Also available from Broadway:
The Dalek Generation by Nicholas Briggs
Shroud of Sorrow by Tommy Donbavand
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Justin Richards
All right reserved.
Published in the United States by Broadway Paperbacks, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Broadway Paperbacks and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This edition published by arrangement with BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing, a division of the Random House Group Limited, London.
Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.
Executive producers: Steven Moffat and Caroline Skinner.
BBC, DOCTOR WHO, and TARDIS (word marks, logos, and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under license.
Cybermen originally created by Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
eISBN: 978-0-385-34677-1
Editorial director: Albert DePetrillo
Series consultant: Justin Richards
Project editor: Steve Tribe
Cover design: Lee Binding © Woodlands Books Ltd. 2013
Production: Alex Goddard
v3.1
For the Doctor
A friend and mentor throughout the last fifty years
Contents
Cover
Other Books Available from Broadway
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Prologue
In a landscape bled of all colour, Stefan was digging his own grave. The swirling fog muffled the sound of the spade as it bit into the cold ground. The pile of earth beside the grave rose higher as the grave got deeper.
Gravestones stood as silent sentries, dark grey against the lighter shade of the air. Pitted, cracked and broken. Beyond them, the vague pencil-drawn shape of the remains of the church. A hint of the jagged, fractured tower. A suggestion of the empty, sightless windows and crumbling walls.
Stefan paid it no heed. His whole world was focused into the dark pit he was digging.
‘Dig it deep,’ Old Nicolai had said. ‘Dig it deep so the plague stays buried with her. We’ve lost enough good people already.’
The plague was keeping Stefan busy but, he had to admit, you could have too much of a bad thing. Yesterday young Liza, tomorrow – who could guess? Probably Magda, who was already sick, already as grey as the fog swirling over the grave.
Stefan kept digging, until he needed his short wooden ladder to climb out of the pit and rest a moment. His forehead was moist, sweat mingling with the condensing fog. If it wasn’t fog it would be a storm. The fog was damp and clammy and seemed to drain the life from their surroundings. But Stefan preferred the fog to the angry thunder, the stabbing lightning, the rain so heavy it stung his arms and face as he worked and filled up the hole as quickly as he dug it.
Just a few more inches, he decided. Just to be on the safe side. It was a decision that killed him.
He clambered back down into the pit. The air was thinning, and the first spots of rain splashed onto the hard-packed soil. Finish this quick, Stefan thought. Finish this quick and get to the tavern before Gustav shuts up for the night. He could already taste the warm, bitter ale. Could already smell the lamb broth.
A few last shovelfuls of earth. Stefan slammed his spade down into the heavy clay.
Clang!
The impact jarred right up his arm, tingling in his shoulder and jolting his wrist. It sounded like he’d hit metal. Maybe it was another Talisman. He prayed he’d not damaged it. He had no use for such trinkets but enough people did that he could get a good price for a Talisman. Exploring with the shovel, he gently tapped at the bottom of the grave. Earth here, then something solid.
Stefan leaned the shovel against the side of the grave and knelt down. There was just room for him to scrabble at the ground with his hands. Just enough light, as the fog cleared and the moon broke through, for him to see the glint of metal. The rain was getting heavier, washing the fog from the air and the earth from the metal surface as Stefan uncovered it.
Gently, carefully, he smoothed away the dirt from a long sliver of metal. Beside it, another one. And another. They were connected at one end, he realised as he scraped. Jointed along their length. Rain ran down his face, blurring his vision, matting his hair. He wiped it away, the rough dirt scraping at his skin. He’d look a mess when he got to the tavern.
Now the whole shape was visible. Silver fingers. The back of a hand – a gauntlet? Part of a suit of armour perhaps …
Stefan straightened up, easing his back. He shook the rain from his hair, wiped his forehead on his sleeve, and knelt again to examine his find. Rain was pooling in the upturned palm of the gauntlet, distorting the tracery of lines and joints. The design was intricate but robust. A work of art, but somehow brutal and powerful too.
Stefan frowned … But – hadn’t the glove been palm down when he uncovered it? He leaned forward, looking closer, blinking the rain away.
The fingers flexed. A sudden, spasmodic movement. Stefan gasped and jerked backwards. But the fingers were still again.
Was it his imagination? Or had his weight on the surrounding soil moved it? Again, he leaned closer, the rain beating down on the back of his head and running down his neck like a cold chill of terror along his spine. The hand shivered. The slightest movement, but movement nevertheless. This time, Stefan did not pull away.
And the hand thrust suddenly upwards, out of the ground, clamping round his throat.
He tried to cry out, but couldn’t draw the breath he needed. Couldn’t breathe at all. His hands scrabbled desperately as he was dragged down. The earth around the metal gauntlet crumbled away. Hand and arm were uncovered. A torso. The armoured silver head punching up through the ground, right in front of Stefan’s terrified face.
Empty eyes. Gaping mouth. A metal skull.
His hand closed on the handle of the shovel. Somehow he managed to lift it. Somehow he managed to swing it one-handed at the metal creature that held him tight. The shovel blade connected with the arm. The sound of the impact was muffled. Stefan’s vision was blurred. Rain in his eyes, and the last vestiges of the fog creeping in as he gasped and choked.
Then he was being dragged down into the earth. Feeling the coarse soil graze his face. Glimpses of silver as the life ebbed away.
Fog.
Darkness.
Death …
Chapter 1
The stranger just was. No one saw him arrive. No one remembered him shouldering his way to the counter or asking Gustav for a drink. No one really noticed him at all as he sat at a table in the corner of the bar.
Which was odd, because Klimtenburg was exactly the sort of small community wh
ere a stranger could expect to be noticed. Everyone knew everyone. The single unnamed tavern should have fallen silent the moment an outsider stepped across the threshold.
Yet, the recognition was gradual. There was no ‘We don’t have strangers here’ moment. No sudden, awkward silence. No simultaneous turn of every head to see who had arrived unbidden and unwanted. It was as if the plague itself had taken on human form and solidified into being at the corner table of Gustav’s tavern. Unnoticed until it was too late to root it out.
But slowly, people did notice. Old Nicolai hesitated, tankard halfway to his mouth as he frowned. Several others turned to look. Even Gustav himself paused as he poured a drink and tried to work out if the man looked familiar or if he just had that sort of face.
The stranger himself gradually seemed to notice the interest in him, the slow decrease in background volume as people stopped talking.
‘It’s the bow tie, isn’t it?’ he said when almost everyone was staring. ‘I bet it’s the bow tie. You’re all looking at my bow tie, thinking, “What a cool fashion accessory, I just wish we had bow ties here in …’ ” He paused to take a careful sip of his drink. ‘Er, where are we, actually?’
‘You’re in my tavern,’ Gustav said, voice grating with suspicion.
‘Really?’ He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘A tavern. With drinks and everything. No dominoes or darts, though. But don’t worry, they’ll come. And big-screen sports entertainment too – all sorts of things to save you having to actually talk to each other. Or admire other people’s bow ties.’
Everyone continued to stare.
‘Well, if it’s your tavern,’ the stranger went on, ‘then it’s you I have to thank for this quite excellent drink.’ He took another swig. ‘Yes, definitely. I can tell from the quality. This must be vintage.’
‘Vintage?’ Gustav’s brow furrowed. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘Well, it’s water actually. But quality will out.’
‘Who are you?’ Old Nicolai growled.
The stranger grinned, pointing both index fingers at Nicolai. ‘Ooh, introductions. Great idea. We all know Gustav, because he’s Mein Host, so I’ll go next.’ He straightened his bow tie and stuck out his impressive chin. ‘I’m the Doctor. But you can all call me “the Doctor” … Next.’
‘The Doctor?’ Jan swayed slightly as he tried to take this in.
‘The Doctor …’ other people whispered to each other.
‘Um …’ the Doctor said as he watched his name ripple through the tavern. ‘Problem?’
‘Doctor,’ Old Nicolai said, walking across to take the seat next to the stranger. ‘Thank God you’re here.’
She was used to the sounds of drunken men staggering home from the tavern. Sometimes they held loud conversations that made no sense. Sometimes they fell over. Sometimes they sang. But they never, ever hammered on Olga’s front door and shouted that she was needed in the tavern right away.
Except tonight.
Olga pulled her long coat on over her nightgown and stuffed her bare feet into her boots. It was hard enough getting up in the morning, let alone the middle of the night. And this was the first night in a week that there wasn’t actually a storm. Though even as she thought it, there was a distant rumble of thunder from somewhere over the mountains.
She was pleased to see it was Klaus. There had been a time, many years ago … But they had grown old together and Olga knew they had both missed the moment. He smiled when she opened the door, and for a brief moment in the half-light he was the boy she’d laughed and joked and played with. Then he turned to nod towards the tavern, and the years piled back on, turning him middle-aged in an instant.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘It’s a long time since you visited me in the middle of the night.’
She thought he might smile at that. But his face remained stern and solemn. ‘You’d best come,’ he said. ‘The Doctor’s here.’
Olga closed her eyes and let the relief wash over her. ‘The Doctor. We’ll be all right now, then.’
‘Old Nicolai said you should come because you knew Vadim better than any of us.’
Old Nicolai, Klaus and Olga the schoolteacher stood watching as the Doctor examined Stefan’s body.
‘We sent for medical help months ago,’ Klaus said. ‘When it was clear the plague was back.’
‘What took you so long?’ Old Nicolai wanted to know.
The Doctor tapped his chin with a chunky metal wand he took from his pocket. ‘Message didn’t get to me. I don’t usually do medical.’
‘But you are a physician? You said you were a doctor.’
‘Oh yes, I’m a doctor. The Doctor. Physician? Well, more of a physician than anyone else you’ve got here, I’d guess.’
‘Vadim was one of the first to die,’ Klaus said. ‘A long time ago now. But Olga here knew him best.’
‘He was a doctor?’
‘Claimed to be,’ Olga said. ‘Not sure what qualifications he actually had, but he knew how to mix potions and bathe wounds. He could keep leeches and …’
‘OK, OK,’ the Doctor cut her off. ‘Think I’ve heard enough for a diagnosis. Leeches are so last year. But I would like to know what happened—’
‘I told you,’ Klaus cut in. ‘He died of the plague. Vadim was one of the first.’
‘Would like to know,’ the Doctor went on, ignoring the interruption, ‘what happened to this church.’
‘The church?’
They all looked round at the cracked and crumbling walls. The body was laid out in the crypt, one of the few intact areas of the building. Flickering candles gave the whole underground chamber an eerie and unsettling feel. Above them, the nave roof was gone, along with most of the windows and parts of the walls. The top of the tower looked like it had been bitten off by some ancient giant, and the remains of the structure leaned at a worrying angle.
‘Story is, it was struck by a mighty force of fire from the sky,’ Klaus explained.
‘A storm,’ Old Nicolai said. A rumble of thunder punctuated his words. ‘We get more storms here than anywhere I know of.’
‘You travelled then?’
‘When I was younger,’ the old man replied.
‘Me too,’ the Doctor said. ‘And when I was older as well.’
‘Are you suggesting the plague is a judgement on us?’ Olga asked. ‘The wrath of God visited on us for not repairing the church?’
‘We can’t rule anything out,’ the Doctor told her. ‘Nothing at all, nothing whatsoever. But no.’
‘So what can you tell us?’ Klaus asked.
‘I can tell you one thing. This man didn’t die of the plague. And I suspect you know that.’
No one spoke.
The Doctor walked slowly round the stone table where the body lay. ‘I mean, you’ll have noticed that his chest is ripped open and various organs torn out. And you don’t need the Observer Book of Dead Bodies to tell you that one of his legs is missing. I’m assuming from the wound that he had a full set when he was alive.’
They all nodded.
‘Less obvious, perhaps, is that it was removed by an expert. Quite a tidy job actually. I mean – considering they cut off his whole leg.’
‘Plague Warriors,’ Klaus said. He closed his eyes and crossed himself quickly.
‘Plague Warriors – what’s those?’
‘That’s what we call them,’ Old Nicolai said. ‘No one’s seen them properly.’
‘Another legend,’ Olga said. ‘No one’s seen them at all. It’s a way of explaining how the plague travels, how accidents happen. Scary stories to keep the children in order.’
‘Don’t need stories for that,’ Klaus said quietly. ‘Their teacher is scary enough.’
Old Nicolai went to stand beside the Doctor. ‘So how did he die? Was it the loss of his leg? The wounds to his chest?’
‘Good question.’
‘You got a good answer?’
‘Don’t know if it’s good. But he was stran
gled. See the bruising round the throat. Windpipe’s pretty much crushed.’
‘That take a lot of strength?’ Klaus wondered.
‘Oh yes.’
‘A man, then.’ Olga’s tone suggested she’d never doubted it.
‘Not necessarily,’ the Doctor murmured.
The Doctor was keen to meet anyone who was suffering from the plague. Whether he could help them, Olga didn’t know. But Magda and her husband Ivan lived close to the church. Dawn was breaking, but dark clouds hung heavy in the sky.
‘I suspect there’s a storm coming,’ the Doctor said.
‘There’s always a storm coming,’ Old Nicolai told him.
‘Well, there are storms and then there are storms. I can’t believe you took me to see a dead body before trying to help the living,’ he went on. He sounded surprised rather than angry. ‘The dead can always wait.’
‘True,’ Klaus said. ‘But they do start to stink. And we want him in the ground before another nightfall.’
‘What happens at nightfall?’ the Doctor asked.
‘The walking dead,’ Olga said with a snort of annoyance. ‘Another myth.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Klaus agreed. ‘But I’d rather not take any chances.’
‘Well, with only one leg he’ll be the hopping dead at best,’ the Doctor said. ‘He was the gravedigger, right? So – who’s going to dig his grave?’
Nicolai chuckled. ‘You’re practical, I’ll give you that.’ He slapped Klaus on the shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a hand, Klaus.’
‘Like you can dig, old man,’ Klaus told him.
‘I can keep you company. And I can tell you more stories. Come on – let’s get started. No time like the present. The Doctor and Olga can tend to Magda well enough without us.’
The Doctor and Olga walked on in silence, until the Doctor asked: ‘Where was he found?’
‘Stefan? In the churchyard. He’d just dug poor Liza’s grave. She died of the plague a few days ago.’
‘Can I see her body?’
‘Only if you can persuade Klaus to dig it up again for you.’
Doctor Who: Plague of the Cybermen Page 1
