So, to prove the point - and convey the arse-destroying ghastliness of the actual work - I reprint the preface by Mr. Dave Thompson (c) (you're welcome to it) - which will surely prove I'm not making this up. I trust anyone who knows my writing style would know I am physically incapable of writing in this manner, and should equally be horrified that this is probably the best part of the book.
PREFACE - THE ONE THAT GOT
AWAY
Editor's note: The following
manuscript was discovered amongst documents abandoned on the Planet Miasimia
Goria by the Rani, following her marriage to Davros and subsequent departure
from the planet she had dominated for millennia. It is unclear whether the
events documented here had already occured, or were still to come. Neither can
it be ascertained whether or not the manuscript is complete, while recent
research has also revealed that the Rani enjoyed an hitherto unknown career as a
mildly succesful romance novelist, suggesting that the following is a fragment
of a previously unpublished potboiler.
The lights that flickered through the trees were
growing closer now, and he paused for a moment, clutching at the wrought iron
fencing that blocked his pathway. Behind him, his machine, his TARDIS, had gone
into lockdown mode; it, at least, would be safe should his pursuers break
through the barriers he had constructed across his trail. But would he?
He doubted it very much.
He was worried. Not for himself; he had lived so
many lifetimes now, had passed through so many regenerations, that he might
almost welcome the sanctuary of death; of not having to run any more, or think,
or fight, or do any of the things that came so naturally to him. No, he worried
for the future, a future that would have to survive by its own guile, should he
no longer be there to protect it.
And he worried, too, for the past, because that was
his enemies' intention, to drive him so deep into the past, beyond the reach of
recorded history, beyond that of unrecorded history as well, back and back until
the very universe was merely a tiny speck in the void. Because there, when there
was nowhere else for him to retreat to, that was where they would stage the
final battle. Back before the dawn of creation, so that when it did dawn, there
would be no Doctor to stand in their way.
He shook his head, clearing his mind of such
thoughts. It wouldn't happen that way. It couldn't. Time was - well, it was
time. Endless, unchanging, immutable. He knew, because he had seen it all, from
the "big bang" at the beginning, to the little whimper with which it all ended,
and he had woven himself througout its fabric, endless, unchanging, immutable.
Yes, he could be destroyed. But he could not be undone. The worlds he had saved,
the lives he had changed, the deeds he had done, they had happened,
they would happen.
Wouldn't they?
He glanced again at the chronometere he wore on his
arm - so much lesss cumberson that the fob watch he once carried around, and it
required a lot less winding as well. 21st century. Planet Earth. England.
London. West London. Shepherds Bush. He smiled grimly to himself. The tradesman
who bartered him the chronometere told him that, so long as he wore it, he would
never be lost, that it could detect to within a matter of yards the precise area
of whichever cosmic body he had landed on. And that was true. Unfortunately, he
had been so taken with that particular quality that he completely forgoet to ask
about its other function. It's great to know where you are. But when? That, he
had only discovered after the deal was struck, was another matter
entirely.
Still, 21st century? That's not so bad. He'd spent
enough time there in the past... his past... and, while the age had certainly
experienced more than its fair share of crises, it had muddled through alright
in the end. And it certainly appeared peaceful enough now.
Feeling his way along the fencing, he felt the
tell-tale swing of a gate; pushed it open and stepped through. The trees that
had lined his vision earlier gave way now to open ground and, off to one side,
the stark black rocket-shaped solidity that, all these thousands of years later,
still paid silent, imitative tribute to the alien race that first stocked the
planet, and then flew back to their own galaxy once the task was
complete.
Would that these vast complexes still operated to
the specifications that they were built to, the Doctor thought grimply. What a
surprise that would be for anyone bent on pursuing him; they could track the
TARDIS and believe that he would never stray too far from its protection. But
these "churches" had their own capabilities, too, once upon a time - why else
would they have been erected to such similar specifications? It was centuries of
ignorance and disuses that had rendered them hollow and Planet Earthbound, and
the Doctor reminded himself of the ambition he'd nurtured for as long as he had
known of their existence and purpose. "If I ever get out of this, I'm going to
learn how they work." Well, this time, he meant it. "If I ever...
ouch!"
He looked down as he jerked his left leg up,
clutching at it with both hands while his eyes inspected the darkness in front
of him. He'd barked his shin on something cold, solid, stone...
He was in a graveyard. He'd bumped into a rave. He
knelt and, by the light of his sonic screwdriver, he illuminated the fallen
headstone; initially, simply so he could step
around it without causing himself any further damage. But then curiosity stepped
in, the curiosity that all creatures, of all races, feel when they come across a
memorial to one of their own dead, and he leaned in for a closer
look.
The lettering was obscured by moss and lichen. The
Doctor brushed it away, gently so as not to flake any further patina from the
old, old stone, but impatienly as well, as though he knew that the more time he
wasted on idle wonderings, the less time he would have before - what? What was
he running away from? Death? Well, he'd be in good company if it caught up with
him here, just as it had caught up with everybody else who lay in this field,
just as it had caught up with... his mouth silently formed the name that his
fingertips had revealed. "Steven Taylor."
Steven Taylor. Now there, the Doctor smiled, was a
blast from the past and, because he could resist the inevitable pun, a rave from
the grave. He'd traveled with a Steven Taylor once, many years ago. A tall, good
looking boy, he was an astronaut with Red Flight Fifty. Needed a haircut, but
not as much as he needed rescuing from the planet Mechanus - he'd been there two
years when the Doctor came across him, half-prisoner, half-castaway, with only
his lukcy panda bear for company.
Whatever happened to him? Nothing bad, the Doctor
was sure of that. They'd parted company on the other side of the galaxy, several
thousand years into the future. He certainly wouldn't now be lying in an unkempt
grave in Shephers Bush. It was just one of life's little coincidences, and that
made the Doctor smile. He like life's little coincidences, because they stopped
him worrying about its big ones.
Crouching down, he shuffled along the ground to the
stone that lay beside Mr Taylor's. More recent, from the look of it, but just as
neglected. A finger nail scraped at the mossy film that clung to the stone and
it slipped away in long satsifying slice, like peeling an apple all in
one.
Sara Kingdom.
the Doctor stared at the name. Now that was
a coincidence. Sara was an agent with the Special Security Service, a
ruthless woman, handy with a gun and efficient. When one of her colleagues (and
her own brother), Brett Vyon, stepped out of line, she had no hesitation in
shooting him down; then perished in turn on the planet Kembel, aging to death in
a matter of moments after a ghastly weapon, the Time Destructor, was detonated
against the invading Daleks. All of which took some 4,000 years into the future.
Poor Sara had no grave whatsoever, just a heap of dust that the windows would
blow where they would.
Coincidence.
He moved onto the next stone. Tegan
Jovanka.
And the next. Donna Noble.
And the next. Elizabeth Shaw.
And the next. River Song. Which is where the Doctor
stood up, brushed the rave dirt from his knees and hands, pocketed his sonic
screwdriver and stepped away. Those other names? Coincidence, coincidence,
coincidence. But River Song? Nobody named their daughter "River Song." not even
the parents of a 51st century archaeologist with a voice like molten plums
cascading onto a cold stone floor. He'd always puzzled over that, whether "River
Song" was some sort of private joke, and her real name was something untenably
archaic, like Alexandra, or Miles. But she survived the attentions of the Vashta
Nerada, and a lot of other perils as well, so it didn't matter what she called
herself. And now she was here?
Hands in pockets, he strode towards the church. He
did not expect it to be open at this hour - if there was one thing he'd long ago
discovered about 21st century London, it was that the first place people were
most likely to head in sanctuary was the last one they were likely to be allowed
into.
But the lock on the old oaken entranceway was no
match for the sonic screwdriver, and neither were those on the doors he found
inside, the flimsy modern plywood barriers with which some overenthusiastic
Do-It-Yourself-er had seen fit to screen off great swathes of the original
fabric, all the better to pile in offices, kitchens, bathrooms and a souvenir
shop. The Doctor paused at the entrance to the latter. He liked souvenir shops.
But he liked puzzles more, so he continued his exploration, searching for the
room where the burial records might be stored.
Which is when a telephone started
ringing.
He ignored it. It wasn't for him, he had no reason
to answer it. Except it kept on ringing and that did give him an
excuse.
Answer it, or suffer a headache for a
week.
Answer it, or somebody else might ride up on a
bicycle (or whatever else it is that clergymen get around on these days) and
catch him in the act of breaking-and-entering. Or, being as he was already
inside, broken-and-entered.
Answer it, or it might turn out to have been for
him after all.
"Hello?"
"Doctor?" The voice on the other end of the line
sounded... Welsh? Either Welsh or Pakistani, anyway. It was never easy telling
the two apart on the telephone. Digital technology, you see. It scrambles the...
oh, never mind. "Who is this?"
"It's me. Ray."
Ray? Ramond, Raynor, Ray-of Sunshine. No,
definitely not that. Not if she was Welsh. Death Ray, Stingray, Man-Ray. "You
don't sound like a Ray."
"You don't sound like the Doctor." The voice
paused. "You're not Scots enough.
Scots? What was the woman talking about? He'd not
had an accent that could even remotely pass for Scots since... he licked his
lips, then rolled his tongue violently. "Rrrrr-ay?"
"That's right, Doctor. You were staying at the
holiday camp with us, remember? When... when..."
"Yes, Ray, the Bannermen." He didn't mean to sound
testy, but it was hard not to. "But how did you know i was here... where to find
me?"
"I saw you going into the church... I mean, I heard
you land, watched you crossing the cemetery, saw you..." Her voice broke off,
and the Doctor thought he heard the girl stifle a sob. Girl? She would be a
woman now. A very ancient woman. "I saw you looking at the graves. Is that why
you came here?"
"For the graves?" He allowed his natural voice to
drop back into place, but Ray didn't seem to have noticed.
"For Mel?" She sounded desperate, almost
pleading.
Mel. An irritating redhead with a ready laugh and a
piercing shriek, Mel had been his companion he met Ray, and how he wished she
hadn't been. Still there was an affection between them, and she had saved his
life on at least one occasion. "Mel's here as well?" His tone was just as
astonished as he felt, and he hoped that Ray hadn't noticed. "I suppose she
would be. There appears to be a lot of my old friends buried here. Mel might as
well be among them. In fact, I'm rather surprised that you're not."
"Well, that's what I want to talk to you about,"
Ray said slowly. "That's why i've been waiting for you all these
years."
"So you can tell me that you're not dead?" The
shock was wearing off now, his rational mind was reassuming control. "Everybody
dies, Ray. Everybody. They don't all then get buried in a long line in the same
Shepherds Bush cemetery, I'll grant you that. But imagine how much more
convenient it would be if they did. You could visit all your late relatives in
one afternoon, and never worry about forgetting the Aunt you didn't
like."
Ray waited until he'd finished.
"No. I know why I'm not dead. Because I never
traveled with you in that box. I could have. I know you were going to ask me, I
could see it in your eyes. Mel was growing restless, she wouldn't be around for
much longer, and you didn't want to travel alone. But you didn't ask me, so I
didn't go and, well, I'm still here and she
isn't. None of them are." And the names of the dearly departed tripped off her
tongue, twisted around the sweet cadence of her native accent, until she could
have been reciting poetry, instead of a butcher's list. Susan Foreman, Ian
Chesterton, Barbara Wright, Vicki, Dodo Chaplet, Ben Jackson, pretty Polly,
Jamie McCrimmon, Victoria Waterfield, Zoe Heriot, Josephine Grant, Sarah Jane
Smith (dear God, Sarah Jane as well?), Harry Sullivan, Leela, the Princess
Romana, the other Romana, Adric, Tegan, Nyssa, Turlough, Peri, Ace, Rose Tyler,
Martha Jones...
"You're the one that got away," the Doctor said
with what he hoped was an audible smile.
"I know," Ray replied softly, sadly. "The question
is, what did I get away from?"
Reprinted by kind courtesy of the Trustees of
the Museum of Tragic Yesterdays, Miasimia Goria.
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