasn’t planned at all and it just happened that way and nothing was quite meant as it was interpreted. You’ll know when you get there…

  I said there are two reasons that Patrick Troughton’s Doctor is so difficult to bring to life on the page. The other is almost the opposite. If the first is down to what we don’t see; the second is all to do with what we do see. The Second Doctor’s face is constantly animated, always expressive. His hands are rarely still. Even the way he walks into a room speaks volumes about his mood and his intent.

  This is most obvious in the more humorous moments of ‘business’. But it’s there throughout. Yes, as a novelist I could describe it all – I could take the reader through every mannerism and quirk, every expression and movement. The trouble is, that would take forever and slow everything down.

  So I started with more, describing the details, upping the humour (sandwiches play a role here, as you will see). Then I gradually faded it out and let the story take over, allowed the characters to get on with their lives. My hope (possibly forlorn) was that in the reader’s imagination it’s all still going on – that they will fill in the blanks and actually see the amazing performance which I am convinced Patrick Troughton gives as the Doctor in Dreams of Empire.

  I make it a rule not to choose favourites among my books. People often ask, and I always say that actually I have three favourites. One is the book I’ve just finished because I’m so pleased with it and, well, it’s finished. The second is the book I’m working on right now because I’m having so much fun with it and enjoying the experience. And the third is the book I’m going to write next – I have so many ideas and I just can’t wait to get started.

  But if I had to choose a few favourites from my novels of the past, then I think Dream
s of Empire would be among them.

  Justin Richards

  September 2012

  OPENING

  CHAPTER ONE

  PLACING THE PIECES

  ALL COLOUR SEEMED bled from the walls, the floor, the ceiling. No detail, no identity, just a flickering halon bulb struggling to make itself seen in the darkness.

  A strip of light fell across the grimy floor as a door creaked open. A dark shape was silhouetted against the brightness for a split second as it slipped inside, furtive as a ghost at daybreak. The door clicked shut behind the figure. The only noise was the dull fizz of the failing bulb, and the nervous breathing of the man.

  A voice from the deepest darkness. ‘You are late.’

  A gasp.

  ‘Did I startle you?’ the voice continued.

  ‘You could say that. I can hear my heart making more noise than that damn light. We should get it replaced.’

  A dry laugh. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’

  ‘I meant the light.’

  ‘No. It is better like this. Too dark for a clear spy-cam image, too deep under the Senate for reacher-mikes.’

  ‘You’re paranoid.’

  The deeper shadow detached itself from the edge of the room, strayed towards the black shape of the new arrival. ‘I’m alive, aren’t I.’

  ‘Let’s make this quick. Now that Kesar has declared himself Consul General for life, we haven’t much time. The other Consuls haven’t objected. Not yet.’

  ‘You’re right. If he can pull this off, if he can get ratification from those spineless dolts above us, then he will be almost unassailable.’

  ‘He will be Emperor in all but name. And be sure: that name will follow.’ A deep breath, a hesitant question. ‘Do you think we are too late already?’

  ‘I said almost unassailable. I control two media networks. If you can sway Gethreed that would give us another. Three of the main four networks should be enough to challenge his credibility.’

  ‘We must tread carefully, though. There could be war over this.’

  The laughter echoed round the room, a stark contrast to the hushed whispers of the conversation. ‘Of course there will be war. We’re only discussing who will win.’

  The door cracked open again. For a moment, the dusty light from the corridor outside fell in a jagged streak across the Senator’s face. ‘Talk to Gethreed. We’ll meet again tomorrow. I’ll tell you where and when.’

  Darkness.

  They met in the open the next day. A strong breeze gusted across the park, blowing their words away from the possibility of long-range microphones. They were not so bothered about cameras. Two prominent Senators walking together, discussing which way the political wind was blowing – what could be more natural in these troubled times?

  And the times were troubled. Kesar was the elected Consul General, now maintaining his right to hold the position for life. The other Consuls were the insipid politician Gregor Jank and the General in Chief of the Armed Forces, Milton Trayx.

  The problem facing the Senators who walked together in Victory Park that morning was that Trayx was a man of honour willing to leave the politics to politicians. He had been elected Consul on the strength of his military prowess, and knew the extent of his abilities. He was unswervingly loyal to only two things – the Republic and his friends. Trayx and Kesar had been the closest of friends since their schooldays.

  ‘With Trayx on our side, we couldn’t fail,’ the junior Senator – Frehlich – agreed. ‘But he would never side against Kesar.’

  ‘I think you underestimate his loyalty to the Republic,’ Senator Mathesohn replied. He drew a deep breath of the cold morning air and blew it out in a long steamy mist. ‘Convince him that Kesar’s ambitions are not in the interests of Haddron – of the people and the Republic – and he would come out against Kesar.’ He cocked his head to one side as he admitted: ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Neutrality I can believe. He would not want to be thought supportive of his friend above the needs of the Republic.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ Mathesohn murmured into the breeze. ‘Not until the outcome is clear, anyway. Milton Trayx is an honourable man.’

  ‘So the Republic may soon be an Empire.’

  ‘Unless something happens that persuades Trayx that his friend’s accession would be detrimental rather than beneficial. Convince him of that, and he would fight to his dying breath to keep Kesar from the imperial throne.’

  They walked on in silence for a while, unconsciously keeping step. Their minds trod the same territory as they made their way back towards the Senate building, circling down from the big picture to the minutiae of plan details.

  *

  The white-tipped waves rolled and crashed on to the huge rocks. The thunderous sound of their impact could be heard clearly through the open doors from the balcony as Ruther poured drinks.

  It was a civilised if somewhat low-key setting for such an important meeting. Dinner had passed amicably beneath a soothing blanket of small talk, and now they sat in the Seaview Room of Rutger’s mansion and drank his wine. The real work – the straight talk and the debate – would start once Helana left. Rutger handed Helana Trayx a glass. She smiled up at him from the sofa. The smile was full of thanks. But it also told him that she knew it was time to leave the men together.

  Rutger gave his two friends their glasses as Helana shifted her position. She rose gracefully from the sofa and crossed to where her husband sat.

  ‘I think I’ll sit outside while you talk,’ she said. Her young voice was a soothing counterpoint to the crash of the waves outside. ‘I love watching the sea.’ She put her hand on Milton Trayx’s shoulder and squeezed lightly.

  Trayx took her hand, and kissed it. ‘Don’t wait up if you’re tired,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She smiled again at Rutger, and nodded towards Kesar as she crossed the room. She pulled the doors to the balcony closed behind her, cutting out the sound of the sea.

  Rutger sat on the sofa where Helana had been. Normally it would have been elating to have his two closest friends to himself for a few hours of conversation, for memories and reminiscences. Gerhart Rutger, Hans Kesar and Milton Trayx had known each other since they were children, had been inseparable from the time they first met until the demands of adulthood split them apart. They had changed so much in what seemed such little time. Now Rutger had money, most of it inherited but some of it earned. Trayx was a Consul and General in Chief of the Armed Forces of Haddron. And Hans Kesar, senior Consul, had just declared himself Consul General in perpetuity – Emperor in all but name.

  They drank in silence for a full minute. Usually they were easy in each other’s company, and silences were signs of their closeness, not of awkwardness. But this silence was heavy with unspoken words.

  Rutger looked from Trayx to Kesar. They made a good team, the three of them. Trayx was the voice of reason and the epitome of honour, a brilliant strategist. Kesar was impulsive and charismatic, fiercely intelligent. And Rutger – he bound them together. His analytical and diplomatic skills and his shrewd ability to compromise and negotiate could bring the two geniuses together in ways that more than doubled the effectiveness.

  But not today. He could tell that already. Kesar’s decision had been taken in a vacuum, without recourse to either of his closest friends. He had taken advantage of his popularity with the people to further his ambitions. If there was one irreconcilable difference between Kesar and Trayx, it was that Kesar’s every action and thought were motivated by his own personal goals and ambitions. Milton Trayx, by contrast, saw the good of the Republic as the guiding principle for everything he did – his acceptance of the Consulate, his brilliant frontier campaigns, his work to give the outer colonies some limited autonomy so that they were less likely to rebel. Only in marriage did he seem uninfluenced by this guiding principle, taking Helana as his wife rather than cementing relationships with the political houses of Praxus Major, as had been widely predicted.


  Trayx exhaled loudly, setting his wine down on the table beside him. ‘Why did you do it, Hans?’ he asked Kesar. ‘What possessed you?’

  ‘It seemed like a good idea.’ Kesar sipped his wine. ‘It still does. The Republic needs a strong pair of hands at the helm.’

  ‘It has one. In fact, it has three.’

  ‘Two,’ Rutger corrected him. ‘Even I would find it difficult to persuade anyone that Gregor Jank has a strong hand.’

  Trayx met his gaze. ‘I didn’t mean Jank,’ he said levelly.

  Rutger raised his glass, nodding his acknowledgment of the compliment.

  ‘The question remains,’ Trayx said quietly.

  ‘The Republic,’ Kesar said smoothly, ‘needs to know there is strong control.’

  ‘You think it doesn’t?’

  Kesar’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward, setting down his glass. Rutger recognised the signals, the passion and determination behind the posture. ‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ Kesar said, his voice hard-edged and low. ‘I think that Haddron has gone soft. I think we’ve had it too good for too long. Without your military skills, we’d have been forced into retreat by the frontier worlds long ago, and would have ceded control of a dozen of them by now. I think the time has come for some consistent and constant leadership rather than the political dance we lead every few years as the Consuls change. And I think now is the time. Now, while I have you as a Consul, and while our popular support is riding the crest of a wave after your campaigns on the Rim. I think that if I don’t do this when I should, someone else – someone less suitable – will have to take action when it’s already too late.’ Kesar leaned back into his chair, his fingers stroking the base of his wine glass as it stood on the table beside him. ‘I think the Republic needs us now more than ever. Haddron needs me.’

  Trayx stared at Kesar. His eyes were moist and his voice was quiet. ‘I think it could tear the Republic apart.’

  Kesar snorted. ‘Only if we let it.’ He stood up suddenly. ‘I need your help, Milton. Without you, Haddron will be torn apart.’ He looked across at Rutger, perhaps hoping for a reaction. Then he turned and left the room.