‘I’m sure you’ve chosen wisely,’ Rassilon humoured the old man.
‘Now that is funny!’ Pandoric smiled. ‘So, I’ve heard what your intentions are.’
‘Really?’
‘Gallifrey stands.’
‘In essence. Yes.’
‘Your whole life: that is what drives you.’
‘Really? So you can read minds, too?’
‘You wish to destroy the Nestene? Set fire to a whole galaxy?’
‘To save Gallifrey, yes.’
‘Then your Moment has come!’
‘We haven’t arrived yet,’ Rassilon said. ‘I’m sure the pilots will alert us when we do. And then you can carry out your function.’
The old man sat upon the floor, cross-legged and toyed with his bandolier. ‘You want to kill some time?’
Rassilon sighed. The operating system was certainly using some very parochial speech patterns.
‘You know that along with what you think of as the Nestene infection, your actions will wipe out countless billions of innocent lives.’
‘Enslaved lives. Lives that only exist to serve the Nestene war machine: slaves. Nothing more.’
‘Slaves are still innocent. Take it from me.’
‘Nonetheless …’
‘Gallifrey must stand.’ The old man suddenly grabbed his leg. ‘And so must I!’ He got up and hobbled around the room. ‘Cramp!’
‘Did Roppen really programme you to be like this?’
Pandoric rubbed his calf vigorously and then looked up, smiling. ‘I’m supposed to manifest the interface that best suits both the situation and the operator.’
‘So why you?’
‘I think because we’re similar.’
Rassilon laughed. ‘Really?’
‘You’re in a pickle. A fix. And the situation you find yourself in now is like one I will find myself in one day. Well, not me. The image I am using.’
‘Very soon, you won’t exist.’
‘You’re a great man, a leader of your people. Prepared to make the tough decisions. The ones no one else has the stomach for. But while you can be a hard man, you don’t need to become a murderer on a galactic scale. You don’t need to abandon decency and compassion. That way lies disaster.’
‘I have fought the Great Vampires. As part of the Fledgling Empires, I have brought an end to the voracious Racnoss. An even bigger disaster will come if the Nestene sweep across this galaxy and destroy Gallifrey.’
‘I tell you what: I’ll show you!’
‘What?’
The room became a swirling white treacle of temporal energies and Rassilon felt himself falling through time.
Suddenly, Rassilon was cold. The air was saturated with a fine mist of freezing droplets. Despite the padded armour, he shivered. He was alone. There was no sign of Pandoric and no indication what he should do. The ground underfoot was almost spongy and the sky overhead a monochrome palette of grey and whites.
He turned around and found himself facing a tower less than a mile away. It jutted into the dreary scudding clouds like an ancient place of worship and was topped by a large sphere bisected by a crescent. This seemed to be his destination.
As Rassilon made his way across the depressing landscape his gaze wandered to the horizon. He thought he recognised the shapes of the hills and mountains that seemed to ring the moor on which the tower was built. Could it be? Why would Pandoric send him to the Death Zone? Or was this an era before he’d put a stop to the Games?
At the foot of the tower he could see several figures, definitely Time Lords by the robes. They were engineers – his kind of people – and Rassilon found himself greeting them as if they were not just compatriots but friends.
They all regarded him suspiciously but they recognised his military uniform and said nothing as he approached. Rassilon thought this for the best. He passed them and went through a vast door into a room with a chequered floor.
‘It’s all right. We haven’t activated the ceiling lasers,’ said a voice. Rassilon peered into the gloom and out stepped a technician. He was dressed in similar robes to Sektay, but had short, dark blond hair and a slight moustache.
‘Ceiling lasers?’
‘All part of the Game of Rassilon!’ said the man.
Rassilon laughed. A game! Well, that was interesting.
‘The President is down there.’ The man pointed down a corridor lit with flaming torches. ‘Guessing that’s why you’re here.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Rassilon soon reached a much larger chamber. There was a pyramidal structure at its centre and there seemed to be galleries running round the hexagonal space. At the foot of this structure was a group of men. Most were dressed in simple robes and skullcaps of black. One wore white.
The last figure wore magnificent golden robes with a pointed headdress that was kept in place by a coronet of gold inset with large purple crystals. He had the most astounding-looking facial hair Rassilon had ever seen: mutton-chop sideburns that became a bushy moustache and elongated, wispy eyebrows. That arched up at the outer edges.
‘Who are you?’ the man in gold boomed. His voice was rich and deep.
Rassilon stared at his future self.
‘Well?’
‘He’s so much more … avuncular than you, wouldn’t you say?’
Rassilon turned his head to see Pandoric leaning on a stone pillar.
‘Has the sense of foreboding affected your speech?’ the older Rassilon said.
‘No,’ Rassilon said at last. ‘What sense of foreboding?’
‘It’s a mechanism I have installed in the Dark Tower. It will help deter those whose will is not set upon the prize.’
‘This is your last incarnation,’ Pandoric commented, the rasp in his voice quite pronounced now. ‘He’s preparing for eternal sleep.’
‘How poetic,’ Rassilon said quietly.
The older Time Lord examined the new arrival carefully. Then his mouth fell open. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This cannot happen. You are in contravention of the Laws of Time!’
‘The laws I decreed,’ Rassilon replied evenly.
‘We decreed,’ the older Rassilon said. He circled the younger man. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Why am I here?’ another deep voice answered. This one was edged with steel.
A man in red and gold robes appeared from the shadows. He had grey-black hair closely cropped to his head and he wore some form of cybernetic glove on his right hand. It glowed slightly with time energy.
‘Answer!’
‘I think I prefer old Mutton-chops to Mr Crewcut here,’ Pandoric said. ‘Tell him you need to make a decision.’
‘Who are you?’ Mutton-chops asked, staring imperiously at the new arrival.
Crewcut shook his head, a thin sneer on his face. ‘You!’ He walked right up to Mutton-chops and growled in his face. ‘The last thing we need right now is you, a pompous old windbag.’
Rassilon stared at the new arrival. Was this really him, too? He seemed so … rigid, so humourless. At least the incarnation with the funny hat and the coronet smiled.
‘You are addressing the Lord President of Gallifrey!’ Mutton-chops said haughtily, proving his future self’s appraisal of him.
‘So. Are. You,’ said Crewcut, spitting each word as if it was poison.
‘I thought this was my last incarnation?’ Rassilon waved a hand at Mutton-chops.
‘He is,’ Pandoric said.
‘I am,’ the older man confirmed.
Crewcut looked slightly lost for words. ‘I was … resurrected,’ he said.
‘Since when do Time Lords resurrect the dead?’ Rassilon was aghast.
‘There’s a war coming,’ Crewcut said. ‘One you cannot even begin to imagine.’
Pandoric walked between the three Rassilons. He glanced at the youngest incarnation. ‘He might be able to help you with your decision,’ he said.
‘I need your counsel,’ Rassilon said.
‘Ha
ve you time-scooped me?’ Crewcut said. He was a very angry man.
‘Not exactly.’
‘Why do I not recall this?’ asked Mutton-chops.
‘Tell him the time streams are out of sync,’ Pandoric said.
Rassilon relayed the information.
‘I am very busy …’ Crewcut said.
‘With your war,’ Rassilon said.
‘Yes. What do you need us for?’
‘I have a war of my own.’
Crewcut laughed. ‘Which little skirmish are you talking about?’
‘Nestenes.’
‘I destroyed them!’ Mutton-chops said.
‘You did?’ Rassilon was surprised.
‘Even he had the resolve to do what was necessary. Is this why you’re here? Because you do not?’ Crewcut spat the question at his original self.
‘I was told I had a choice.’
‘You do.’ A fourth man appeared before them. He was very old – even more so than Pandoric. He had a worn face, lined with sorrow and bitterness. He was bald and wearing a Gallifreyan shouldered headdress and crest, marked with his seal. ‘You always have a choice.’
‘Another one?’ asked Mutton-chops.
‘You are me?’ Crewcut asked with a grimace. ‘But that means …’
‘You lose,’ said the bald man looking evenly at Crewcut.
‘What happened?’ the young Rassilon asked.
‘He got into a fight with a real maniac,’ Pandoric said. ‘One of his own making, in fact. But then the maniac regenerated into a female and Crewcut regenerated into Baldy.’
‘But Gallifrey …’ Crewcut was suddenly deflated. His purpose was gone.
‘Still stands,’ Baldy said. ‘But not as it once did.’
‘How is this meant to help me?’ Rassilon grimaced. This was a waste of his time.
‘These men are your future. Bright in the short term, but look at the final result.’
‘Gallifrey stands!’ Crewcut said, his bravado regained. ‘That is all I ever wanted.’
‘No matter the cost?’ Rassilon asked. He knew the answer.
‘Of course.’
All three Time Lords nodded. Rassilon smiled.
‘And you have had much longer to think about this than I.’
Crewcut came up to him. ‘Gallifrey must remain constant, though it cost the entire universe.’
Rassilon felt a chill run through him. Crewcut vanished.
The oldest incarnation approached him now. ‘One day, you will reflect on all this and wonder if it was worth it,’ he said. Then he, too, faded from sight.
‘Well,’ said Mutton-chops. ‘That was an education. And not the most pleasant one.’
‘No,’ agreed Rassilon.
A moment later, he was back in the room aboard his TARDIS. Pandoric was leaning against the wall now and in the centre of the room, the wooden box had transformed into a primitive explosive detonator, complete with a plunger shaft.
‘That was your tomb, you know,’ Pandoric said.
‘What? The tower?’
Pandoric nodded. ‘I hoped it might give you a sense of mortality.’ He laughed. ‘The irony of trying to show that to someone who discovers immortality is not lost on me.’
‘These things you have shown me, what you are telling me now … all because you want to change my mind?’
‘Hope. Not want.’
‘I fail to see the difference.’
The door opened and one of the pilots stood in its frame, not daring to enter. ‘We have arrived, Lord President. General Brissilan reports all forces ready to return to Gallifrey on your command.’
Rassilon moved towards the plunger handle on the detonator. ‘Give the order. Prepare for weapon discharge.’
The pilot bowed and left.
‘Nothing will alter your decision.’
‘As my future self said, Gallifrey must remain.’
‘You know you won’t even destroy all the Nestene with this action. Some will survive.’
‘A few survivors will never be able to pose the same threat that this galactic infestation does.’
Rassilon placed his hand on the wooden handle. So simple. So … physical. He closed his eyes.
‘Gallifrey stands!’
He pushed the plunger down hard and everything froze.
The President saw beyond the TT-Capsule, beyond its outer plasmic hull. A galaxy of stars whirled around him: clusters, nebulae, planets, moons, and creatures – life in all its different dimensions and varieties.
Then he felt the power of Roppen’s terrifying weapon. It was like a frost creeping across creation, turning everything to a lifeless snapshot. Then it became a wave receding from the beach pulling all matter, space and time with it.
Whether it was his imagination of whether the sentient operating system was affording him a view of the destruction, Rassilon could not tell. But he could feel the loss of all that life. Each and every atom of the vast cosmic expanse imploded before it was crushed to an infinitesimal singularity.
The vision faded, and Pandoric was standing there, the beaten face now etched with the woe of what it had just done.
‘No more,’ it said.
‘It is done,’ Rassilon replied. ‘There is no reason for more.’
‘No reason. Indeed.’ Pandoric turned and stared down at the wooden box the weapon had become once more. ‘I will never again allow myself to be used in this way. You know that?’
Rassilon nodded. He could understand the reasoning.
‘Pandoric’s box has been used to spill so much evil into the universe … only one thing remains unexploited …’
‘And that is?’
Pandoric turned to face Rassilon one last time. ‘Hope.’ He managed a wan smile. ‘And one day I will bring hope to one who desperately needs it …’
Rassilon could not bring himself to look at the old man.
‘How will you ensure this horrendous strategy is not employed in the home galaxy?’ asked Pandoric.
‘We cannot destroy you,’ Rassilon said, finally looking the man in the eye. ‘We will place you in safe-keeping.’
The old man glanced upwards as if looking for inspiration. Then, with a faint smile he spoke, fading as he did so.
‘Then, it is the end,’ he said. ‘But the Moment has been prepared for …’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank all those at BBC Books who have made this collection possible: Albert de Petrillo, Charlotte Macdonald, Kate Fox and Grace Paul for their enthusiasm, counsel and editing skills along the way and to Tess Henderson and her team for the brilliant promotion job on the book. I also wanted to say ‘thank you’ to the Doctor Who production team who have supported this project and brought me into their confidence in order to not duplicate their splendid plans for the 12th Doctor’s last series. Also, to those who have been through the book with a fine-toothed comb, making sure it is as error-free as possible: starting with my wife, Clare, copy editor Steve Tribe and proof reader Paul Simpson. Finally, to Adrian Salmon, who has been a joy to work with and who has produced some of the most stunning illustrations I’ve ever seen in a Doctor Who book. Thank you, all.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781473530805
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pyright © Richard Dinnick 2017
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Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.
Executive producers: Steven Moffat and Brian Minchin
BBC, DOCTOR WHO (word marks, logos and devices), TARDIS, DALEKS, CYBERMAN and K-9 (word marks and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.
First published by BBC Books in 2017
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Illustrator: Adrian Salmon
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Copyeditor: Steve Tribe
Cover design: Two Associates Ltd
Production: Alex Merrett
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781785942495
Doctor Who: Myths and Legends Page 22
