Doctor Who: The Eight Doctors

by Terrance Dicks

  'Shobogans?'

  'That's the official story, but personally I don't think so. They're too well armed and too well trained.'

  Agency commando squads, thought the Doctor. The Master was right, they're going for full scale armed insurrection. But before he could speak, Plinoc, the Presidential aide, hurried into the room, robes and hair dishevelled.

  'Lord President, you're needed at once. The High Council is meeting - all of it - in the Panopticon hall!'

  Full meetings of the High Council were almost unknown. Usually it did its work in a series of small committees - like this present one. Moreover, what was commonly referred to as the High Council was in fact only a sort of Inner Council, those members actively engaged in the process of Government.

  'Who summoned this meeting?' asked Flavia.

  'No one - it summoned itself. High Council members started streaming into the chamber. Some of them haven't been seen for years. The activists are already forming revolutionary committees. They're even talking about abolishing the High Council altogether!'

  'Typical,' said the Doctor despairingly.

  'Doesn't anyone remember the French Revolution? Violent overthrow of corrupt authority, squabbling revolutionary committees, then enter Napoleon - or, in this case, the Master, with one hand stuck inside his black runic!'

  Instinctively the group turned to its natural leader, ignoring President Niroc altogether.

  Lady Flavia spoke for them all when she asked, 'What must we do, Doctor?'.

  The Doctor thought hard. 'Captain Vared, concentrate on the armed insurrectionists, they're the real danger. Leave the Shobogans to me. Can you trust the loyalty of your commanding officers?'

  Captain Vared hesitated. 'Not all of them, sir.'

  'Consider yourself promoted to

  General.' He glanced at Lady Flavia who nodded. 'You're in full charge of the whole operation. Direct order of the High Council.' He watched General Vared march out before muttering, 'If there still is a High Council.'Then he turned to address Lady Flavia:'You and your friends here must attend that High Council meeting immediately. Try to sway them in the direction of reform rather than revolution. Tell them about the Master's plan, his alliance with the Agency. The Council must combine to keep them out.'

  'What about President Niroc, Doctor?'

  They looked round and saw that Niroc had disappeared.

  'He's probably in the Council Chamber already, grinding a few political axes of his own. That's where you must defeat him.'

  Flavia gathered her fellow Time Lords around her and hurried out. After a moment, the Doctor followed; but he was heading for Low Town.

  ***

  The Capitol, High Citadel of the Time Lords of Gallifrey is a complex of buildings so vast that it is virtually a city. It has towers and walkways and stately corridors, workshops, laboratories, public buildings and endless suites of Government offices and official living quarters.

  At its heart is the stately Panopticon, beneath which is the Eye of Harmony, the trapped black hole which gives energy to all Gallifrey. This public face of the Capitol is well known, but there are other areas which, if equally well-known, are seldom discussed.

  Low Town has grown up around and between the mighty pillars which support the base of the Capitol at its outer edges. Over the years, Shobogans and other Outsiders have settled there, one foot in the Capitol but with the Outlands reassuringly close in case the pressures of city life

  - or the attentions of the Capitol Guard - grow too much for a free spirit.

  Occasionally, adventurous young Time Lords will venture into the crowded alleyways, markets and taverns of Low Town. Such expeditions are particularly popular with students at the Academy, and the Doctor had made his fair share of such trips - his instructors would have said rather more than his fair share - in his younger days. Sometimes he'd been accompanied by the Master, at the time when they were still good friends.

  Occasionally particularly daring, or drunken, Shobogans would emerge from Low Town and roam the corridors of the Capitol, alarming the staid Time Lord inhabitants. Such expeditions, although not formally forbidden, were not encouraged by the Capitol Guard, and had a way of ending up with a night in the Capitol gaol.

  The Doctor couldn't help thinking of old times as he made his way to the perimeter of the Capitol. Today things felt very different. The vast corridors were deserted. Now and then he'd heard distant shouts and the crackle of blaster fire.

  When he had almost reached the outer edge of the Capitol, he chose a building remembered from long ago and made his way down to the service tunnels below. He moved along the dimly lit tunnel until he came to an inconspicuous door, beside which leaned a burly, skin-clad figure.

  As the Doctor opened the door, the watcher said mildly, 'I shouldn't, matey.'

  'Shouldn't what?'

  'Go through there. It's a bad day forTimeys.'

  'Do I look like aTimey?' asked the

  Doctor indignantly.

  The burly man studied him thoughtfully.

  'Tell you the truth, matey, I'd have a job to say what you look like. But since you're not one of us, you're liable to be taken for one of them and treated accordingly.'

  'I'll take my chances.'

  'Suit yourself.'

  Going through the door and down a flight of stone steps, the Doctor found himself in a long, wide alley between two immensely tall buildings.

  Torches flared in wall brackets, and street stalls selling food and drink, skins and weapons lined both walls.

  The narrow space between was crowded with jostling figures, some in the plain robes of respectable townsfolk, others in the fur cloaks, skins and leathers of Outlanders. All the Outlanders were armed - everything from knives and bows to blasters and even the odd staser-rifle.

  'Oh, well,' muttered the Doctor. 'Down these mean streets a Time Lord must go...'

  Shoving his way into the crowd, he moved along until he came to an even narrower alleyway over which a blazing torch flared smokily in a metal bracket. The board swinging beneath the bracket showed a faded picture of some exotic once-golden creature.

  'The Golden Grockle,' breathed the Doctor reminiscently. 'I wonder if it's still the toughest tavern in Low Town?'

  He made his way down the alley, pushed open the heavy wooden doors at the far end and went inside.

  He found himself at the top of three long, low steps, at the bottom of which was a square, stone-flagged room with a heavy wooden bar running across the far end. The room was furnished with chairs, tables benches and stools, all in the same heavy wood. Furniture at the Golden Grockle was durable. It needed to be.

  This was your basic tavern, inn or pub, thought the Doctor. You found it, or something very like it, on a million worlds in a thousand times.

  The tavern, less than half-full, was occupied by little groups of tough, competent looking men, all

  Outlanders, talking quietly together.

  A brief silence fell as the Doctor entered then the voices rose again, though more quietly. He went up to the bar, aware that although no one seemed to be looking straight at him, everyone in the place was watching.

  'A tankard of Best Old Shobogan,' said the Doctor loudly.

  The bartender was a short, bald man in a leather apron roughly as wide as he was high.

  'We're not really open to the public tonight, matey,' he said. 'Place is booked for a private party.'

  'Well, it doesn't seem to have started yet,' said the Doctor reasonably. He looked round. 'I mean, this isn't my idea of a party. Give me my beer and when the party starts I'll drink up and go.'

  The barman looked across at a nearby table. Following his gaze the Doctor saw a small, dark man give an imperceptible nod. The barman then drew an enormous tankard of foaming ale from a barrel behind the bar and slammed it down before the Doctor.

  Hoping he hadn't forgotten the knack, the Doctor drew a deep breath, picked up the tankard and downed the contents in one long swallow. He slammed
the empty tankard back on the bar.

  'And another, please!'

  The barman gave him a look.

  'You got money?'

  The Doctor rooted through all his pockets under the barman's increasingly hostile stare and found a golden Gallifreyan guinea. He tossed it on the bar and heads turned at the ring of gold.

  'Keep it and tell me when it's used up,' said the Doctor. 'Anyone care to join me?'

  No Shobogan is ever known to refuse a free drink and the Doctor should have been trampled underfoot in the rush to get to the bar.

  But nobody moved. A sure sign, thought the Doctor, that something sinister was going on here.

  Then the small, dark man at the nearby table said, 'We'll join the generous young gentleman in a tankard, won't we, lads?'

  They all got up as a group, gathering round the Doctor and hemming him in.

  The barman poured tankards for them all and they drank, standing around the Doctor in their tight circle.

  'Now maybe you'll tell us what you really want, matey,' said the small, dark man. 'What made you choose this tavern to come and chuck your money about in?'

  'I used to come here a lot in the old days,' said the Doctor. He sipped from his tankard more cautiously this time.

  'The Golden Grockle always used to be a centre of villainy and rebellion.'

  He looked around. 'I see it still is!'

  The group around him drew closer. One of the men slipped a hand inside his skin jerkin. When it emerged, the Doctor saw the gleam of a knife blade.

  'We're just simple Shobogans, enjoying a drink in our neighbourhood tavern,' said the small dark man.

  'I think you're rebel leaders plotting an insurrection,' said the Doctor. 'At least, I hope you are.'

  'And why would you be hoping a thing like that?'

  'Because those are the people I need to talk to. I'm looking for one rebel leader in particular, a man called Kagar. Big redhaired chap. Anyone seen him?'

  'You're a damned spy!' shouted the man with the knife.

  He lunged at the Doctor who stepped aside, grabbed his arm, twisted and heaved and threw him over the bar.'

  The rest of the group hurled themselves on the Doctor, who began to feel he had misjudged the situation.

  It was pretty certain the rest of them were armed. He might survive one knife wound, but half a dozen or so would finish him.

  He struggled wildly yelling,'Get off, blast you. I'm a friend!'

  Suddenly the Doctor became aware that the weight of bodies on top of him was lessening. This was because a

  redhaired giant of a man was plucking his attackers off him one by one, and tossing them to different parts of the tavern. One or two landed on already-occupied tables leading to splintered furniture, spilled drinks and shouts of protest.

  'Is this the way you treat a friend of mine?' roared Kagar, heaving the Doctor to his feet.

  'Sorry, Doctor, some of these scum have no manners.'

  'Not at all,' gasped the Doctor. 'Very understandable mistake.'

  Kagar looked round. 'Where's your friend? Big feller who charged us and knocked us all flying.

  'He had to leave. He was only here temporarily.'

  The Doctor spared a thought for his earlier self, last seen locked in a death struggle with the Master, the Valeyard, and all the perils of the Matrix - with only Sabalom Glitz for the most unreliable of allies. 'He'll survive it all,'

  murmured the Doctor.

  'He's got to - because if he goes, I go.'

  Meanwhile, things were settling down in the tavern. Kagar and the Doctor made their way to a table with fresh tankards of beer. The small, dark man

  - Kagar introduced him as Marek - sat with them.

  'Well, Doctor, what can I do for you?' asked Kagar. 'I tried to kill you and you gave me my freedom. I owe you.'

  The Doctor got straight to the point. 'I want you to hold off on the rebellion.'

  Kagar growled a protest and the Doctor raised his hand.

  'Not abandon it, just hold off until you're sure it's really necessary.'The Doctor then rapidly explained the political background. 'I know the High Council have been oppressing you - but that's all going to change. The people who've been stirring you up, giving you money and weapons, are working for the Agency. They've got armed insurrectionists roaming around in the Capitol now, committing crimes you'll be blamed for. If they win, you'll be worse off than you could ever imagine.'

  When the Doctor had finished, Kagar growled, 'So what do you want us to do?'

  'Nothing. Just keep out of it. If you stay neutral the Capitol Guard can deal with the insurrectionists. And if the High Council don't do as I promise, you can still rebel!'

  Kagar looked at Marek, who was obviously the thinker amongst the rebels.

  'What d'you reckon?'

  'I don't trust those Agency bastards,' said Marek slowly. 'And I don't like being used as their pawns. And, like Kagar says, we owe you, Doctor.'

  'We?'

  'I had a brother in that party of prisoners you set free. You could have handed them over, but you didn't.'

  'So what's your answer?'

  'All right, Doctor, you've got twenty-four hours. Then I want a meeting with a new High Council to discuss our demands.'

  They shook hands on it, drank to the agreement with yet another tankard of Best Old Shobogan, and then the Doctor, burping occasionally and feeling more than a little light-headed, staggered out into the covered alleyways of Low Town.

  'So far so good,' he said. 'But this is small stuff. It's what's happening in the Panopticon that really matters...'

  Chapter 21

  The Return

  The Panopticon is the most impressive edifice on all Gallifrey. Indeed, it is one of the most impressive in the known universe.

  The hall is so enormous that clouds form near the incredibly high roof; sometimes it has even been known to rain inside. It occupies the entire central dome of the Panopticon.

  An army could parade on the immense marble floor. Innumerable rows of viewing galleries run around the walls.

  Used for all important ceremonies, the Panopticon usually presents a tranquil and orderly sight. The assembled Time Lords sit row upon row in their colourful ceremonial robes. Different colours indicate the Chapters, the traditional college-style associations to which all senior Time Lords belong. The orange and scarlet of the Prydonians contrasts with the green of the Arcalians and the heliotrope of the Patraxes. On the central podium, the speaker of the moment, his words discreetly magnified so that all may hear, is invariably listened to with respectful attention.

  A very different scene met the Doctor's eyes when at last he reached the Panopticon and gained entry to the hall. The great marble floor boiled and seethed. From the topmost viewing galleries, looking almost directly down upon the scene, it looked just as though someone had kicked over an ants'

  nest.

  Time Lords were everywhere, some in ceremonial robes, some in everyday attire. They clustered into furiously arguing groups which constantly formed, broke up and reformed.

  Someone was trying to make a speech from the podium, but the din was such that little of it could be heard.

  Even as the Doctor watched, another angry young Time Lord dragged the speaker from the rostrum by force and began a different, presumably opposing speech, which went equally unheard.

  'Chaos and anarchy; murmured the Doctor. 'If things go on like this, the High Council will collapse of its own accord - and the Master will win.'

  He looked around the impossibly crowded room and was relieved to spot Lady Flavia, Engin and the others, talking earnestly in a little group not too far from the main door.

  He hurried over to them.

  'How are things going?'

  'Difficult to say, Doctor,' said Lady Flavia. 'We are doing our best to rally the moderates, but it isn't easy.'

  'As you see,' said old Engin grimly,

  'everyone talks but nobody listens!'

 
'They've split up into all kinds of minority groups and interests,' said Flavia despairingly. 'Everyone has a different plan to take over and reform the High Council. Even Niroc has managed to set up a reform party! We are preparing to try again when things calm down - if they ever do... How is it with you, Doctor?'

  'I've managed to persuade the Shobogans to postpone their revolt - but only for twenty-four hours.

  Unless they can begin talks with a new

  High Council by then, they'll take matters into their own hairy hands.'