Dr. Who - New Series S1

by The Coming of the Teraphiles # Michael Moorcock

  own lives as well as everyone else's. Or do they think they've

  discovered a way of staying clear of cosmic destruction?

  You never know with that lot. Risking perpetual life at the

  moment of death - for what? Eternal and physical torment...'

  He waved his hand in the air dismissively, sending crumbs

  towards Amy.

  He was as fired up as she had ever known him. But

  underneath it all, he sounded frightened too. She didn't like

  to hear him like that.

  Of course it wasn't in his nature to stay fearful for long.

  'I think I'd better get my mail,' he said a bit later, whistling

  Mister Mailman to himself and straightening his bow tie

  without much effect.

  This was such a mundane remark that she hardly knew

  keeping from laughing. 'I didn't know you got mail!'

  He was embarrassed, responding by mocking her. 'Why

  shouldn't I get mail? It's information and I depend on

  information.' He had dragged an old laptop out of a drawer

  and was murmuring a password while winding it up with

  a little crank handle. A pixelated face appeared on the old-

  fashioned screen and welcomed him. 'Good morning, Doctor.

  You have approximately eighty-two million new mails. Shall

  I download?'

  'Thanks, yes.' The screen was teeming with messages, a

  babble of different images, voices and languages. Horrible!

  He leaned forward, frowning as he tried to concentrate on

  them. Finally he said: 'Terraphiles, please.'

  The screen suddenly stopped, grumbled to itself, almost

  sneered, Amy thought, and reluctantly brought up a flashing,

  busy site.

  Now Amy was beginning to grin. She heard him give

  another password and peeked over his shoulder. 'Oho!

  What's this?' she teased. 'You're a member of the Desperate

  Dan Pie Eater's Club? They knew I'd spill your secret for

  enough cow pies!'

  She leaned over his tweedy shoulder to peer more closely

  at the screen. 'Blimey! Let's see? The All-Galaxy Legion of

  Terraphiles? Your dues should be paid in by the following date...?'

  She read on, feeling more and more cheerful as she often

  did when she discovered new aspects of the Doctor's complex

  personality.

  'What is this? ' Greetings fellow Earth-worms! There's

  news of the latest and greatest intergalactic RENAISSANCE

  TOURNAMENTS!!!'

  (This was accompanied by a picture of a Judoon, a centaur,

  two women, two men and a canine, all clad in bright greens

  and glaring whites.)

  A voice-over explained who they were but she hardly

  understood a word. The Doctor wasn't happy about her

  looking on but was too busy taking notes to remonstrate.

  THE TERRAPHILES ARE GOING TO THE "GHOST

  WORLDS"Ml Three great teams will play for the legendary

  Silver Arrow of Artemis, said to be of immeasurable value, in the

  Terraphile All-Galaxy Renaissance Re-Enactments Interworld

  Series Tournament, which resolves on that weird system Miggea

  at the centre of our galaxy. You know the one. Scene of a dozen

  planetary thrillers ? Sexton Blake in the Ghost Worlds? "Nobody dare live there more than a year and a day..." They say it's fair to all players, a planet as close to the centre of the galaxy as you can get!!!

  Apparently the Arrow of Artemis is well worth winning, and the

  team that wins it gets all kinds of profitable endorsements for the

  next two-and-a-half Terra-centuries. Well keep you posted, fellow

  Earth-worms, as the teams make their way to Miggea, named, we

  understand, for an old Earth warrior-goddess. Anyone care to send

  more details... ? - The Head Wriggler!!!!'

  She was shaking her own head now. 'I get it. This is a site

  for Earth-nerds. People in the future, yeah? Who like to dress

  up in what they think are human clothes She pretended

  to give his own clothes the once-over, then returned her

  attention to the screen, which was threatening to collapse on

  them. 'You're a - what? - you put out fanzines called -' she

  read the screen - 'EarthWormer and Novae Terrae?"

  'It's just one organisation.' He was defensive. 'I joined

  while I was in the future a few years ago. I was curious, that's

  all.'

  Very defensive. She gave him one of her looks. She couldn't

  resist getting another rise out of him.

  'I make it my business to be informed of what's going on

  in the -

  She was smiling at him affectionately again. 'A Terraphile,

  eh? That explains a lot! You're a fan-boy, aren't you? A fan of

  saving us from all those terrors and invasions. It's because

  we're your HOBBY! Isn't it? Own up!'

  'Oh, no, not that, I promise you.' He was suddenly serious.

  'But as for the rest,' he gave her a slightly self-mocking, hang-

  dog look, 'it's even worse than you think. Maybe... it's how

  I first became interested in Earth - the real Earth, not the one

  these fans believe existed. They've got Terraphilia, yes, but

  based on what people in 51007 thought old Terra was like.

  A bit similar to people's guesses in your time about what Ur

  might be like. Or Atlantis. Or Barsoom. Only the Terraphiles

  had it a bit easier because they had a few books to consult.

  The screen began to fade.

  'What sort of books?'

  'A pretty miscellaneous bunch. The books are a sort of

  Rosetta Stone for academics in the fifty-first-thousandth

  century. The entire remaining printed texts that were found

  on Old Old Earth, sealed deep in a natural cave in Arctic

  Skipton. The Story of Robin Hood is one of them. Boys' Friend.

  Thriller Picture Library. The Captain. The British Boys' Book of

  Our Empire. Captain Justice and the Submarine Gunboat. Sexton

  Blake and the Terror of the Tongs. Some people think that last

  one is the greatest epic poem in any language,' the Doctor

  said, in a tone that suggested he probably agreed with them.

  'Then there's a collection of cigarette cards from between

  about 1919 and 1940. My guess is they were unconsidered

  stock from some old Old Yorkshire newsagent's. If the shop

  was built over a cave system, as so many were, the whole

  thing could have been swallowed up in one of the massive

  earthquakes following the comet strike.' He caught her

  expression and added quickly: 'Yeah, well, don't worry about

  that. Not yet, anyway. But they've all been invaluable to the

  study of ancient Earth. I joined the Terraphiles ages ago, so

  long ago I can't remember. I still keep up my sub to the LOT.

  Out of nostalgia as much as anything."

  'The lot?'

  'The League of Terraphiles. They're the ones who are

  the keenest Re-Enactors. Most of their legendary sports are

  derived from those books."

  'A bit Brit-centric aren't they? Is that a word? Still, that

  explains it.'

  'Explains what?'

  'Why you show so little interest in the rest of the planet!'

  'That's not true!'

  'Well, you seem to like America, too. But as for China,

  say...'

  'I'm very interested in China!'

  'Oh,
really?'

  'Really. I wish I had more time to argue.'

  'You're a Time Lord, you should have all the time in the

  universe!'

  'That would be nice.' His voice became distant, distracted

  again as he returned his attention to his main instruments

  and screens. 'But 51007's the date. Now I have to refine that

  and pick a place. Ah! I know...'

  'What?'

  'They're playing a friendly match on a Planet of the Peers.

  There's several of them. Peers™' - he actually said the 'TM' -

  'is a concession which creates a sort of never-never England.

  It's a laugh. You'd love it. Better than Disneyland, I promise.

  Well, different, anyway. We could join them there. That way

  Frank/Freddie and the gang wouldn't know we were taking

  a special interest in the Miggean "Ghost Worlds" and get the

  jump on us.' He clicked his tongue thoughtfully. 'I'll have to

  brush up on my sledgehammer skills."

  'Sledgehammer?'

  'Cracking the nut. It's one of my best events. I hate the

  broadswording, though."

  to think about what he meant. Only after they reached the

  space-time coordinates he had plotted for them did she ask

  him: 'Why are you worrying about something happening so

  far in the future? How does it affect us?'

  'Well, like everything else, the future is relative. Time

  moves at different "speeds" in different sections of the

  galaxy. What takes place at the centre of our galaxy affects

  the past as well as the future. Like ripples extending out from

  a dropped stone, you know?'

  'And it's powerful enough to ripple through all time and

  space? So is it dangerous to us now?'

  He was honest with her. 'I'm not exactly sure. It's

  something the Time Lords used to worry about. That, of

  course, was when there were things they could do to stop

  the phenomenon happening. Psychologists, mythologists,

  metaphysicists, historians, astrophysicists... Thousands of

  brilliant altruistic minds all focused on the same problem.

  But now it's just down to me.'

  'Hey! I'm here, too.'

  'And I'm sure you'll be just as brilliant.' He smiled. 'Even

  brillianter, probably. Now, we need to get hold of that Silver

  Arrow first. That seems to hold the power the guy sending

  that message was trying to tell us about."

  'Off we go, then?' She felt an odd flutter in her stomach.

  'Yes," he said. 'You and me and whatever rag, tag and

  bobtail bunch of allies we can rustle up in a hurry. Oh, we

  probably need an army to help us out. But well be in 51007

  in a whisper and all the armies who might do me a favour are

  dead. Occupational hazard, I suppose. Unless I can contact

  Captain Abberley and the Bubbly Boys, of course... Oh, you'd

  love them. Heard of them? Some call them the Chaos Kids...

  Sorry. Twenty-first century. I forgot. There's three of them.

  And their uncle - or possibly their dad - Captain Abberley.

  Two brothers and a cousin. They - oops.. .' The TARDIS gave

  a skittish flick to the right. 'Oof." One back to the left.

  It was going to be another smooth ride, she realised.

  Amy helped the Doctor brush up on his Tournament sports

  for the period they were visiting. He was delighted in her.

  She was naturally good at almost everything - even getting

  proficient at many games - but Barrers and Bludgeons

  stumped her. She understood most of the other games which

  combined to produce the galaxy-wide sport favoured mostly

  by Terraphiles of this far future that bore such a strange out-

  of-synch familiarity to her own not-so-distant past. She also

  shared his disgust for the broadsword event.

  As soon as he was ready, they took the TARDIS to a

  particular Peers™ planet and the Doctor, claiming to have

  come from another Peers™ and desperate for a game of

  Arrers, or indeed a game of anything, immediately tried out

  for the 'Gentlemen'. He proved himself a fine all-rounder with

  a special penchant for Hammer and Nut. As a result he was

  picked for the First Fifteen, which, in spite of his heavy use

  of nano-technical learning methods, made him a lot prouder

  than Amy thought was really healthy. Up to then soccer had

  seemed to be his game of choice. But now the important

  thing they had to do was (a) play for the mysterious Silver

  Arrow and win and (b) discover the whereabouts of Frank/

  Freddie Force and his/their horrible Antimatter Men to thwart

  whatever part of their/his scheme they could fathom. If, of

  course, Force and Co actually had a plan. Or even existed.

  'Or else...' The Doctor spoke wearily to Amy in a tone of

  voice which had experienced every terror except this.'... it's

  curtains for all life in the universe. Phut! And no chance of a

  comeback this time.'

  'Now you're being melodramatic," she said.

  'Hadn't you noticed?' His eyes twinkled for a moment.

  'We're living in a permanent melodrama. I'm the madman

  with the box, remember?'

  'That's all right, then.' She smiled.

  Chapter 2

  Blue

  HARI AGINCOURT WAS BLUE. To say he felt the colour of a Mediterranean

  sky at noon would be somewhat to understate his mood. If

  he had studied English or some other ancient language a

  little more assiduously at school he would have been able to

  think of something profound by Self or Lester that described

  his condition. Lying not far from the whackit pitch beside

  the river, he was sucking his stylo and pondering an elusive

  rhyme for 'snake in the grass' when, with a red rose in her

  smart black Eton crop and clad in the flimsiest lavender frock

  of her chosen year's latest Loondoon collection, Jane 'Flapper'

  Banning-Cannon, the stunning subject of his pensee, sailed by,

  poling a punt and singing 'I'm A Hip Swaying Honey From

  Honalu-la-lu-la' in a high, clear soprano. Her companion

  was a rather good-looking but seemingly vacant young

  man wearing a bright green blazer and matching straw hat,

  lounging on a pile of pillows, playing an expensive ukulele

  and staring in a somewhat studied manner at the middle

  distance.

  (Jane, whose romantic obsession with the Middle

  Edwardian Ages had caused her to adopt one of the most

  popular girls' names of the period, had naturally fallen in

  love with the handsome Hari the moment he strode onto the

  Archery Court. After several failures, she had hit on the plan

  to persuade poor Bingo to become her reluctant ukulelist in

  the very punt at that moment being observed by the terrifically

  blue Hari Agincourt, as jealous as Flapper had intended him

  to be, but not about, as she had hoped, to fling himself from

  cover and declare his undying love.)

  Hari glared morbidly at the ukulelist, his fellow team

  member and best friend (or ex-best friend as he now preferred

  to think of him) Lord Robin of Sherwood, Earl of Lockesley.

  'Bingo' Lockesley was the finest archer on Peers™ (XXII) and

  the only other local in the intergalactic team kno
wn as the

  Gentlemen (though the name was a bit misleading).

  Apparently unnoticed on the bank, largely because of

  the tall reeds, Hari, it is safe to say, was now replete in his

  blueness. Hari existed in a universe of blue. Had he been an

  advanced musician of the old Berlin school, he would there

  and then have produced a 12-tone concerto called Blues for

  my Blues for oboe and stirrup p u m p and been invited to take

  a prestigious tour of the galaxy's major suicide salons. But,

  sadly, he was merely an impoverished all-round gentleman

  archer whom you might employ to improve your nephew's

  target averages and bowing stance but not pay a fortune

  for the privilege. After that, there were just the usual junior

  teaching jobs and so forth. Not enough to pay for a third-

  hand air-mobile and a decent room in a reasonably cheerful

  level of the city, let alone keep self, spouse and offspring in

  comfort. Which he mused sadly wasn't even Problem One.

  Problem One came in three parts: (a) how to win the

  affections of the lady in question, (b) how to achieve a

  softening of attitude in his loved one's doting father, who

  had not unreasonably been described as a blazing boil on the

  face of a universe of boils and so far seemed to regard Hari,

  when he regarded him at all, as less than worthless and with

  a criminal mouth to boot; certainly not in the running as a

  suitable spouse for the apple of his eye, and (c) ditto re his

  loved one's doting mother. Even the most fearsome of tigers

  was not as protective of its cub as Mr U.J. Banning-Cannon

  IV of Great Hamptons, Long Island, USA, Earth Regenerated,

  the terraforming tycoon. As it happened, Mr B-C was a cooing

  dove compared to Mrs B-C, a stately lady with a powerful

  right hook, who carried with her the air of a famished giant

  pterodactyl upon whom one calls unexpectedly as she

  moodily tears apart a small tyrannosaurus to provide her

  chicks with an inadequate lunch.

  Mrs B-C was an Orion Tarbutton, a family, it was said,

  of unadulterated iron dipped in arsenic, with a murky and

  murderous past and carrying the Curse of the Tarbuttons

  from one generation to the next. Said Curse could, it was

  true, begin as a virtue (or at least a way of making sackfuls of

  dosh) but end as a vice, being, of course, pursuit of gambling.

  Unlike Mrs B-C's Other Weakness, her gambling was, most