‘– is it dead? Someone said it was dying –’
From what Tourette could gather, the crowd was split into two factions. Some – notably the older witnesses – were claiming that the creature was a familiar of Satan, come to pass judgment on the sinners of Woodwicke. Others were more rational, and insisted that the beast was some form of scientific phenomenon run wild (the words ‘ball lightning’ had been muttered). Oddly enough, though, both camps seemed to have the same qualities of fear and suspicion in their voices, and when some of the more zealous traditionalists had elected to ‘sterilize’ the building with a flaming torch or two, not even the hardiest of rationalists had stopped them.
Well, what could you expect from peasants?
‘– there’s someone still in there, I’m sure I saw him –’
Then the shout went up from the front of the crowd. The monster had gone, they said, either driven back by the purifying flames or dissipated by heat-energy, depending on which faction you followed. Tourette nodded, made another mental note.
‘-– you can’t kill it! Of course you can’t kill it!’
Just as he was about to turn away, a man emerged from the archway, his peculiar cream suit blackened by soot, his face wrinkled and soured by the smoke. Tourette saw two of the larger locals grab the poor soul and drag him away from the building, a third man brutally clubbing him senseless with some kind of blunt instrument. Probably just an innocent bystander, Tourette thought, who knew nothing about the thing in the church. The man was obviously well-bred; peasants usually turned on their betters when they were confused and frightened.
Tourette decided to return to his boarding house and make his report to the Shadow Directory at once. He’d show that Duquesne bitch. Oh yes. Where was she now, eh? Where was she now things were starting to happen?
They’d taken shelter in a great wooden-panelled and dome-shaped hall, which Mr Christopher Cwej had referred to as ‘the planetarium’. The darkness was somewhere outside, Duquesne was sure of it, but everything seemed quiet enough in here. They sat in the shadow of an enormous brass mechanism, an intricate clockwork engine around which large representations of planets and moons revolved on thick stems of copper. It was like the solar system in miniature, thought Duquesne, though there were fourteen planets instead of seven.
‘... and it just materializes,’ Christopher was explaining. ‘Out of thin air. Pop! Any place, any time. Although we can’t change history. Not one line, apparently. I mean, maybe the odd word or two. I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘And that’s it, basically. That’s what we do. It’s kind of like a job.’
He looked her in the eye.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he asked.
‘Of course I believe you, Christopher.’ She tried her best to inject her voice with a dose of innocence and wide-eyed excitement. ‘Why would I not?’
He shrugged again. ‘You people haven’t even got space travel yet. If someone told me they were a time-traveller from a thousand years in the future... well, y’know.’
Duquesne forced a smile. ‘"There are more things in Heaven and Earth..." ‘ she began, hoping that the English quotation would appeal to him
Instead, he just stared. ‘More things than what?’
‘I’m sure it isn’t important, Christopher,’ sighed Duquesne.
There was a moment’s silence.
‘You’re taking all of this really well,’ he said, quietly. Duquesne felt her spine rattle.
He knows. He knows I’m lying about just wandering into this TARDIS device. He knows that not all of this is new to me. He knows I’m here for a reason.
What else does he know?
There was a muffled scratching from behind one of the wooden panels, and Duquesne was glad of the distraction. They watched as a finger, razor-sharp and fashioned from bronze, tore its way through the wall. Soon there were other fingers, other scrapings and scratchings. It sounded like the things were taking the planetarium apart from the outside, removing the walls panel by panel.
‘What are they?’ asked Duquesne, but the look on Christopher’s face told her that he had absolutely no idea.
Roz Forrester sheltered in the side-street, her body strategically positioned between the wall of a house (she suspected that it was the Lincoln house, but she didn’t let herself dwell on that) and a six-foot stack of empty wooden crates that smelt of rotten fish. Roz wasn’t sure what empty crates that smelt of rotten fish were doing there, but then this was the kind of town that left its rubbish lying in the streets until it either sank into the dust or evolved into something worthwhile. Half of the buildings in Woodwicke looked like they were descended from ambitious piles of garbage. God bless America, thought Roz. Still in its infancy, and already building an empire out of trash.
From here, she could see the spectators that had gathered outside the church, but they couldn’t see her. At least, not unless they squinted through the smoke reeeeeeeal hard. She’d run from the church until she’d been sure that no one was on her tail, then doubled back and found the best vantage point. She’d reached the side-street just as they’d dragged the Doctor out, cursing in a bizarre alien language that made great use of the letter X. A performance, Roz was sure, and she suspected that they’d only captured him because he’d wanted to be captured. But they’d been clubbing him when they’d pulled him away, pummelling at his head and shoulders until he’d stopped struggling. She was sure that hadn’t been part of his plan.
Behind her, something scraped against the wall.
Damn. She’d been followed after all.
She paused for a while before she turned, pretending that she hadn’t heard anything. She counted the seconds. If he (he?) was creeping up on her, it’d take him another... oh, call it four seconds... to reach her. Three. Two. In one movement, she rose and turned, fists clenched, ready to deck whoever was standing behind her.
Two sleepless brown eyes stared into hers. The face, blasted by dirty rain and pocked with stubble, looked so tired and helpless that Roz relaxed without even thinking about it.
‘Need help,’ said the boy. ‘You know. Know what it’s like trying to get out of this town. Hahh.’
‘There is, of course, a perfectly rational explanation.’
Isaac Penley was beginning to relax. The incident at the church could have been a catastrophe without precedent, but as soon as Catcher had said that word – ‘rational’ – Isaac had known that something could be done about it.
‘Which is?’ inquired Mr Van DeVanter.
‘Cacophony.’
Isaac felt himself tense up again.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Catcher...?’
‘The thing that was seen at the church was neither daemonic nor a freak weather condition. It was an agent of Cacophony.’
Astonishingly, Mr Van DeVanter was nodding. ‘This Cacophony. Is it a Spanish agency, at all? Or is it Jewish?’
‘Cacophony is the force that seeks to plunge the human race into a dark age of superstition, Mr Van DeVanter,’ Catcher intoned. ‘There were two individuals seen entering the church before the "apparition" arrived. These are, I have it on good authority, diabolists in the service of Cacophony.’
‘Diabolists?’ squawked Mrs Wilson. ‘Are you suggesting, er, some form of Devil-worship?’
Catcher’s head cocked to one side, mechanically. He blinked with absolute precision and determination. ‘Ignorant terms,’ he announced.
Mrs Wilson blanched.
‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ asked Mr Wolcott.
‘Obviously, there is a risk of mass panic. Cacophony operates by spreading chaos throughout civilized society. We must be rational.’
‘Yes. Yes, that makes sense.’
‘The entire town must be taught to be rational. Especially now that... things... are about to change.’
Mr Wolcott coughed. ‘Taught in what way, exactly?’
‘The Renewal Society is an organization of sane, rational minds. It will thus be immune to
the effects of the discord. Therefore, the Society’s members should seek to spread their influence throughout the affected areas. A quite obvious, rational precaution to take.’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re suggesting,’ grumbled Mr Wolcott. ‘I mean, the town has its own watchmen ...’
‘They can hardly be expected to handle this kind of disturbance,’ cut in Mrs Wilson.
Catcher opened his mouth to agree – Isaac was sure he heard the man’s jaw click into place – when there was a heavy knock at the door. Other sounds could be heard from the corridor outside, murmurs and scrapings.
‘Enter,’ chirped Mrs Wilson. To Isaac’s surprise, two of the larger residents of Hazelrow Avenue entered the hall, followed by a third man with a makeshift club in his hand. Between them they carried the limp, soot-stained figure of a man, a white hat pulled over his face, a walking-cane stuffed into his belt. His suit was the kind of thing that might be fashionable in one of the less sensible nations of Europe.
‘Sir –’ one of the men began, addressing no one in particular.
‘The diabolist,’ said Catcher, quite calmly.
The word turned the room to ice. Everybody stared at the unconscious man in the cream suit.
The fire had been burning for so long that the flames had grown tired, becoming sick and listless in their old age. The Doctor frowned as the two guards (dressed in gleaming astronaut suits, which made a kind of sense) tied him to the stake, but the chambers of Hell smelt of burned toast, and the Inferno was as sticky as a bad nightclub.
‘I see you’ve gone for a hellfire-and-damnation motif,’ said the Doctor. ‘Very gauche. Personally, I prefer a more metaphysical Hell. Do you have anything with Daleks in it?’
At the far side of the cavern, the four judges shuffled excitedly behind their desks, searching their pockets for their black hats.
‘He’s a witch,’ said the twelfth-century warrior with the cross burned into his chest. ‘Burn him. Burn him and all of his little helpers.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said the fat man in the toga sitting next to him. ‘Throw another violin on the fire, eh?’
‘Death by particle dissemination!’ croaked the Time Lady at his right hand. ‘Death by particle dissemination!’
The fourth judge just coughed and arbitrarily apologized about something.
The Doctor’s frown deepened by three microns. ‘Frankly, I don’t feel like wasting my breath arguing with any of you. You’re all very dull and predictable, and I’d hoped for a better class of final inquisition.’
‘Ding-dong,’ said the machine as it strode confidently into the heart of Hell. ‘You called?’
‘Ah,’ said the Doctor. ‘Now might be a good time to raise a surprised eyebrow.’
The machine was a clock, that much was clear. It had no hands, no pendulums, no markings; but a clock was a clock was a clock, and you don’t spend the best part of a millennium as a Time Lord without being able to tell one at a glance. The machine’s gears and wheels were balanced so precisely that one breath out of place might have caused them to collapse.
‘I take it that you’re the grand inquisitor of this witch-trial?’ the Doctor asked.
The machine shook its head, and a great crack ran across its central wheel. ‘It’s not a trial, it’s an Inquiry. And you’re not a witch, you’re an Initiate. Now, as I understand it, the point of this scenario is for the Initiate to explore his own psyche. You are your own inquisitor, isn’t that the idea?’
‘Not if someone else is pulling the strings. Or, rather, winding the watch-handle. If there’s some dark and terrible secret in my past that you’d like to torment me about, please get it over with.’ The Doctor sniffed haughtily. ‘And I’ll thank you to stop messing about with my neural processes. These are the only frontal lobes I have. My temples are sacred.’
‘Actually, I just wanted a quick chat about psionics.’
‘Ah.’
‘Never had much time for psychic phenomena before, did you? There was that business with the IRIS machine, of course, but we won’t dwell on the nasty details. Now, all of a sudden, it’s breakfast with Mrs Nostradamus and lunch with Uri Geller. Odd.’
The Doctor scowled. ‘I’ve been very busy.’
‘Really? If I was going to be vicious –’
‘Were going to be vicious. Grammar.’
‘If I was going to be vicious, I could suggest that there are some issues you just want to avoid. And then there’s Roslyn Forrester.’
The Doctor felt his eyes narrowing. It was an automatic reaction. ‘What about her?’
The clock smiled innocently – something that was physically unlikely, if not actually impossible – and consulted a note in its personal disorganizer. ‘Oh, I was just thinking about the time it took you to rescue her from New York. She was here for over six weeks, I believe.’
‘Burn him,’ interjected the crusading judge, and the others all went ‘shhh’.
The Doctor sighed. ‘I know. Finding her was difficult. It was a while before there were sufficient anomalies in the continuum –’
The man in the toga sniggered. The Time Lady nudged him in the ribs.
‘ "A while"?’ queried the machine ‘One fully-functional time machine at your disposal, minor hiccups aside, and you still think in terms of linear time? Not very convincing.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘That you didn’t want to come here at all. You knew that in 1799 you’d find the answers, or at least some of them, and you knew the answers would sting a little. Poor Roz. Left in the lurch again.’ The machine cocked its head, and various gears protested loudly in its neck. ‘And what about your terrible fear of the gynoids? Or, rather, of what they represent.’
‘Fear?’ The Doctor’s voice dropped to a snarling whisper. ‘What do you know of fear?’ The line was pure melodrama, he knew, but it seemed to suit the surroundings.
The machine shrugged, and there was the sound of a spring snapping from deep within her (her?) workings. ‘Look down.’
The Doctor looked to his feet. He’d assumed that the stake had been erected on top of the traditional pile of tinderwood, but now he saw that he was standing on a small hill made of burning worlds, each the size of a football. Lava and mucus bubbled up from cracks that swallowed oceans. The Earth died by fire, again and again. The Doctor grimaced.
‘Something wrong?’ asked the machine.
‘The symbolism is terrible,’ replied the Doctor. ‘I said you should have stuck with Daleks.’
Then the fire reached the top of the pile, the stake burst into flames, and everything went orange. The colour of closed eyelids, seen from the inside.
The Doctor called this part of the ship ‘the cloisters’. It was a series of covered walkways, cracked pillars supporting a roof that protected the stone pathways from a marble-coloured artificial sky. Usually, the place reminded Chris of the Initiation Quadrangle on Ponten IV, a grand and sacred temple, but now it was just a mess. The cracks in the columns had spread across the floor, making him think of an old dried-out canal. Appropriately – but inexplicably – there were even a couple of discarded shopping trolleys lying around.
The clanking things were lurking in the cracks and the corners, but then they were lurking everywhere. Chris remembered his family taking him to the EarthDoomWorld exhibit on Overcity Three-Point-One, where he’d been thrown out by guides in unconvincing Star Patrol uniforms because he’d refused to find the animatronic alien monsters frightening. Those monsters had been the same as the ones now loose in the TARDIS, staying in the shadows because they knew they were scarier that way, because what they really were wasn’t nearly as terrifying as what they might have been. Chris reasoned that as long as he stayed out of the corners, he was safe.
Out of one eye, he watched Marielle, sitting on a dislodged piece of masonry nearby. She claimed to be an innocent bystander who’d entered the TARDIS by accident, but she was too calm, too... professional?
Marielle looked up at him. Chris attempted a smile.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Perfectly well, thank you. Christopher.’ She tried to smile back, then looked away, turning her head to the left so that the burn on her cheek wasn’t visible to him.
Chris decided to take a risk.
‘How are you feeling really?’ he asked.
Marielle was silent for a while. She didn’t make eye contact.
‘My spine still feels numb,’ she finally announced.
‘Your spine?’
Marielle nodded. ‘It has been painful since I came near your machine. You said the ship can, ahh, speak with minds?’
‘I don’t know about that. It’s got telepathic circuits.’
She nodded, though it was clear she didn’t really understand. ‘Then the ship may be communicating.’
‘Communicating?’
‘With me. With my body. Through my nerves.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Chris.
Then she was looking at him, deep-set eyes peering out of a painfully thin face. Chris could see rough, badly treated skin on the other side of her pale make-up.
‘I have the Sight,’ she said, and a quiver in her voice suggested that she didn’t want to take the last word very seriously. ‘And I think your TARDIS does, too. Or something much like it.’
‘Cacophony,’ said Monroe.
‘Cacophony,’ agreed one of the other Renewalists.
Erskine Morris looked to the burning remains of the church, across the street from where they stood at the back of the mob. The archway collapsed as he watched, showering the damp stone steps with sparks.
‘Look,’ he said, then realized he didn’t know what to say. ‘Look,’ he tried again. ‘Surely... the thing in the church... maybe Catcher had something to do with it... oh, sodomy.’
Monroe shook his head. ‘Cacophony,’ he spluttered, with utter conviction. The same tone of voice you’d normally use to talk about Federalists or Whigs or Republicans, or any other sane and ordinary thing. ‘As Mr Catcher said. The days of the great battle for Reason are beginning, mmm?’
‘You know what Peter McLeod told us?’ drawled one of the other Renewalists. ‘Old Catcher’s met with the council. They’ve put him in charge of the whole thing, McLeod reckons.’
Christmas on a Rational Planet Page 10
