by Gary Russell
‘Tell me, Adric, what happened? Who took away your Doctor?’
Adric was intrigued now. ‘You understand regeneration?
Are you a Time Lord, too? Like the Doctor?’
The man smiled, and breathed out again.
‘Oh no, Adric. No, I am far more than just a Time Lord’
‘Who are you?’
‘I have had many names - my people are... were... weavers.
Spinners. Creators of dreams, Adric. But I got bored and left their tiny, insular existence and struck out on my own. Now, Adric, now this universe is my playground.’
‘Playground?’
‘Yes, Adric. Playground’
The man was no longer in front of him. This time he was standing to Adric’s right, beside a crudely built robot, all square and grey, with huge round eyes, a rectangular slit for a mouth and clenched fists for hands.
And they were... nowhere. Certainly not on the Starliner. ‘I don’t think we’re on Alzarius any more...’ Adric murmured, looking around at the vast room they were in. He couldn’t see exactly where the walls ended and the ceiling began. It all seemed to be one big dome, marked out with black and white checks - like that game he had played with Nyssa once. Draughts.
The man was on the far side of the dome. He started walking towards the wall, only stepping on the black squares, which seemed to enable him to walk up the walls, on to the ceiling. He wandered towards Adric until they were face to face - the man was hanging upside down.
‘Which of us is the wrong way up, Adric?’
‘You are.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because...’ Adric realised he actually didn’t know why.
Maybe he was upside down and this magician was the right way up. Adric looked over to the robot, but it was standing on a wall, at a right angle to both him and the...
‘Toymaker,’ the man said helpfully. ‘Sorry, reading minds is second nature to me. I’ll stop.’
He snapped his fingers and all three of them were side by side, the same way up. But Adric wasn’t sure which of them had actually moved - the room had no horizons which would have allowed him to gauge this.
‘So, you don’t need help, is that right?’
Adric nodded. ‘Everything is perfectly all right, you see.’ The Toymaker nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough. If you do ever need anything, Adric, just ask me. Next time we meet.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Oh, that depends on the Doctor.’ The Toymaker laughed. ‘But to be honest, I think it’ll be really rather soon. You see, it is time for me to get out my favourite toys. Look’
An ornate, lacquered table had appeared beside them. On it were four rag dolls, recognisable by their clothing. One doll of Adric, one each of Nyssa, Tegan and the Doctor.
‘You’ll have to make a choice very soon, Adric. Time is not, as they say, on your side.’
And before Adric could ask what he meant by that, he found himself sprawled on the floor of the mess, back aboard the Little Boy II, with Nyssa and Lieutenant Paladopous helping him up.
‘You took a bad turn there, Adric,’ Paladopous was saying.
But Adric just stared into space, desperately trying to remember something... somewhere or someone...
8
Garden City
‘This way, please.’
The American man led them through the meadow, clearly taking them somewhere. But where?
The Honourable Mrs Henry Rugglesthorpe stumbled over yet another clump of heather, trying to hold her long skirts above the grabbing stems. Beside her, the two children looked around them in bewilderment. Behind were the staff, equally amazed.
‘Mother, what is this place?’ asked the younger child, a pubescent boy wearing a well-cut school uniform. ‘How did we get here?’
Mrs Rugglesthorpe was wondering that herself. She recalled Eliza announcing that there was a visitor to see her -
‘An overseas gentleman, if you will, ma’am,’ Eliza had said.
Then the tall, bearded man had walked into the living room without being announced. He bowed slightly and looked at Eliza.
‘That will be all, Watkins,’ he said quietly.
Only now did it occur to Mrs Rugglesthorpe that few people outside her own household knew Eliza’s surname.
Why would they? How would they?
The man had settled into one of the leather armchairs and looked around him, as if he had not been in such a place for a while. And yet he carried himself as befitted society - he was no lower-class jackanapes, despite his accent. A lot of Americans had settled here after the Great War, but many of them were either cheap labourers or kings of industry. This man was neither - he was... unique.
‘Your husband has been called away on a... a business trip,’ he finally declared. ‘It is my employer’s desire that you join Sir Henry as soon as possible.’
‘That will not be possible right now, Mr...?’
‘LeFevre, ma’am. Gaylord LeFevre, late of New Orleans, now a hard-working servant to my most generous master. As, I am happy to say, is your husband.’
‘My husband,’ Mrs Rugglesthorpe replied tartly, ‘is a prominent backbencher. He has no ―master‖ bar His Majesty’s parliament. It is not allowed. Therefore I have no reason to believe anything you say, Monsieur LeFevre. Kindly leave or I shall have my butler call for the assistance of the local constabulary to have you escorted -’
LeFevre suddenly offered something to her - something that he had not been carrying when he came into the room and yet was now simply... there. In his hands was a long, thin box with a silver clasp. Chinese by design, she thought. ‘Open it, please,’
he said. ‘It will explain everything.’
Mrs Rugglesthorpe refused, naturally. After all, who knew what it might be? She was beginning to feel alarmed by LeFevre’s presence when the door to the room opened. For a moment, she hoped it was Jenkins, or even Tom the footman.
Even Eliza - someone who could rid her of this bothersome stranger.
Instead it was Charles, her thirteen-year-old son.
‘Mother?’
‘Leave, Charles. Now. Call Jenkins to me’
But Charles Rugglesthorpe was fascinated by the object he saw the stranger holding out to his mother. As if sensing this, LeFevre turned to him.
‘Charles, do you know what this is?’ He opened the lid and showed the boy the contents.
‘It’s a chess set,’ Charles said.
LeFevre nodded. ‘A special set, Charles. Carved from wood from the Far East.’
‘It’s silly,’ Charles said. ‘Look at it.’
LeFevre shrugged. ‘Tell me what is wrong with it, Charles.’
Mrs Rugglesthorpe felt a chill run down her spine. She wanted to cry out, to run forward, knock the chess set to the floor.
But she couldn’t move - it was as if she was floating in treacle. And yet Charles and LeFevre weren’t affected. She tried to shout to Charles, but she couldn’t draw the breath needed to whisper - let alone shriek.
All she needed to do was stop Charles touching the chess set - somehow she knew that was where the danger lay.
Instinct? Possibly. But her instincts had rarely let her down in the past.
Charles reached out. ‘It’s incomplete - there’s only a white set,’ he said.
‘Oh dear,’ said LeFevre. ‘Show me where the other pieces should be.’
Mrs Rugglesthorpe’s last thought before she blacked out was to scream at Charles not to touch. But she was mute and he was inquisitive. And by the time his hand touched the edge of the chess board, her world had sunk into a cold darkness.
The next thing she recalled was walking through the meadow. Beside her were Charles and her daughter, Elisabeth Jane. LeFevre was in front and Eliza, Jenkins and Tom the footman followed on behind.
‘Not far now, my friends,’ LeFevre called out. ‘Just through that gate into the next field.’
>
And Mrs Rugglesthorpe noticed for the first time that he was not actually walking on the ground, but just slightly above it.
Walking on air?
She shot a look of confusion at the three servants, but they seemed to be idly chatting, as if this was some sort of picnic.
Elisabeth Jane was picking flowers and even Charles had begun laughing as he chased a rabbit.
‘No,’ she muttered. ‘No, this is wrong. We were in the house, in the living room’ But no one seemed to take any notice, if they even heard her.
They were at a gate in a high hedgerow that separated the meadow from the next patch of land.
Bird song greeted them as LeFevre held the gate open and ushered them through.
They saw not grass, as she had expected, but a huge expanse of black and white squares.
‘A chess board,’ Charles murmured.
Trying not to show her terror, Mrs Rugglesthorpe reached out to LeFevre. ‘Monsieur, kindly explain this tomfoolery.’
‘Madam, rest assured this is not tomfoolery,’ said a new voice to her right. ‘My games are never to be taken lightly.’ The speaker was an older man, who was smiling charmingly with his mouth but not, she noted, with his eyes. His eyes were quite, quite dead-looking.
‘I am the Toymaker,’ he said. ‘Welcome to my domain.’
‘Where on earth...’ started Jenkins, but the Toymaker held up a hand.
‘Not on Earth, Mr Jenkins. Not any more.’ The Toymaker took a step to the left. ‘I believe you know this gentleman.’
‘Henry,’ breathed Mrs Rugglesthorpe, relieved. ‘Oh Henry, what is going on? Who are these awful people?’
Sir Henry couldn’t speak; he lacked a mouth. Indeed, his skin was slightly shiny, almost glazed. And his cheeks were very red, as if they had been painted. His eyes stared dimly ahead, registering nothing.
‘You’ll have to excuse your husband, but I’m afraid he’s not quite the man he was.’
‘What have you done, you fiend?’
The Toymaker walked towards the centre of the chess board. ‘Your husband, Mrs Rugglesthorpe, is a very bad card player and a sore loser. I have met a lot of bad card players over the aeons - indeed, Monsieur LeFevre will confirm that but few have been as disappointing as your husband.’
He stretched his arms out, as if in apology. ‘I offered him a second chance. An opportunity to redeem himself. All he had to do was play a simple game of snakes and ladders but, alas, it was not to be. He didn’t really try, you see.’ The Toymaker said this as if it explained everything. ‘No stamina for all those ladders, no skill at avoiding the reptilian aspect of the game, either. So, well, he lost. And so, by default, have all of you.’
There was suddenly something at the back of Mrs Rugglesthorpe’s mind. A memory of a giant, brightly coloured game board, filled with stepladders and hissing snakes... but it was like a dream from... a long time ago.
Or yesterday.
She couldn’t be sure, but it struck a chord.
The Toymaker clicked his fingers and from nowhere came a terrible creature made of metal, which walked like a man but made a strange noise with every step - akin to that made by a steam train as it departs a station. In its crude hand it held the chess set LeFevre had brought to the house. There was still only one team. The creature dropped the white pieces to the ground and instantly the far end of the chess-board meadow was filled with them. All were on the correct squares, all were the size of human beings, albeit in the form of traditional chess sculptures.
‘You’ll notice, Mrs Rugglesthorpe, that I appear to have lost my red set. And that is where you come in.’ He smiled and pointed to her entourage.
Mrs Rugglesthorpe was alone, apart from the Toymaker and her glassy-eyed husband.
The three of them now stood at the other end of the meadow, next to an accurately positioned red chess set that was minus two pieces.
And Mrs Rugglesthorpe wanted to scream.
Both rooks had Eliza’s face carved into the battlements.
Each knight had its horse face replaced by that of poor Jenkins. And the bishop was clearly Tom the footman. But these weren’t facsimiles. The faces were moving, contorting as if trying to stretch away from their new bodies.
They were screaming silently.
But before Mrs Rugglesthorpe could do the same, the eight pawns wobbled around to face her. And each alternate one was an identical terrified, painted face of either Elisabeth or Charles.
‘Just think,’ the Toymaker said in her ear. ‘Despite your husband’s inadequacy, the two of you can now achieve your dreams. You are now royalty.’
And Mrs Rugglesthorpe realised she was towering over her pawns, over her bishops, her knights and her rooks.
Beside her was her king - Henry’s face staring blankly ahead, unaware of anything.
And she was the queen.
Just as she had always been, ready to battle it out with the white team opposite.
At the edge of her mind she felt sure there was something she needed to think about, something to remember.
No. No, of course not, it was time for a new match.
Time to do as she always had - to play to win for her master.
What else was a red queen to do?
9
Taking Sides Again
‘Are you mad, Doctor?’
The Doctor sighed. Couldn’t this silly Oakwood man see that what he was suggesting was by far the quickest solution to their problem? No, clearly not, as he was stomping around his bridge, getting flustered. Most likely because he couldn’t see a logical reason to ignore the Doctor’s idea and therefore was getting frustrated.
‘To go down to Dymok would break every rule, every reason for this station’s existence. What you’re suggesting is the equivalent of treason. Not to mention a court martial for any of the crew who go with you.’
‘Let us go by ourselves, then,’ Tegan suggested - the first sensible thing she had said all day.
Oakwood shook his head. ‘Riiiight, just let the four of you jump into your weird space ship and vamoose, leaving me no closer to solving the problem.’
‘We’ll solve your problem,’ insisted Tegan.
‘I rather think, Tegan,’ the Doctor said quietly, ‘that Commander Oakwood feels we’re more likely to just run away and do nothing.’
Tegan laughed. ‘Doesn’t know you, then, does he.’ She faced Oakwood. ‘Believe me, Commander, I wish the Doctor was the sort to just give up and go. Get me home, perhaps. But oh no. You’ve got a mystery here - and that is the cheese in whatever mousetrap he wants to get caught in.’
‘Nice analogy, Tegan,’ the Doctor muttered, easing her aside, and so facing Oakwood himself. He slowly took off his glasses, folded them and placed them in his breast pocket without actually taking his gaze from Oakwood’s eyes. ‘Two things, Commander. Firstly, Tegan is right - I sense something here that isn’t very straightforward. Something... familiar even. Secondly, if I am going to help you, I need a shuttle to go down there. My TARDIS isn’t too good on short hops.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Tegan murmured. ‘Still, try it. You never know, maybe it’ll accidentally take us to Heathrow.’
The Doctor ignored her. ‘So I promise you, Commander, I want to sort this mystery out just as much as you do.’
Oakwood shook his head and turned away. The Doctor let his shoulders slump. Tegan put a hand on one.
‘What did you mean, ―something familiar‖?’
‘Why?’
Tegan frowned. ‘I don’t know, really. There’s something at the back of my mind... Remember at the TARDIS, something happened to me?’
The Doctor quickly turned to face her, bending slightly, staring hard. ‘Yes, Tegan. What was it?’
‘I... I don’t know, but there is... was something.’
‘Something important? Something I need to know?’ Tegan nodded. ‘I’m sorry...’
‘Think, Tegan! It could be important.’
CPO Townse
nd started frowning at her console and then tapping furiously at it.
Oakwood was beside her in a moment. ‘Problem?’
Townsend nodded but said nothing. Instead she pointed something out to him. Oakwood’s eyes widened and he hurried to the readouts on his own console. They confirmed her readings.
‘Anyone care to say what’s going on?’
If the Doctor thought Tegan’s question was out of order, he didn’t say so. More likely he was equally intrigued.
‘Massive energy spike emanating from Dymok,’ murmured a telemetry technician called Desorgher, tapping away at his own readings.
‘Aimed directly at us,’ Townsend added.
‘What sort of energy?’ The Doctor was at Townsend’s side, peering closely at the facts and figures in front of him.
‘Unknown,’ replied Desorgher. ‘But it’s aimed directly at us.
specifically... at the bridge...’ Desorgher trailed off, staring at the centre of the bridge.
One by one, the others, including the Doctor, followed his gaze.
‘Tegan?’
She stood, head lolled to one side as if she was asleep, her eyes wide open. Not blinking.
Her mouth dropped open and a voice came out. She didn’t form the words. They just came from within her.
‘Come to Dymok,’ said a rasping voice. ‘It is imperative that you bring her to Dymok.’
‘Bring who?’ the Doctor asked loudly. ‘Tegan?’
‘This one,’ replied the alien sounds from the girl. Oakwood walked towards her.
‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea...’ the Doctor started, but Oakwood ignored him.
‘Who are you?’ asked the commander.
‘Come to Dymok. Now.’ Tegan spasmed and fell into Oakwood’s arms, gasping. Holding her, as Townsend called for a medical officer, the commander turned to the others.
‘Best invite I’ve ever had,’ he said. ‘Townsend, Desorgher, Braun, you’re with me. You too, Doctor.’
‘That’s very... trusting of you, Commander,’ the Doctor said quietly.
